onsiderable
gulf of time. Little by little this gulf had to be bridged over until
the action in both portions of the story became synchronous. I really do
not suppose that the most pitiless critic ever felt it worth his while
to question the accuracy of my dates, and I dare say that all the
trouble I took was quite useless, but I fixed in my own mind the actual
years over which the story extended, and spent scores of hours in the
consultation of old almanacs. I have never verified the work since it
was done, but I believe that in this one respect, at least, it is beyond
cavil. The two central figures of the book were lifted straight from the
story of 'Marsh Hall,' and 'Grace Forbeach' gave her quota to the
narrative.

[Illustration: CONSULTING OLD ALMANACS]

[Illustration: SHE DREW FROM IT A BROWN-PAPER PARCEL]

[Illustration: IF THERE HAD BEEN NO 'DAVID COPPERFIELD']

I had completed the first volume when I received a commission to go out
as special correspondent to the Russo-Turkish war. I left the MS. behind
me, and for many months the scheme was banished from my mind. I went
through those cities of the dead, Kesanlik, Calofar, Carlova, and Sopot.
I watched the long-drawn artillery duel at the Shipka Pass, made the
dreary month-long march in the rainy season from Orkhanie to Plevna,
with the army of reinforcement, under Chefket Pasha and Chakir Pasha,
lived in the besieged town until Osman drove away all foreign visitors,
and sent out his wounded to sow the whole melancholy road with corpses.
I put up on the heights of Tashkesen, and saw the stubborn defence of
Mehemet Ali, and there was pounced upon by the Turkish authorities for a
too faithful dealing with the story of the horrors of the war, and was
deported to Constantinople. I had originally gone out for an American
journal at the instance of a gentleman who exceeded his instructions in
despatching me, and I was left high and dry in the Turkish capital
without a penny and without a friend. But work of the kind I could do
was wanted, and I was on the spot. I slid into an engagement with the
_Scotsman_, and then into another with the _Times_. The late Mr.
Macdonald, who was killed by the Pigott forgeries, was then manager of
the leading journal, and offered me fresh work. I waited for it, and a
year of wild adventure in the face of war had given me such a taste for
that sort of existence that I let 'A Life's Atonement' slide, and had no
thought of taking it up