Frere, with a scowl. "That scoundrel
Rex couldn't tell the truth to save his life."

"You misjudge him, Captain Frere," said Meekin. "All the prisoners are
not hardened in iniquity like Rufus Dawes. Rex is, I believe, truly
penitent, and has written a most touching letter to his father."

"A letter!" said Vickers. "You know that, by the King's--no, the
Queen's Regulations, no letters are allowed to be sent to the friends of
prisoners without first passing through the hands of the authorities."

"I am aware of that, Major, and for that reason have brought it with me,
that you may read it for yourself. It seems to me to breathe a spirit of
true piety."

"Let's have a look at it," said Frere.

"Here it is," returned Meekin, producing a packet; "and when the cloth
is removed, I will ask permission of the ladies to read it aloud. It is
most interesting."

A glance of surprise passed between the ladies Protherick and Jellicoe.
The idea of a convict's letter proving interesting! Mr. Meekin was new
to the ways of the place.

Frere, turning the packet between his finger, read the address:--

John Rex, sen., Care of Mr. Blicks, 38, Bishopsgate Street Within,
London.

"Why can't he write to his father direct?" said he. "Who's Blick?"

"A worthy merchant, I am told, in whose counting-house the fortunate
Rex passed his younger days. He had a tolerable education, as you are
aware."

"Educated prisoners are always the worst," said Vickers. "James, some
more wine. We don't drink toasts here, but as this is Christmas Eve,
'Her Majesty the Queen'!"

"Hear, hear, hear!" says Maurice. "'Her Majesty the Queen'!"

Having drunk this loyal toast with due fervour, Vickers proposed, "His
Excellency Sir John Franklin", which toast was likewise duly honoured.

"Here's a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you, sir," said Frere,
with the letter still in his hand. "God bless us all."

"Amen!" says Meekin piously. "Let us hope He will; and now, leddies, the
letter. I will read you the Confession afterwards." Opening the packet
with the satisfaction of a Gospel vineyard labourer who sees his first
vine sprouting, the good creature began to read aloud:

"'Hobart Town, "'December 27, 1838. "'My Dear Father,--Through all the
chances, changes, and vicissitudes of my chequered life, I never had a
task so painful to my mangled feelings as the present one, of addressing
you from this doleful spot--my sea-girt prison, on the beach of wh