And remember this, if you had not said that your mind was made up to marry her -- or, to put it more plainly still, if you had not shown yourself ready to trust her, when you were quite ignorant of what had really happened -- not one word of all that I have said to you would have passed my lips. Now I have spoken my mind -- and there is an end of it.'
POSTSCRIPT
There is an end of it also, so far as this narrative is concerned.
It is plainly needless to describe what happened when I got back to the house. Results alone are important enough to deserve notice. Mrs Jennet paid the penalty of taking me into her confidence by the loss of her situation, and entered my service on the spot. She accompanied Mira when we went back to Liverpool to be married. Miss Urban, safe in our silence on the subject of her private affairs, was left in possession of her school, her reputation, and her (adopted) son. At the time when I write my confession -- offering it as a valuable lesson to my children, and inventing nothing in it but names of persons and places -- my wife and I are old people; little Kit has become a fine man and a thorough sailor; our aunt and our good housekeeper have long since been reconciled in death; and I have been, for a quarter of a century past, the happiest man that ever drew a prize in the lottery of marriage.