I would that it were possible so to tell a story that a reader should beforehand know every detail of it up to a certain point, or be so circumstanced that he might be supposed to know. In telling the little novelettes of our life, we commence our narrations with the presumption that these details are borne in mind, and though they be all forgotten, the stories come out intelligible at last. You remember Mary Walker. Oh yes, you do; – that pretty girl, but such a queer temper! And how she was engaged to marry Harry Jones, and said she wouldn’t at the church-door, till her father threatened her with bread and water; and how they have been living ever since as happy as two turtle-doves down in Devonshire, – till that scoundrel, Lieutenant Smith, went to Bideford! Smith has been found dead at the bottom of a saw-pit. Nobody’s sorry for him. She’s in a madhouse at Exeter; and Jones has disappeared, and couldn’t have had more than thirty shillings in his pocket. This is quite as much as anybody ought to want to know previous to the unravelling of the tragedy of the Jones’s
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