Diary—and enclosed them all in one wrapper,
sealed with my own seal. "Promise," he said,
"that you will put this into my coffin with
your own hand; and that you will see that no
other hand touches it afterwards."

I gave him my promise. And the promise
has been performed.

He asked me to do one other thing for him—
which it cost me a hard struggle to comply
with. He said, "Let my grave be forgotten.
Give me your word of honour that you will
allow no monument of any sort—not even the
commonest tombstone—to mark the place of
my burial. Let me sleep, nameless. Let me
rest, unknown." When I tried to plead with
him to alter his resolution, he became for the
first, and only time, violently agitated. I could
not bear to see it; and I gave way. Nothing
but a little grass mound, marks the place of his
rest. In time, the tombstones will rise round it.
And the people who come after us will look,
and wonder, at the nameless grave.

As I have told you, for six hours before his
death his sufferings ceased. He dozed a little.
I think he dreamed. Once or twice, he smiled.
A woman's name, as I suppose—the name of
"Ella"—was often on his lips at this time. A
few minutes before the end came, he asked me
to lift him on his pillow, to see the sun rise
through the window. He was very weak. His
head fell on my shoulder. He whispered " It's
coming!" Then he said, "Kiss me!" I kissed
his forehead. On a sudden, he lifted his head.
The sunlight touched his face. A beautiful
expression, an angelic expression, came over it.
He cried out three times, "Peace! peace!
peace!" His head sank back again on my
shoulder, and the long trouble of his life was
at an end.

So he has gone from us. This was, as I
think, a great man—though the world never
knew him. He bore a hard life bravely. He
had the sweetest temper I have ever met with.
The loss of him makes me feel very lonely.
Perhaps I have never been quite myself again
since my illness. Sometimes, I think of giving
up my practice, and going away, and trying
what some of the foreign baths and waters will
do for me.

It is reported here, that you and Miss
Verinder are to be married next month. Please
to accept my best congratulations.

The pages of my poor friend's Journal are
waiting for you at my house—sealed up, with
your name on the wrapper. I was afraid to
trust them to the post.

My best respects and good wishes attend
Miss Verinder. I remain, dear Mr. Franklin
Blake, truly yours, THOMAS CANDY.

EIGHTH NARRATIVE.
Contributed by Gabriel Betteredge.
I AM the person (as you remember, no doubt)
who led the way in these pages, and opened the
story. I am also the person who is left behind,
as it were, to close the story up.

Let nobody suppose that I have any last
words to say here, concerning the Indian
Diamond. I hold that unlucky jewel in
abhorrence—and I refer you to other authority than
mine, for such news of the Moonstone as you
may, at the present time, be expecting to receive.
My purpose, in this place, is to state a fact in
the history of the family, which has been passed
over by everybody, and which I won't allow to
be disrespectfully smothered up in that way.
The fact to which I allude is—the marriage
of Miss Rachel and Mr. Franklin Blake. This
interesting event took place at our house in
Yorkshire, on Tuesday, October ninth, eighteen
hundred and forty-nine. I had a new suit of
clothes on the occasion. And the married couple
went to spend the honeymoon in Scotland.

Family festivals having been rare enough at
our house, since my poor mistress's death, I
own—on this occasion of the wedding—to
having (towards the latter part of the day)
taken a drop too much on the strength of it.

If you have ever done the same sort of thing
yourself, you will understand and feel for me.
If you have not, you will very likely say,
"Disgusting old man! why does he tell us this?"
The reason why is now to come.

Having, then, taken my drop (bless you! you
have got your favourite vice, too; only your vice
isn't mine, and mine isn't yours), I next applied
the one infallible remedy—that remedy being, as
you know, Robinson Crusoe. Where I opened
that unrivalled book, I can't say. Where the
lines of print at last left off running into each
other, I know, however, perfectly well. It was
at page three hundred and eighteen—a domestic
bit concerning Robinson Crusoe's marriage, as
follows:

"With those Thoughts, I considered my
new Engagement, that I had a Wife"—
(Observe! so had Mr. Franklin!)—"one Child
born"—(Observe again! that might yet be
Mr. Franklin's case, too!)—" and my Wife
then "—What Robinson Crusoe's wife did, or
did not do, "then," I felt no desire to discover.
I scored the bit about the Child with my pencil,,
and put a morsel of paper for a mark to keep
the place: "Lie you there," I said, " till the
marriage of Mr. Franklin and Miss Rachel is
some months older—and then we'll see!"

The months passed (more than I had
bargained for), and no occasion presented itself for
disturbing that mark in the book. It was not
till this present month of November, eighteen-
hundred and fifty, that Mr. Franklin came into
my room, in high good spirits, and said,
"Betteredge! I have got some news for you! Some-
thing is going to happen in the house, before we
are many months older."

"Does it concern the family, sir?" I asked.

"It decidedly concerns the family," says Mr.
Franklin.

"Has your good lady anything to do with it,
if you please, sir?"

"She has a great deal to do with it," says
Mr. Franklin, beginning to look a little
surprised.