y for her
age; but you mustn't mind her. She is neither girl nor woman, you see;
and her education has been neglected. Moreover, this gloomy place and
its associations--what can you expect from a child bred in a convict
settlement?"

"My dear sir," says the other, "she's delightful! Her innocence of the
world is amazing!"

"She must have three or four years at a good finishing school at Sydney.
Please God, I will give them to her when we go back--or send her to
England if I can. She is a good-hearted girl, but she wants polishing
sadly, I'm afraid."

Just then someone came up the garden path and saluted.

"What is it, Troke?"

"Prisoner given himself up, sir."

"Which of them?"

"Gabbett. He came back to-night."

"Alone?" "Yes, sir. The rest have died--he says."

"What's that?" asked Frere, suddenly interested.

"The bolter I was telling you about--Gabbett, your old friend. He's
returned."

"How long has he been out?"

"Nigh six weeks, sir," said the constable, touching his cap.

"Gad, he's had a narrow squeak for it, I'll be bound. I should like to
see him."

"He's down at the sheds," said the ready Troke--"a 'good conduct'
burglar. You can see him at once, gentlemen, if you like."

"What do you say, Vickers?"

"Oh, by all means."

CHAPTER IV. THE BOLTER.

It was not far to the sheds, and after a few minutes' walk through the
wooden palisades they reached a long stone building, two storeys high,
from which issued a horrible growling, pierced with shrilly screamed
songs. At the sound of the musket butts clashing on the pine-wood
flagging, the noises ceased, and a silence more sinister than sound fell
on the place.

Passing between two rows of warders, the two officers reached a sort of
ante-room to the gaol, containing a pine-log stretcher, on which a mass
of something was lying. On a roughly-made stool, by the side of this
stretcher, sat a man, in the grey dress (worn as a contrast to the
yellow livery) of "good conduct" prisoners. This man held between his
knees a basin containing gruel, and was apparently endeavouring to feed
the mass on the pine logs.

"Won't he eat, Steve?" asked Vickers.

And at the sound of the Commandant's voice, Steve arose.

"Dunno what's wrong wi' 'un, sir," he said, jerking up a finger to his
forehead. "He seems jest muggy-pated. I can't do nothin' wi' 'un."

"Gabbett!"

The intelligent Troke, considerately alive to the wishes of his superior
offi