the limits of my own personal experience, I
have next to relate that a month elapsed from
the time of my aunt's decease before Rachel
Verinder and I met again. That meeting was
the occasion of my spending a few days under the
same roof with her. In the course of my visit,
something happened, relating to her marriage-
engagement with Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, which
is important enough to require special notice
in these pages. When this last of many painful
family circumstances has been disclosed, my
task will be completed; for I shall then have
told all that I know, as an actual (and most
unwilling) witness of events.

My aunt's remains were removed from
London, and were buried in the little cemetery
attached to the church in her own park. I was
invited to the funeral with the rest of the
family. But it was impossible (with my religious
views) to rouse myself in a few days only
from the shock which this death had caused
me. I was informed, moreover, that the rector
of Frizinghall was to read the service. Having
myself in past times seen this clerical castaway
making one of the players at Lady Verinder' s
whist-table, I doubt, even if I had been fit to
travel, whether I should have felt justified in
attending the ceremony.

Lady Verinder's death left her daughter
under the care of her brother-in-law, Mr. Ablewhite
the elder. He was appointed guardian
by the will, until his niece married, or came of
age. Under those circumstances, Mr. Godfrey
informed his father, I suppose, of the new
relation in which he stood towards Rachel. At
any rate, in ten days from my aunt's death, the
secret of the marriage engagement was no secret
at all within the circle of the family, and the grand
question for Mr. Ablewhite senior—another
confirmed castaway!—was how to make himself
and his authority most agreeable to the wealthy
young lady who was going to marry his son.

Rachel gave him some trouble, at the outset,
about the choice of a place in which she could
be prevailed upon to reside. The house in
Montagu Square was associated with the calamity
of her mother's death. The house in Yorkshire
was associated with the scandalous affair of
the lost Moonstone. Her guardian's own residence
at Frizinghall was open to neither of these
objections. But Rachel's presence in it, after
her recent bereavement, operated as a check
on the gaieties of her cousins, the Miss
Ablewhites—and she herself requested that her
visit might be deferred to a more favourable
opportunity. It ended in a proposal, emanating
from old Mr. Ablewhite, to try a furnished
house at Brighton. His wife, an invalid daughter,
and Rachel were to inhabit it together, and were
to expect him to join them later in the season.
They would see no society but a few old friends,
and they would have his son Godfrey, travelling
backwards and forwards by the London
train, always at their disposal.

I describe this aimless flitting about from one
place of residence to another—this insatiate
restlessness of body and appalling stagnation of
soul—merely with a view to arriving at results.
The event which (under Providence) proved to
be the means of bringing Rachel Verinder and
myself together again, was no other than the
hiring of the house at Brighton.

My Aunt Ablewhite is a large, silent, fair-
complexioned woman, with one noteworthy
point in her character. From the hour of her
birth she has never been known to do anything
for herself. She has gone through life, accepting
everybody's help, and adopting everybody's
opinions. A more hopeless person, in a spiritual
point of view, I have never met with—there is
absolutely, in this perplexing case, no obstructive
material to work upon. Aunt Ablewhite
would listen to the Grand Lama of Thibet
exactly as she listens to Me, and would reflect
his views quite as readily as she reflects mine.
She found the furnished house at Brighton by
stopping at an hotel in London, composing
herself on a sofa, and sending for her son.
She discovered the necessary servants by
breakfasting in bed one morning (still at the
hotel), and giving her maid a holiday on
condition that the girl " would begin enjoying
herself by fetching Miss Clack." I found her
placidly fanning herself in her dressing-gown
at eleven o'clock. " Drusilla, dear, I want
some servants. You are so clever—please get
them for me." I looked round the untidy room.
The church bells were going for a week-day
service; they suggested a word of affectionate
remonstrance on my part. " Oh, aunt!" I
said, sadly, "is this worthy of a Christian
Englishwoman? Is the passage from time to
eternity to be made in this manner?" My
aunt answered, " I'll put on my gown, Drusilla,
if you will be kind enough to help me." What
was to be said, after that? I have done
wonders with murderesses—I have never advanced
an inch with Aunt Ablewhite. " Where is the
list," I asked, " of the servants whom you
require?" My aunt shook her head; she hadn't
even energy enough to keep the list. "Rachel
has got it, dear," she said, " in the next room."
I went into the next room, and so saw Rachel
again, for the first time since we had parted in
Montagu Square.

She looked pitiably small and thin in her
deep mourning. If I attached any serious
importance to such a perishable trifle as personal
appearance, I might be inclined to add that
hers was one of those unfortunate complexions
which always suffer when not relieved by
a border of white next the skin. But
what are our complexions and our looks?
Hindrances and pitfalls, dear girls, which beset
us on our way to higher things! Greatly to
my surprise, Rachel rose when I entered the
room, and came forward to meet me with
outstretched hand.

"I am glad to see you," she said. " Drusilla,
I have been in the habit of speaking very
foolishly and very rudely to you, on former
occasions. I beg your pardon. I hope you will
forgive me."

My face, I suppose, betrayed the astonish-