t his conscience approved, that he might have what I was
representing as the passport of salvation. Whether he were right or
wrong I know not even now, but it was probably through the error of the
very insufficient adviser the poor fellow had chosen in me. It may
seem strange, but I had never thought of his irreligion as an obstacle
with Viola, for, first, I knew him to be a sincere learner, as far as
he went; and next, her sister's husband had none of the goodness that
Lady Diana's professions would have led one to expect in her chosen
son-in-law.

We all met and parted at the railway-station, whither Viola came with
her brother. Dora had been only allowed to come upon solemn promises
of quietness, and at the last our attention was more taken up with her
than anyone else, for she was very white, and shook from head to foot
with the effort at self-restraint, not speaking a word, but clinging to
Harold with a tight grip of his hand, and, when that was not
attainable, of his coat. Fortunately the train was punctual, and the
ordeal did not last long. Harold put in all his goods and Dermot's,
and finally he lifted the poor child up in his arms, held her close,
and then, as her hands locked convulsively round his neck, Eustace
unclasped them, and Harold put her down on my lap as I sat down on the
bench, left a kiss on my brow, wrung Eustace's hand, pressed Viola's,
saying, "I'll take care of your brother," and then, with one final
impulse, carried the hand to his lips and kissed it, before springing
into the carriage, which was already in motion. Poor Dora was actually
faint, and never having experienced the feeling before, was frightened,
and gasped out, "Hasn't it killed me, Lucy?"

The laugh that was unavoidable did us all good, and I sent Eustace for
some restorative from the refreshment-room. The child had to be
carried to the carriage, and was thoroughly out of order for several
days. Poor little girl, we neither of us knew that it was the
beginning of her darker days!

Of Harold's doings in Australia I can tell less than of those at home.
He kept his promise, dear fellow, and wrote regularly. But, alas! his
letters are all gone, and I can only speak from memory of them, and
from what Dermot told me.

Making no stay in Sydney, they pushed on to Boola Boola, avoiding a
halt at Cree's Station, but making at once for Prometesky's cottage, a
wonderful hermitage, as Dermot described it, almost entirely the work