In answer to an improvement on this notion, devised by myself, namely, that she should tell the story instead of me, out of her own diary, Penelope observes, with a fierce look and a red face, that her journal is for her own private eye, and that no living creature shall ever know what is in it but herself.

When I inquire what this means, Penelope says, "Fiddlesticks!" I say, Sweethearts.
Beginning, then, on Penelope's plan, I beg to mention that I was specially called one Wednesday morning into my lady's own sitting-room, the date being the twenty-fourth of May, Eighteen hundred and forty-eight.
"Gabriel," says my lady, "here is news that will surprise you.

Franklin Blake has come back from abroad.

He has been staying with his father in London, and he is coming to us to-morrow to stop till next month, and keep Rachel's birthday." If I had had a hat in my hand, nothing but respect would have prevented me from throwing that hat up to the ceiling.

I had not seen Mr.Franklin since he was a boy, living along with us in this house.