My diary informs me, that I was accidentally
passing Aunt Verinder's house in Montagu
Square, on Monday, 3rd July, 1848.

Seeing the shutters opened, and the blinds
drawn up, I felt that it would be an act of
polite attention to knock, and make inquiries.
The person who answered the door, informed
me that my aunt and her daughter (I really
cannot call her my cousin!) had arrived from
the country a week since, and meditated making
some stay in London. I sent up a message at
once, declining to disturb them, and only
begging to know whether I could be of any use.

The person who answered the door, took my
message in insolent silence, and left me standing
in the hall. She is the daughter of a heathen
old man named Betteredge—long, too long,
tolerated in my aunt's family. I sat down in
the hall to wait for my answer—and, having
always a few tracts in my bag, I selected one
which proved to be quite providentially applicable
to the person who answered the door.
The hall was dirty, and the chair was hard;
but the blessed consciousness of returning good
for evil raised me quite above any trifling
considerations of that kind. The tract was one of
a series addressed to young women on the
sinfulness of dress. In style it was devoutly
familiar. Its title was, "A Word With You
On Your Cap-Ribbons."

"My lady is much obliged, and begs you will
come and lunch to-morrow at two."

I passed over the manner in which she gave
her message, and the dreadful boldness of her
look. I thanked this young castaway; and I
said, in a tone of Christian interest, "Will you
favour me by accepting a tract?"

She looked at the title. "Is it written by a
man or a woman, Miss? If it's written by a
woman, I had rather not read it on that account.
If it's written by a man, I beg to inform him
that he knows nothing about it." She handed
me back the tract, and opened the door. We
must sow the good seed somehow. I waited
till the door was shut on me, and slipped the
tract into the letter-box. When I had dropped
another tract through the area railings, I felt
relieved, in some small degree, of a heavy
responsibility towards others.

We had a meeting that evening of the Select
Committee of the Mothers-Small-Clothes'-
Conversion-Society. The object of this excellent
Charity is—as all serious people know—to
rescue unredeemed fathers' trousers from the
pawnbroker, and to prevent their resumption,
on the part of the irreclaimable parent, by
abridging them immediately to suit the proportions
of the innocent son. I was a member, at
that time, of the select committee; and I
mention the Society here, because my precious and
admirable friend, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, was
associated with our work of moral and material
usefulness. I had expected to see him in the
board-room, on the Monday evening of which I
am now writing, and had purposed to tell him,
when we met, of dear Aunt Verinder's arrival
in London. To my great disappointment he
never appeared. On my expressing a feeling
of surprise at his absence, my sisters of the
Committee all looked up together from their
trousers (we had a great pressure of business
that night), and asked in amazement if I had
not heard the news. I acknowledged my
ignorance, and was then told, for the first
time, of an event which forms, so to speak, the
starting-point of this narrative. On the
previous Friday, two gentlemen—occupying
widely different positions in society—had been
the victims of an outrage which had startled
all London. One of the gentlemen was Mr.
Septimus Luker, of Lambeth. The other was
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.

Living in my present isolation, I have no
means of introducing the newspaper account of
the outrage into my narrative. I was also
deprived, at the time, of the inestimable advantage
of hearing the events related by the fervid
eloquence of Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. All I
can do is to state the facts as they were stated,
on that Monday evening, to me; proceeding
on the plan which I have been taught from
infancy to adopt in folding up my clothes. Everything
shall be put neatly, and everything shall
be put in its place. These lines are written by
a poor weak woman. From a poor weak
woman who will be cruel enough to expect more?

The date—thanks to my dear parents, no
dictionary that ever was written can be more
particular than I am about dates—was Friday,
June 30th, 1848.

Early on that memorable day our gifted Mr.
Godfrey happened to be cashing a cheque at a
banking-house in Lombard-street. The name
of the firm is accidentally blotted in my diary,
and my sacred regard for truth forbids me to
hazard a guess in a matter of this kind.
Fortunately, the name of the firm doesn't matter.
What does matter is a circumstance that
occurred when Mr. Godfrey had transacted his
business. On gaining the door, he encountered
a gentleman—a perfect stranger to him—
who was accidentally leaving the office exactly
at the same time as himself. A momentary
contest of politeness ensued between them as
to who should be the first to pass through the
door of the bank. The stranger insisted on
making Mr. Godfrey precede him; Mr.
Godfrey said a few civil words; they bowed, and
parted in the street.

Thoughtless and superficial people may say,
Here is surely a very trumpery little incident
related in an absurdly circumstantial manner.
Oh, my young friends and fellow-sinners!
beware of presuming to exercise your poor
carnal reason. Oh, be morally tidy! Let your
faith be as your stockings, and your stockings
as your faith. Both ever spotless, and both
ready to put on at a moment's notice!

I beg a thousand pardons. I have fallen
insensibly into my Sunday-school style. Most
inappropriate in such a record as this. Let me
try to be worldly—let me say that trifles, in
this case as in many others, led to terrible
results. Merely premising that the polite