at he must be off again to
his wandering, and that I must stay behind. And now Ted had no thought
for anything but my welfare. There was no more awkwardness between us,
but only the warmth of this good fellow's real affection, and the
almost agreeable melancholy and self-righteous consciousness of wise
denial which possessed me. Ted fumbled under his coat with a packet of
some food he had brought me: 'Spare me days, the cats might give a lad
a bit o' bread to his breakfast--drat 'em!'--and, finally pressed it
into my hands, with injunctions to be careful in opening it, as he had
put a scrap of writing in with it, for me to remember him by.

And so we parted, with no shadow on our friendship, on the track down
to the punt.

But though my friend was gone, after these three Sunday visits, and I
was alone again, the influence of his coming remained. I should not
revert to the unhoping inertia of my previous state. Some instinct
told me that. And the instinct was right. My curiosity had been too
fully roused. My relationship to the world of people outside St.
Peter's had been definitely re-established by the kindly, rather
childlike, bushman, and would not again be allowed to lapse. The mere
talk of swimming to the wharf, of cutting the painter, of walking
forth into the real world which was not ruled by a Sister-in-charge--all
this had wrought a permanent change in me.

The 'scrap of writin'' fumblingly inserted into the packet of cakes was
no writing of Ted's, but a crumpled, greasy one-pound Bank of New South
Wales note; one of his little store, useless to me at St. Peter's--yes;
but, even as my eyes pricked to the emotion of gratitude, some inner
consciousness told me my friend's gift would yet prove of very real use
to me outside the Orphanage, one day. And, before Ted came, I had been
unable to descry any future outside the Orphanage.

V

I do not remember the exact period that elapsed between Ted's
departure and the visit of the artist, Mr. Rawlence. But it must have
been early winter when Ted was at Myall Creek, because my fifteenth
birthday fell at about that time; and it was spring when Mr. Rawlence
came, for I know the wattle was in bloom then. Very likely it was in
August or September, three or four months after Ted's departure. At
all events my mind was still much occupied by thoughts of the outside
world and of my future.

Some one had told me that a Sydney artist, a Mr. Rawlence, had
permission to