* Note.  Added by Franklin Blake.—­Miss Clack may make her mind quite easy on this point.  Nothing will be added, altered or removed, in her manuscript, or in any of the other manuscripts which pass through my hands.  Whatever opinions any of the writers may express, whatever peculiarities of treatment may mark, and perhaps in a literary sense, disfigure the narratives which I am now collecting, not a line will be tampered with anywhere, from first to last.  As genuine documents they are sent to me—­and as genuine documents I shall preserve them, endorsed by the attestations of witnesses who can speak to the facts.  It only remains to be added that “the person chiefly concerned” in Miss Clack’s narrative, is happy enough at the present moment, not only to brave the smartest exercise of Miss Clack’s pen, but even to recognise its unquestionable value as an instrument for the exhibition of Miss Clack’s character.

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.