iately the diggers marked the meeting, they rushed forward,
seized Scarlett, Tresco, and the Prospector; lifted them shoulder high,
and marched down the street, singing songs appropriate to the occasion.

At the door of The Lucky Digger the procession stopped, and there the
heroes were almost forcibly refreshed; after which affecting ceremony
one body-guard of diggers conducted Scarlett to the Pilot's house, and
another escorted Bill and Ben to the goldsmith's shop. But whereas
Scarlett's friends left him at Captain Summerhayes' gate, the men who
accompanied Tresco formed themselves into a guard for the protection of
his person and the safety of his deliverer.

When Scarlett walked into the Pilot's parlour, he found the old sailor
poring over a pile of letters and documents which had just arrived by
the mail from England.

"Well, Pilot, good news, I hope," said Jack.

"No," replied the gruff old seaman; "it's bad--and yet it's good. See
here, lad." He pushed a letter towards Jack, and fixed his eyes on the
young man's face.

"I had better not read it," said Jack. "Let Miss Summerhayes do so."

"I've no secrets from _you_, lad. There's nothing in it you shouldn't
know; but, no, no, 'tain't for my dar'ter's eyes. It's from my brother's
lawyers, to say he's dead."

"What, dead?"

"Yes, died last January. They say he had summat on his mind; they refer
me to this packet here--his journals." The Pilot took up two fat little
books, in which a diary had been kept in a clear, clerkly hand. "I've
been looking them through, and it's all as clear as if it had been
printed."

Scarlett sat down, and looked at the old man earnestly.

"I've told you," continued Summerhayes, "how I hated my brother: you've
heard me curse him many a time. Well, the reason's all set down in these
books. It worried him as he lay sickening for his death. To put it
short, it was this: He was rich--I was poor. I was married--he was
single. He had ships--I had none. So he gave me command of one of his
tea-clippers, and I handed over to his care all I held dear. But I
believed he proved unworthy of my trust. And so he did, but not as I
thought. Here in his diary he put down everything he did while I was on
that voyage; writing himself down blackguard, if ever a man did. But he
owns that however base was his wish, he was defeated in the fulfilment
of it. And here, as he was slowly dying, he puts down how he repents. He
was bad, he was grasping, he wa