an old aunt in England." Mr. Frere gave a little
bluff nod, meaning thereby, Old aunt! Exactly. Just what might have been
expected. "And left my service. She took a little cottage on the New
Town road, and Rex was assigned to her as her servant."

"I see. The old dodge!" says Frere, flushing a little. "Well?"

"Well, the wretched man tried to escape, and she helped him. He was to
get to Launceston, and so on board a vessel to Sydney; but they took the
unhappy creature, and he was sent down here. She was only fined, but it
ruined her."

"Ruined her?"

"Well, you see, only a few people knew of her relationship to Rex, and
she was rather respected. Of course, when it became known, what with
that dreadful trial and the horrible assertions of Dr. Pine--you will
not believe me, I know, there was something about that man I never
liked--she was quite left alone. She wanted me to bring her down here to
teach Sylvia; but John thought that it was only to be near her husband,
and wouldn't allow it."

"Of course it was," said Vickers, rising. "Frere, if you'd like to
smoke, we'll go on the verandah.--She will never be satisfied until she
gets that scoundrel free."

"He's a bad lot, then?" says Frere, opening the glass window, and
leading the way to the sandy garden. "You will excuse my roughness, Mrs.
Vickers, but I have become quite a slave to my pipe. Ha, ha, it's wife
and child to me!"

"Oh, a very bad lot," returned Vickers; "quiet and silent, but ready
for any villainy. I count him one of the worst men we have. With the
exception of one or two more, I think he is the worst."

"Why don't you flog 'em?" says Frere, lighting his pipe in the gloom.
"By George, sir, I cut the hides off my fellows if they show any
nonsense!"

"Well," says Vickers, "I don't care about too much cat myself. Barton,
who was here before me, flogged tremendously, but I don't think it
did any good. They tried to kill him several times. You remember those
twelve fellows who were hung? No! Ah, of course, you were away."

"What do you do with 'em?"

"Oh, flog the worst, you know; but I don't flog more than a man a week,
as a rule, and never more than fifty lashes. They're getting quieter
now. Then we iron, and dumb-cells, and maroon them."

"Do what?"

"Give them solitary confinement on Grummet Island. When a man gets very
bad, we clap him into a boat with a week's provisions and pull him over
to Grummet. There are cells cut in the rock, you s