ad, and Peggy and her young folks were all full
of preparations for the outward voyage to Australia. Tom hoped to serve
out his time to as great advantage in Melbourne as in Edinburgh; and he
really was as clever and as skilful as if he had been seven instead of
less than two years at the engineering. Francis had visited much at
Miss Thomson's, and had Seen a great deal of Mary Forrester, but not
with the result that Jane had anticipated; and now, before she had made
any impression on him beyond the conviction that she was an exceedingly
amiable girl, the plans of the whole family were changed, and they,
too, were going to Australia. As Mary had said, they had cost Aunt
Margaret a great deal of money first and last. Mr. Forrester had been
indolent, and perhaps unlucky; Mrs. Forrester had been occupied with
the cares of a very large family, and had not the force of character of
her single sister. Her eldest son had gone to Australia some time
before, and though he had not made a fortune, he had done pretty well;
and he was perhaps ashamed that so much had been done for his family by
his aunt and so little by himself. So he wrote advising them to come
out to Melbourne, at least all but John, who was now of service to Miss
Thomson; and James, if he thought his business was worth staying for.
If Margaret and Mary were inclined to take situations as governesses,
he had no doubt they could obtain them. Robert and Henry could work for
themselves, and with his help could assist their parents to better
advantage than in Scotland. The family council met on this proposal,
and it was ultimately acceded to, and the family were busy with their
preparations to go in the same ship as Peggy and the Lowries. It seemed
to Francis as if everybody was going to Australia.

He had dined out one day, and had brushed against some of the greatest
men of the age, and felt himself brightened by the collision. He sat
beside the most benevolent, the most enlightened, and the most
sober-minded of political economists, on the one hand; on the other by
the most brilliant of French conversationalists. He--Francis Hogarth,
the obscure bank clerk, who had had no name, no position, and, he used
to think, no ability--was admitted on equal footing with such men as
these. He had not felt so much on the occasion of his dining with the
Earl, and meeting with people there of title and political influence.

After an evening passed in conversation on the subjects