"There's no denying that, Mr. Franklin.
What of it now, if you please?"

"What of it now? How do we know she
may not have stolen the Diamond after all?
How do we know she may not have smeared
my nightgown purposely with the paint——?"

Betteredge laid his hand on my arm, and
stopped me before I could say any more.

"You will be cleared of this, Mr. Franklin,
beyond all doubt. But I hope you won't be
cleared in that way. See what the letter says,
sir. In justice to the girl's memory, see what
the letter says."

I felt the earnestness with which he spoke—
felt it almost as a rebuke to me. "You shall
form your own judgment on her letter," I said,
"I will read it out."

I began—and read these lines:

"Sir—I have something to own to you. A
confession which means much misery, may
sometimes be made in very few words. This confession
can be made in three words. I love you."

The letter dropped from my hand. I looked
at Betteredge. "In the name of Heaven," I
said, "what does it mean?"

He seemed to shrink from answering the
question.

"You and Limping Lucy were alone
together this morning, sir," he said. "Did she
say nothing about Rosanna Spearman?"

"She never even mentioned Rosanna Spearman's
name."

"Please to go back to the letter, Mr. Franklin.
I tell you plainly, I can't find it in my
heart to distress you, after what you have had
to bear already. Let her speak for herself sir.
And get on with your grog. For your own
sake, get on with your grog."

I resumed the reading of the letter.

"It would be very disgraceful to me to tell
you this, if I was a living woman when you
read it. I shall be dead and gone, sir, when you
find my letter. It is that which makes me
bold. Not even my grave will be left to tell of
me. I may own the truth—with the quicksand
waiting to hide me when the words are written.

"Besides, you will find your nightgown in
my hiding-place, with the smear of the paint
on it; and you will want to know how it came to
be hidden by me? and why I said nothing to
you about it in my life-time? I have only one
reason to give. I did these strange things,
because I loved you.

"I won't trouble you with much about
myself, or my life, before you came to my lady's
house. Lady Verinder took me out of a
reformatory. I had gone to the reformatory from
the prison. I was put in the prison, because I
was a thief. I was a thief, because my mother
went on the streets when I was quite a little
girl. My mother went on the streets, because
the gentleman who was my father deserted her.
There is no need to tell such a common story
as this, at any length. It is told quite often
enough in the newspapers.

"Lady Verinder was very kind to me, and
Mr. Betteredge was very kind to me. Those
two, and the matron at the reformatory are the
only good people I have ever met with in all
my life. I might have got on in my place—not
happily but I might have got on, if you had
not come visiting. I don't blame you, sir. It's
my fault—all my fault.

"Do you remember when you came out on
us from among the sandhills, that morning,
looking for Mr. Betteredge? You were like a
prince in a fairy-story. You were like a lover
in a dream. You were the most adorable human
creature I had ever seen. Something that felt
like the happy life I had never led yet, leapt up
in me the instant I set eyes on you. Don't
laugh at this, if you can help it. Oh, if I could
only make you feel how serious it is to me!

"I went back to the house, and wrote your
name and mine in my work-box, and drew a
true lovers' knot under them. Then, some devil
—no, I ought to say some good angel—
whispered to me, 'Go, and look in the glass.'
The glass told me—never mind what. I was
too foolish to take the warning. I went on
getting fonder and fonder of you, just as if I
was a lady in your own rank of life, and the
most beautiful creature your eyes ever rested
on. I tried—oh, dear, how I tried—to get you
to look at me. If you had known how I used
to cry at night with the misery and the
mortification of your never taking any notice of me,
you would have pitied me perhaps, and have
given me a look now and then to live on.

"It would have been no very kind look,
perhaps, if you had known how I hated Miss
Rachel. I believe I found out you were in
love with her, before you knew it yourself. She
used to give you roses to wear in your button-
hole. Ah, Mr. Franklin, you wore my roses
oftener than either you or she thought! The
only comfort I had at that time, was putting
my rose secretly in your glass of water, in place
of hers—and then throwing her rose away.

"If she had been really as pretty as you
thought her, I might have borne it better.
No; I believe I should have been more spiteful
against her still. Suppose you put Miss Rachel
into a servant's dress, and took her ornaments
off—? I don't know what is the use of my
writing in this way. It can't be denied that
she had a bad figure; she was too thin. But
who can tell what the men like? And young
ladies may behave in a manner which would
cost a servant her place. It's no business of
mine. I can't expect you to read my letter, if
I write it in this way. But it does stir one up
to hear Miss Rachel called pretty, when one
knows all the time that it's her dress does it,
and her confidence in herself.

"Try not to lose patience with me, sir. I
will get on as fast is I can to the time which
is sure to interest you—the time when the
Diamond was lost.

"But there is one thing which I have got it
on my mind to tell you first.

"My life was not a very hard life to bear,