while I was a thief. It was only when they had
taught me at the reformatory to feel my own
degradation, and to try for better things, that
the days grew long and weary. Thoughts of
the future forced themselves on me now. I
felt the  dreadful reproach that honest people—
even the kindest of honest people—were to me
in themselves. A heart-breaking sensation of
loneliness kept with me, go where I might, and
do what I might, and see what persons I might.
It was my duty, I know, to try and get on with
my fellow-servants in my new place. Somehow,
I couldn't make friends with them. They
looked (or I thought they looked) as if they
suspected what I had been. I don't regret, far
from it, having been roused to make the effort
to be a reformed woman—but, indeed, indeed
it was a weary life. You had come across it
like a beam of sunshine at first—and then you
too failed me. I was mad enough to love you;
and I couldn't even attract vour notice. There
was great misery—there really was great misery
in that.

"Now I am coming to what I wanted to tell
you. In those days of bitterness, I went two or
three times, when it was my turn to go out, to
my favourite place—the beach above the Shivering
Sand. And I said to myself, 'I think it
will end here. When I can bear it no longer,
I think it will end here.' You will understand,
sir, that the place had laid a kind of spell on
me before you came. I had always had a
notion that something would happen to me at
the quicksand. But I had never looked at it,
with the thought of its being the means of my
making away with myself, till the time came of
which I am now writing. Then I did think
that here was a place which would end all my
troubles for me in a moment or two—and hide
me for ever afterwards.

"This is all I have to say about myself,
reckoning from the morning when I first saw
you, to the morning when the alarm was raised
in the house that the Diamond was lost.

"I was so aggravated by the foolish talk
among the women servants, all wondering who
was to be suspected first; and I was so angry
with you (knowing no better at that time) for
the pains you took in hunting for the jewel, and
sending for the police, that I kept as much as
possible away by myself, until later in the day,
when the officer from Frizinghall came to the
house.

"Mr. Seegrave began, as you may remember,
by setting a guard on the women's bedrooms;
and the women all followed him up-stairs in a
rage, to know what he meant by the insult he
had put on them. I went with the rest,
because if I had done anything different from the
rest, Mr. Seegrave was the sort of man who
would have suspected me directly. We found
him in Miss Rachel's room. He told us he
wouldn't have a lot of women there; and he
pointed to the smear on the painted door, and
said some of our petticoats had done the
mischief, and sent us all down-stairs again.

"After leaving Miss Rachel's room, I stopped
a moment on one of the landings, by myself, to
see if I had got the paint-stain by any chance
on my gown. Penelope Betteredge (the only
one of the women with whom I was on friendly
terms) passed, and noticed what I was about.

"'You needn't trouble yourself, Rosanna,'
she said. 'The paint on Miss Rachel's door
has been dry for hours. If Mr. Seegrave hadn't
set a watch on our bedrooms, I might have told
him as much. I don't know what you think —
I was never so insulted before in my life!'

"Penelope was a hot-tempered girl. I quieted
her, and brought her back to what she had said
about the paint on the door having been dry for
hours.

"'How do you know that?' I asked.

"'I was with Miss Rachel, and Mr. Franklin,
all yesterday morning,' Penelope said,
'mixing the colours, while they finished the
door. I heard Miss Rachel ask whether the
door would be dry that evening, in time for the
birthday company to see it. And Mr. Franklin
shook his head, and said it wouldn't be dry in
less than twelve hours. It was long past
luncheon-time—it was three o'clock before they
had done. What does your arithmetic say,
Rosanna? Mine says the door was dry by
three this morning.'

"'Did some of the ladies go up-stairs yesterday
evening to see it?' I asked. 'I thought
I heard Miss Rachel warning them to keep
clear of the door.'

"'None of the ladies made the smear,'
Penelope answered. 'I left Miss Rachel in bed
at twelve last night. And I noticed the door,
and there was nothing wrong with it then.'

"'Oughtn't you to mention this to Mr.
Seegrave, Penelope?'

"'I wouldn't say a word to help Mr.
Seegrave for anything that could be offered to
me!'

"She went to her work, and I went to mine.

"My work, sir, was to make your bed, and
to put your room tidy. It was the happiest
hour I had in the whole day. I used to kiss
the pillow on which your head had rested all
night. No matter who has done it since, you
have never had your clothes folded as nicely as
I folded them for you. Of all the little knick-
knacks in your dressing-case, there wasn't one
that had so much as a speck on it. You never
noticed it, any more than you noticed me. I
beg your pardon; I am forgetting myself. I
will make haste, and go on again.

"Well, I went in that morning to do my
work in your room. There was your nightgown
tossed across the bed, just as you had
thrown it off. I took it up to fold it—and I
saw the stain of the paint from Miss Rachel's
door!

"I was so startled by the discovery that I
ran out, with the nightgown in my hand, and
made for the back stairs, and locked myself into
my own room, to look at it in a place where
nobody could intrude and interrupt me.

"As soon as I got my breath again, I called
to mind my talk with Penelope, and I said to