me?" cried the lady, smiling at him in a winning, frank
way, which unlocked the boy's lips at once and made him feel eager to
confide in one who took so much interest in him.

"Yes, I'll tell you," he cried: "it's one of the boys--the biggest. He
has set it about that my father is--is--is--"

"A convict?"

Nic nodded, and his brow contracted.

"The impudence!"

"And he nicknamed me Convict. And it isn't true, Lady O'Hara? Pray,
pray tell me."

"About your father, Dr Braydon? Be ashamed of ye'self, boy, for ever
thinking it. Your father's the finest gentleman in New South Wales, and
the best friend that Sir John and I ever had in our hard life yonder."

Nic drew a long, deep breath. Something seemed to be swelling up in his
throat, and he reached forward to catch hold of and retain the plump
white hand, which returned his pressure.

"And so the big fellow called you Convict, did he, because your father's
over the water!"

"Yes."

"And I see now: that accounts for the fighting?"

Nic nodded.

"I bore it as long as I could," he said eagerly; "and it began about
something else."

"Sure, and why did you wait for that? You should have done it at once.
I would."

Nic stared in wonder and admiration at his new friend.

"But tell me: did you give him a great big beating?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Then don't be afraid any more. It would do him good. There, I was
thinking I was going to have the care of a tiresome young, monkey of a
boy; but I promised your dear mother, and should have taken you back.
But, do you know, Dominic, you and I are going to be great friends."

"I hope so," said Nic.

"I'm sure of it. There, I don't want to know any more about you. I
only say that you're just the lad for over yonder, and your father will
be delighted. Now, then: ask me anything you like."

"May I?"

"To be sure."

"Then what is my mother like now?"

"Look yonder," said the lady, pointing to a great mirror. "Now think of
your face made thinner and more delicate, and with soft curls of silky
grey hair, beside a very white forehead; and a gentle expression, not a
hard look, like yours. That's your mother."

"And my father?" cried Nic eagerly.

"Look again," said the lady, "and fancy your face in thirty years' time,
with dark grey hair, all in little rough half-curls, and a great many
lines in the brown skin all over the forehead, and about the eyes."

"Yes," said Nic eagerly, as he stared at