left me. As soon as his back was turned, I
went to my writing-desk to start the story.
There I have sat helpless (in spite of my
abilities) ever since; seeing what Robinson
Crusoe saw, as quoted above—namely, the
folly of beginning a work before we count the
cost, and before we judge rightly of our own
strength to go through with it. Please to
remember, I opened the book by accident, at
that bit, only the day before I rashly undertook
the business now in hand; and, allow me to
ask—If that isn't prophecy, what is?

I am not superstitious; I have read a heap
of books in my time; I am a scholar in my
own way. Though turned seventy, I possess
an active memory, and legs to correspond.
You are not to take it, if you please, as the
saying of an ignorant man, when I express my
opinion that such a book as Robinson Crusoe
never was written, and never will be written
again. I have tried that book for years—
generally in combination with a pipe of
tobacco—and I have found it my friend in
need in all the necessities of this mortal
life. When my spirits are bad—Robinson
Crusoe. When I want advice—Robinson
Crusoe. In past times, when my wife plagued
me; in present times, when I have had a drop
too much—Robinson Crusoe. I have worn
out six stout Robinson Crusoes with hard
work in my service. On my lady's last birthday,
she gave me a seventh. I took a drop
too much on the strength of it; and Robinson
Crusoe put me right again. Price four shillings
and sixpence, bound in blue, with a picture
into the bargain.

Still, this don't look much like starting the
story of the Diamond—does it? I seem to
be wandering off in search of Lord knows
what, Lord knows where. We will take a
new sheet of paper, if you please, and begin over
again, with my best respects to you.

                   CHAPTER II

I SPOKE of my lady a line or two back.
Now the Diamond could never have been in
our house, where it was lost, if it had not been
made a present of to my lady's daughter; and
my lady's daughter would never have been in
existence to have the present, if it had not
been for my lady, who (with pain and travail)
produced her into the world. Consequently,
if we begin with my lady, we are pretty sure of
beginning far enough back. And that, let me
tell you, when you have got such a job as mine
in hand, is a real comfort at starting.

If you know anything of the fashionable
world, you have heard tell of the three
beautiful Miss Herncastles. Miss Adelaide; Miss
Caroline; and Miss Julia—this last being the
youngest and the best of the three sisters, in
my opinion; and I had opportunities of judging,
as you shall presently see. I went into
the service of the old lord, their father (thank
God, we have got nothing to do with him, in
this business of the Diamond; he had the
longest tongue and the shortest temper of any
man, high or low, I ever met with)—I say,
I went into the service of the old lord, as pageboy
in waiting on the three honourable young
ladies, at the age of fifteen years. There I
lived, till Miss Julia married the late Sir John
Verinder. An excellent man, who only wanted
somebody to manage him; and, between
ourselves, he found somebody to do it; and what
is more, he throve on it, and grew fat on it,
and lived happy and died easy on it, dating
from the day when my lady took him to church
to be married, to the day when she relieved
him of his last breath, and closed his eyes
for ever.

I have omitted to state that I went with
the bride to the bride's husband's house and
lands down here. "Sir John," she said, "I
can't do without Gabriel Betteredge." "My
lady," says Sir John, "I can't do without
him, either." That was his way with her—and
that was how I went into his service. It was
all one to me where I went, so long as my
mistress and I were together.

Seeing that my lady took an interest in the
out-of-door work, and the farms, and suchlike,
I took an interest in them too—with all
the more reason that I was a small farmer's
seventh son myself. My lady got me put
under the bailiff, and I did my best, and gave
satisfaction, and got promotion accordingly.
Some years later, on the Monday as it might
be, my lady says, "Sir John, your bailiff is a
stupid old man. Pension him liberally, and
let Gabriel Betteredge have his place." On
the Tuesday as it might be, Sir John says,
"My lady, the bailiff is pensioned liberally;
and Gabriel Betteredge has got his place."
You hear more than enough of married people
living together miserably. Here is an example
to the contrary. Let it be a warning to
some of you, and an encouragement to others.
In the mean time, I will go on with my story.

Well, there I was in clover, you will say.
Placed in a position of trust and honour, with a
little cottage of my own to live in, with my
rounds on the estate to occupy me in the
morning, and my accounts in the afternoon,
and my pipe and my Robinson Crusoe in the
evening—what more could I possibly want to
make me happy? Remember what Adam
wanted when he was alone in the Garden of
Eden; and if you don't blame it in Adam, don't
blame it in me.

The woman I fixed my eye on, was the woman
who kept house for me at my cottage. Her
name was Selina Goby. I agree with the late
William Cobbett about picking a wife. See
that she chews her food well, and sets her foot
down firmly on the ground when she walks,
and you're all right. Selina Goby was all right
in both these respects, which was one reason
for marrying her. I had another reason,
likewise, entirely of my own discovering. Selina,
being a single woman, made me pay so much a
week for her board and services. Selina, being
my wife, couldn't charge for her board, and
would have to give me her services for nothing.
That was the point of view I looked at it from.
Economy—with a dash of love. I put it to my