Dear Aunt Verinder received me with her
usual grace and kindness. But I noticed, after
a little while, that something was wrong.
Certain anxious looks escaped my aunt, all of
which took the direction of her daughter. I
never see Rachel myself without wondering
how it can be that so insignificant-looking a
person should be the child of such distinguished
parents as Sir John and Lady Verinder. On
this occasion, however, she not only
disappointed—she really shocked me. There was an
absence of all lady-like restraint in her language
and manner most painful to see. She was
possessed by some feverish excitement which made
her distressingly loud when she laughed, and
sinfully wasteful and capricious in what she ate
and drank at lunch. I felt deeply for her poor
mother, even before the true state of the case
had been confidentially made known to me.

Luncheon over, my aunt said: "Remember
what the doctor told you, Rachel, about quieting
yourself with a book after taking your
meals."

"I'll go into the library, mamma," she
answered. "But if Godfrey calls, mind I am
told of it. I am dying for more news of him,
after his adventure in Northumberland-street."
She kissed her mother on the forehead, and
looked my way. "Good-bye, Clack!" she said,
carelessly. Her insolence roused no angry feeling
in me. I only made a private memorandum
to pray for her.

When we were left by ourselves, my aunt
told me the whole horrible story of the Indian
Diamond, which, I am happy to know, it is not
necessary to repeat here. She did not conceal
from me that she would have preferred keeping
silence on the subject. But when her own
servants all knew of the loss of the Moonstone,
and when some of the circumstances had
actually found their way into the newspapers—
when strangers were speculating whether there
was any connexion between what had
happened at Lady Verinder's country house, and
what had happened in Northumberland-street
and Alfred-place—concealment was not to be
thought of; and perfect frankness became a
necessity as well as a virtue.

Some persons, hearing what I now heard,
would have been probably overwhelmed with
astonishment. Tor my own part, knowing
Rachel's spirit to have been essentially
unregenerate from her childhood upwards, I was
prepared for whatever my aunt could tell me on
the subject of her daughter. It might have
gone on from bad to worse till it ended in
Murder; and I should still have said to myself,
The natural result! oh, dear, dear, the natural
result! The one thing that did shock me was
the course my aunt had taken under the
circumstances. Here surely was a case for a
clergyman, if ever there was one yet! Lady
Verinder had thought it a case for a physician.
All my poor aunt's early life had been passed
in her father's godless household. The natural
result again! Oh, dear, dear, the natural result
again!

"The doctors recommend plenty of exercise
and amusement for Rachel, and strongly urge
me to keep her mind as much as possible from
dwelling on the past," said Lady Verinder.

"Oh, what heathen advice!" I thought to
myself. "In this Christian country, what
heathen advice!"

My aunt went on, "I do my best to carry
out my instructions. But this strange adventure
of Godfrey's happens at a most
unfortunate time. Rachel has been incessantly
restless and excited since she first heard of it.
She left me no peace till I had written and
asked my nephew Ablewhite to come here.
She even feels an interest in the other person
who was roughly used—Mr. Luker, or some
such name—though the man is, of course, a total
stranger to her."

"Your knowledge of the world, dear aunt,
is superior to mine," I suggested, diffidently.
"But there must be a reason surely for this
extraordinary conduct on Rachel's part. She is
keeping a sinful secret from you and from everybody.
May there not be something in these
recent events which threatens her secret with
discovery?"

"Discovery?" repeated my aunt. "What
can you possibly mean? Discovery through
Mr. Luker? Discovery through my nephew?"

As the word passed her lips, a special providence
occurred. The servant opened the door,
and announced Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.

ALL ROUND ST. PAUL'S.

"YOU'LL find it horribly dirty!" exclaimed
the friend I met on Ludgate-hill, in reply to the
intelligence that I was about to go over St.
Paul's Cathedral for the first time. "Horribly
dirty!" I repeated to myself. "Is that all the
creature can find to say concerning Wren's
masterpiece?" But, having now been from
crypt to ball, and round galleries, and about
nave, dirt and neglect are, I find, the most
prominent characteristics of the handsomest edifice
of the wealthiest city in the world. The most
prominent fact connected with an inspection of the
monuments is their filth. Dust which is black
in its thickness rests undisturbed upon the
handiwork of Chantrey and Flaxman, converting
classic groups into piebald monstrosities,
turning white black, and reading a bitter lesson
of neglect and indifference to the looker-on.
It would be ludicrous if it were not sad to note
the strange metamorphoses effected by simple
dirt. Black angels are conveying Ethiopian
heroes to their long rest. Smutty-faced
Britannias vie with much-besoiled Glories and
Fames in doing honour to English worthies to
whom soap and a scrubbing-brush are a first
necessity. And the worst part of the effect is
that the dust lies partially. Just as when a
heavy fall of snow is thawing away, odd patches
appear uncovered, long before the whole fall is
melted; so the dust at St. Paul's lingers thickly
on certain folds and features and leaves others