from Rachel, by speaking composing words to
her at the other end of the room.

"Indeed, indeed, you exaggerate," I heard
him say. "My reputation stands too high to
be destroyed by a miserable passing scandal
like this. It will be all forgotten in another
week. Let us never speak of it again."

She was perfectly inaccessible, even to such
generosity as this. She went on. from bad to
worse.

"I must, and will, stop it," she said.
"Mamma! hear what I say. Miss Clack! hear
what I say. I know the hand that took the
Moonstone. I know—" she laid a strong
emphasis on the words; she stamped her foot in
the rage that possessed her—"/ know that
Godfrey Ablewhite is innocent! Take me to
the magistrate, Godfrey! Take me to the
magistrate, and I will swear it!"

My aunt caught me by the hand, and
whispered, "Stand between us for a minute or two.
Don't let Rachel see me." I noticed a bluish
tinge in her face which alarmed me. She saw
I was startled. "The drops will put me right
in a minute or two," she said, and so closed
her eyes, and waited a little.

While this was going on, I heard dear Mr.
Godfrey still gently remonstrating.

"You must not appear publicly in such a
thing as this," he said. "Your reputation,
dearest Rachel, is something too pure and too
sacred to be trifled with."

"My reputation!" She burst out laughing.
"Why, I am accused, Godfrey, as well as you.
The best detective officer in England declares
that I have stolen my own Diamond. Ask him
what he thinks—and he will tell you that I
have pledged the Moonstone to pay my private
debts!" She stopped—ran across the room—
and fell on her knees at her mother's feet.
"Oh, mamma! mamma! mamma! I must be
mad—mustn't I?—not to own the truth now!"
She was too vehement to notice her mother's
condition—she was on her feet again, and
back with Mr. Godfrey, in an instant. "I won't
let you—I won't let any innocent man—be
accused and disgraced through my fault. If you
won't take me before the magistrate, draw out
a declaration of your innocence on paper, and
I will sign it. Do as I tell you, Godfrey, or I'll
write it to the newspapers—I'll go out, and cry
it in the streets!"

We will not say this was the language of
remorse—we will say it was the language of
hysterics. Indulgent Mr. Godfrey pacified her
by taking a sheet of paper, and drawing out
the declaration. She signed it in a feverish
hurry. "Show it everywhere—don't think of
me," she said, as she gave it to him. "I am
afraid, Godfrey, I have not done you justice,
hitherto, in my thoughts. You are more
unselfish—you are a better man than I believed
you to be. Come here when you can, and I
will try and repair the wrong I have done
you."

She gave him her hand. Alas, for our fallen
nature! Alas, for Mr. Godfrey! He not only
forgot himself so far as to kiss her hand—he
adopted a gentleness of tone in answering her
which, in such a case, was little better than a
compromise with sin. "I will come, dearest,"
he said, "on condition that we don't speak of
this hateful subject again." Never had I seen
and heard our Christian Hero to less advantage
than on this occasion.

Before another word could be said by anybody,
a thundering knock at the street door startled
us all. I looked through the window, and
saw the World, the Flesh, and the Devil waiting
before the house—as typified in a carriage
and horses, a powdered footman, and three of the
most audaciously dressed women I ever beheld
in my life.

Rachel started, and composed herself. She
crossed the room to her mother.

"They have come to take me to the flower-
show," she said. "One word, mamma, before
I go. I have not distressed you, have I?"

(Is the bluntness of moral feeling which
could ask such a question as that, after what
had just happened, to be pitied or condemned?
I like to lean towards mercy. Let us pity it.)

The drops had produced their effect. My
poor aunt's complexion was like itself again.
"No, no, my dear," she said. "Go with our
friends, and enjoy yourself."

Her daughter stooped, and kissed her. I
had left the window, and was near the door,
when Rachel approached it to go out. Another
change had come over—her she was in tears.
I looked with interest at the momentary softening
of that obdurate heart. I felt inclined to
say a few earnest words. Alas! my well-meant
sympathy only gave offence. "What do you
mean by pitying me?" she asked, in a bitter
whisper, as she passed to the door. "Don't
you see how happy I am? I'm going to the
flower-show, Clack; and I've got the prettiest
bonnet in London." She completed the hollow
mockery of that address by blowing me a kiss
—and so left the room.

I wish I could describe in words the
compassion that I felt for this miserable and
misguided girl. But I am almost as poorly
provided with words as with money. Permit me
to say—my heart bled for her.

Returning to my aunt's chair, I observed
dear Mr. Godfrey searching for something
softly, here and there, in different parts of the
room. Before I could offer to assist him, he
lad found what he wanted. He came back to
my aunt and me, with his declaration of
innocence in one hand, and with a box of matches
in the other.

"Dear aunt, a little conspiracy!" he said.
"Dear Miss Clack, a pious fraud which even
your high moral rectitude will excuse! Will
you leave Rachel to suppose that I accept the
generous self-sacrifice which has signed this
paper? And will you kindly bear witness that
I destroy it in your presence, before I leave
the house?" He kindled a match, and, lighting
the paper, laid it to burn in a plate on the
table. "Any trifling inconvenience that I may