the earth.

CHAPTER IX. JOHN REX'S LETTER HOME.

The "little gathering" of which Major Vickers had spoken to Mr. Meekin,
had grown into something larger than he had anticipated. Instead of a
quiet dinner at which his own household, his daughter's betrothed, and
the stranger clergyman only should be present, the Major found himself
entangled with Mesdames Protherick and Jellicoe, Mr. McNab of the
garrison, and Mr. Pounce of the civil list. His quiet Christmas dinner
had grown into an evening party.

The conversation was on the usual topic.

"Heard anything about that fellow Dawes?" asked Mr. Pounce.

"Not yet," says Frere, sulkily, "but he won't be out long. I've got a
dozen men up the mountain."

"I suppose it is not easy for a prisoner to make good his escape?" says
Meekin.

"Oh, he needn't be caught," says Frere, "if that's what you mean; but
he'll starve instead. The bushranging days are over now, and it's a
precious poor look-out for any man to live upon luck in the bush."

"Indeed, yes," says Mr. Pounce, lapping his soup. "This island seems
specially adapted by Providence for a convict settlement; for with an
admirable climate, it carries little indigenous vegetation which will
support human life."

"Wull," said McNab to Sylvia, "I don't think Prauvidence had any thocht
o' caunveect deesiplin whun He created the cauleny o' Van Deemen's
Lan'."

"Neither do I," said Sylvia.

"I don't know," says Mrs. Protherick. "Poor Protherick used often to
say that it seemed as if some Almighty Hand had planned the Penal
Settlements round the coast, the country is so delightfully barren."

"Ay, Port Arthur couldn't have been better if it had been made on
purpose," says Frere; "and all up the coast from Tenby to St. Helen's
there isn't a scrap for human being to make a meal on. The West Coast is
worse. By George, sir, in the old days, I remember--"

"By the way," says Meekin, "I've got something to show you. Rex's
confession. I brought it down on purpose."

"Rex's confession!"

"His account of his adventures after he left Macquarie Harbour. I am
going to send it to the Bishop."

"Oh, I should like to see it," said Sylvia, with heightened colour. "The
story of these unhappy men has a personal interest for me."

"A forbidden subject, Poppet."

"No, papa, not altogether forbidden; for it does not affect me now as it
used to do. You must let me read it, Mr. Meekin."

"A pack of lies, I expect," said