fore him, and he was lost in the contemplation of his own
happiness.

So absorbed was he that he did not hear the light footstep of the child
across the sand. Mrs. Vickers, having been told of the success which had
crowned the convict's efforts, had overcome her weakness so far as
to hobble down the beach to the boat, and now, heralded by Sylvia,
approached, leaning on the arm of Maurice Frere.

"Mamma has come to see the boat, Mr. Dawes!" cries Sylvia, but Dawes did
not hear.

The child reiterated her words, but still the silent figure did not
reply.

"Mr. Dawes!" she cried again, and pulled him by the coat-sleeve.

The touch aroused him, and looking down, he saw the pretty, thin face
upturned to his. Scarcely conscious of what he did, and still following
out the imagining which made him free, wealthy, and respected, he
caught the little creature in his arms--as he might have caught his own
daughter--and kissed her. Sylvia said nothing; but Mr. Frere--arrived,
by his chain of reasoning, at quite another conclusion as to the state
of affairs--was astonished at the presumption of the man. The lieutenant
regarded himself as already reinstated in his old position, and with
Mrs. Vickers on his arm, reproved the apparent insolence of the convict
as freely as he would have done had they both been at his own little
kingdom of Maria Island. "You insolent beggar!" he cried. "Do you dare!
Keep your place, sir!"

The sentence recalled Rufus Dawes to reality. His place was that of a
convict. What business had he with tenderness for the daughter of his
master? Yet, after all he had done, and proposed to do, this harsh
judgment upon him seemed cruel. He saw the two looking at the boat he
had built. He marked the flush of hope on the cheek of the poor lady,
and the full-blown authority that already hardened the eye of Maurice
Frere, and all at once he understood the result of what he had done. He
had, by his own act, given himself again to bondage. As long as escape
was impracticable, he had been useful, and even powerful. Now he had
pointed out the way of escape, he had sunk into the beast of burden once
again. In the desert he was "Mr." Dawes, the saviour; in civilized life
he would become once more Rufus Dawes, the ruffian, the prisoner, the
absconder. He stood mute, and let Frere point out the excellences of the
craft in silence; and then, feeling that the few words of thanks uttered
by the lady were chilled by her consciou