When I was young, and long after then, at intervals, I had the very useless, sometimes harmful, and invariably foolish habit of keeping a diary.

To me, at least, it has been less foolish and harmful than to most; and out of it, together with much drawn out of the stores of a memory, made preternaturally vivid by a long introverted life, which, colourless itself, had nothing to do but to reflect and retain clear images of the lives around it--out of these two sources I have compiled the present history.
Therein, necessarily, many blank epochs occur.

These I shall not try to fill up, but merely resume the thread of narration as recollection serves.
Thus, after this first day, many days came and went before I again saw John Halifax--almost before I again thought of him.

For it was one of my seasons of excessive pain; when I found it difficult to think of anything beyond those four grey-painted walls; where morning, noon, and night slipped wearily away, marked by no changes, save from daylight to candle-light, from candle-light to dawn.
Afterwards, as my pain abated, I began to be haunted by occasional memories of something pleasant that had crossed my dreary life; visions of a brave, bright young face, ready alike to battle with and enjoy the world.

I could hear the voice that, speaking to me, was always tender with pity--yet not pity enough to wound: I could see the peculiar smile just creeping round his grave mouth--that irrepressible smile, indicating the atmosphere of thorough heart-cheerfulness, which ripens all the fruits of a noble nature, and without which the very noblest has about it something unwholesome, blank, and cold.
I wondered if John had ever asked for me.