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Second period. The Discovery of the Truth. 1848 to 1849. First narrative.

Contributed by Miss Clack, niece of the late Sir John Verinder. Chapter 1.

I'm indebted to my dear parents, both now in heaven, for having had habits of order and regularity instilled into me at a very early age.

In that happy bygone time, I was taught to keep my hair tidy at all hours of the day and night, and to fold up every article of my clothing carefully, in the same order, on the same chair, in the same place at the foot of the bed, before retiring to rest.

An entry of the days of events in my little diary invariably proceeded the folding up. The evening hymn repeated in bed invariably followed the folding up.

And the sweet sleep of childhood invariably followed the evening hymn.

In later life, alas, the hymn has been succeeded by sad and bitter meditations, and the sweet sleep has been but ill exchanged for the broken slumbers which haunt the uneasy pillow of care.

On the other hand, I have continued to fold my clothes and to keep my little diary. The former habit links me to my happy childhood before Papa was ruined.

The latter habit, hitherto, mainly useful in helping me to discipline the fallen nature, once we all inherit from Adam, has unexpectedly proved important to my humble interests in quite another way.

It has enabled poor me to serve the Caprice of a wealthy member of the family into which my late uncle married. I am fortunate enough to be useful to Mr. Franklin Blake.

I have been cut off from all news of my relatives by marriage for some time past. When we are isolated and poor, we are not infrequently forgotten.

I am now living for economy's sake in a little town in Brittany, inhabited by a select circle of serious English friends and possessed of the advantages of a Protestant clergyman and a cheap market.

In this retirement, a patmos amid the hauling ocean of popery that surrounds us, a letter from England has reached me at last.

I find my insignificant existence suddenly remembered by Mr. Franklin Blake, my wealthy relative, with that I could add my spiritually wealthy relative, writes without even an attempt at disguising that he wants something of me.

The whim has seized him to stir up the deplorable scandal of the moonstone, and I am to help him by writing the account of what I myself witnessed while visiting at Aunt Verinder's house in London.

I am to reopen wounds that time has barely closed. I am to recall the most intensely painful remembrances, and this done, I am to feel myself compensated by a new laceration in the shape of Mr. Blake's check.

My nature is weak. It cost me a hard struggle before Christian humility, conquered sinful pride, and self-denial, accepted the check.

Without my diary, I doubt, pray that may express it in the grossest terms, if I could have honestly earned my money.

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