"Well, it would be wiser for the other fellow to get a promise of work.
I might ask if there were an opening," Paul had replied.

"It's not a man as I was thinking of, sir. It was a wife!"

"Oh, I beg your pardon," the squire said laughing. "But if you care
for my opinion on a subject of which I know but little, I believe quite
the wisest thing you could do would be to take out a wife with you.
She would make a home for you and keep you steady. I expect you have
some girl in your eye, Burney."

Tom smiled rather sheepishly; it would be time enough to mention Rose
when his banns were put up.

And that very afternoon when work was over, Tom had gone home and put
on his best clothes; then walked boldly up to the Court and demanded an
interview with Rose. She came into the servant's hall where he waited
nervously by the fire, and, giving him a careless nod, seated herself
and put her toes upon the fender.

"What is it, Tom? I can't stop long; I'm expecting Miss Webster in
every minute."

"It's come at last: what I've waited for," stammered Tom. "I've a
chance of giving you a home, Rose: a nice one, as far as I can make
out."

"Where?" asked Rose, with shining eyes and parted lips, a vision of
herself as a bride, in a white frock, and handsome Tom as her
bridegroom, floating before her.

"In Tasmania; if you love me well enough to come with me out there.
It's a wonderful offer that the squire has given me; and some day I may
bring you home almost like a lady."

"But I don't know where it is, and I wouldn't go if I did--not with you
nor any man! What can you be thinking of to stuff me up with nonsense
like that?" Rose asked poutingly. "I'll have a home on this side of
the water, or nowhere."

"And you shall," Tom declared passionately, "if you'll promise to wait
until I can make you one!--but I'll have your word for it. You shall
have done with Dixon and stick fast by me, or----"

"Or what?" Rose said with rather frightened eyes.

"Or I'll go where you won't be troubled by me any more. Look here!
you've held me on for eighteen months now, and, if you cared for me
one-half as I love you, you would be ready enough to come with me to
the other side of the world, when I can make you an honest offer of a
home. I'd follow you to the world's end; ill or well, rich or poor I'd
love you just the same; you should not have a trouble that I could keep
from you. I've told you so before, and I tell you so to-nig