“You do not know me,” I said. “When you have read those papers⁠—my own diary and my husband’s also, which I have typed⁠—you will know me better. I have not faltered in giving every thought of my own heart in this cause; but, of course, you do not know me⁠—yet; and I must not expect you to trust me so far.”

He is certainly a man of noble nature; poor dear Lucy was right about him. He stood up and opened a large drawer, in which were arranged in order a number of hollow cylinders of metal covered with dark wax, and said:⁠—