hastened away.

* * * *

Two hours later the governor of the gaol and the consul were engaged in
an important conversation.

But their plans must, for the present, remain a secret, nor did Jack
and his imprisoned friends know that their last letter had produced a
better effect than the first.

CHAPTER CII.

A SORROWFUL HOUSEHOLD--NEWS AT LAST.

Change we the scene to England, and to that particular part of the
island where old Jack and his friends were living.

Though surrounded by every luxury that money could procure, they were
not happy.

"No news yet!" was the first question that Mrs. Harkaway would ask her
husband in the morning, and he with a shake of the head, would
respond--

"None yet, my dear; but do not despond."

But the fond mother vainly endeavoured to hope against hope.

Little Emily, too, went about in a most listless, melancholy manner,
wondering why it was that Jack did not write, and Paquita, too, was
quite despondent at not hearing any thing of Harry Girdwood.

Dick Harvey did all he could to cheer up everybody, but it was a hard
task, for he was working against his own convictions, which were that
the youngsters had got into some trouble from which they were unable to
extricate themselves.

Letters had been written to young Jack at Marseilles, but these had
never reached him, having fallen into the hands of Herbert Murray, who
had applied at the post office, in the name of Harkaway, for them.

Paquita and little Emily, though still firm friends, were not in each
other's society so much as formerly, as they both preferred to endure
their sorrows in solitude.

Paquita, in particular, was fond of a sequestered nook in the grounds,
where, half hidden by shrubs, she could command a view of the long
straight road leading from the nearest railway station.

She had a notion that she would be the first one to see the absentees,
and had chosen that as a place of observation, where she would sit for
hours watching and trying to hope.

Harvey found out her retreat, and employed the photographer who took
Emily's portrait, to give a good likeness of the southern beauty.

Paquita knew nothing of this, so absorbed was she in her own
meditations, till a few days afterwards Uncle Dick, as she had learnt
to call him, gave her some copies of it.

She thanked him, and, hurrying off to her own room, enclosed one in an
envelope, which she addre