“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 as 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, 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 your notice.  There was great misery—­there really was great misery in that.