“If I had only been a little less fond of you, I think I should have destroyed it.  But oh! how could destroy the only thing I had which proved that I had saved you from discovery?  If we did come to an explanation together, and if you suspected me of having some bad motive, and denied it all, how could I win upon you to trust me, unless I had the nightgown to produce?  Was it wronging you to believe, as I did and do still, that you might hesitate to let a poor girl like me be the sharer of your secret, and your accomplice in the theft which your money-troubles had tempted you to commit?  Think of your cold behaviour to me, sir, and you will hardly wonder at my unwillingness to destroy the only claim on your confidence and your gratitude which it was my fortune to possess.

“I determined to hide it; and the place I fixed on was the place I knew best—­the Shivering Sand.

“As soon as the questioning was over, I made the first excuse that came into my head, and got leave to go out for a breath of fresh air.  I went straight to Cobb’s Hole, to Mr. Yolland’s cottage.  His wife and daughter were the best friends I had.  Don’t suppose I trusted them with your secret—­I have trusted nobody.  All I wanted was to write this letter to you, and to have a safe opportunity of taking the nightgown off me.  Suspected as I was, I could do neither of those things with any sort of security, at the house.

“And now I have nearly got through my long letter, writing it alone in Lucy Yolland’s bedroom.  When it is done, I shall go downstairs with the nightgown rolled up, and hidden under my cloak.  I shall find the means I want for keeping it safe and dry in its hiding-place, among the litter of old things in Mrs. Yolland’s kitchen.  And then I shall go to the Shivering Sand—­don’t be afraid of my letting my footmarks betray me!—­and hide the nightgown down in the sand, where no living creature can find it without being first let into the secret by myself.

“And, when that’s done, what then?

“Then, Mr. Franklin, I shall have two reasons for making another attempt to say the words to you which I have not said yet.  If you leave the house, as Penelope believes you will leave it, and if I haven’t spoken to you before that, I shall lose my opportunity forever.  That is one reason.  Then, again, there is the comforting knowledge—­if my speaking does make you angry—­that I have got the nightgown ready to plead my cause for me as nothing else can.  That is my other reason.  If these two together don’t harden my heart against the coldness which has hitherto frozen it up (I mean the coldness of your treatment of me), there will be the end of my efforts—­and the end of my life.