world, he was a moderately unsuccessful man still when the
inheritance dropped in. It gave him a fair income for life. When the
letter containing the news reached him, he left the office, walked
back to his house, and began to think. Then he unlocked his safe and
took out Ethel Ormiston's letters. They made no great heap; for of
late their correspondence had dwindled to an annual exchange of
good wishes at Christmas. She was still earning her livelihood as a
governess.

Bob thought for a week, and then wrote. He asked Ethel Ormiston to
come out and be his wife. You will observe that the old curse still
lay on him. A man--even a poor one--that was worth kicking would have
gone and fetched her; and Bob had plenty of money. But he asked her to
come out and begged her to cable "Yes" or "No."

She cabled "Yes." She would start within the month from Plymouth, in
the sailing-ship _Grimaldi_. She chose a sailing-ship because it was
cheaper.

So Bob travelled down to Sydney to welcome his bride. He stepped on
the _Grimaldi's_ deck within five minutes of her arrival, and asked
if a Miss Ormiston were on board. There advanced a middle-aged woman,
gaunt, wrinkled and unlovely--not the woman he had chosen, but the
woman he had made.

"Ethel?" was all he found to say.

"Yes, Bob; I am Ethel. And God forgive you."

Of the change in him she said nothing; but held out her hand with a
smile.

"Marry me, Bob, or send me back: I give you leave to do either, and
advise you to send me back. Twelve years ago you might have been proud
of me, and so I might have helped you. As it is, I have travelled far,
and am tired. I can never help you now."

And though he married her, she never did.

II.--BOANERGES.

"Bill Penberthy's come back, I hear."

The tin-smith was sharpening his pocket-knife on the parapet of the
bridge, and, without troubling to lift his eyes, threw just enough
interrogation into the remark to show that he meant it to lead to
conversation. Every one of the dozen men around him held a knife, so
that a stranger, crossing the bridge, might have suspected a popular
rising in the village. But, as a matter of fact, they were merely
waiting for their turn. There is in the parapet one stone upon which
knives may be sharpened to an incomparable edge; and, for longer
than I can remember, this has supplied the men of Gantick with the
necessary excuse for putting their heads together on fine evenings and
discussing the new