ed eyes, parted lips, and
brows bent as though to rally fast-flying courage? Not a peaceful death
surely. I brought my black coat to my aid. "My dear lady, you must not
think of such things. Death is but a sleep, you know. Why anticipate a
nightmare?"

She sighed, slowly awaking as though from some momentary trance.
Checking herself on the verge of tears, she rallied, turned the
conversation, and finding an excuse for going to the piano, dashed into
a waltz. This unnatural gaiety ended, I fancy, in an hysterical fit. I
heard her husband afterwards recommending sal volatile. He is the
sort of man who would recommend sal volatile to the Pythoness if she
consulted him.

April 26th.--All has been arranged, and we start to-morrow. Mr. Pounce
is in a condition of painful dignity. He seems afraid to move lest
motion should thaw his official ice. Having found out that I am the
"chaplain", he has refrained from familiarity. My self-love is wounded,
but my patience relieved. Query: Would not the majority of mankind
rather be bored by people in authority than not noticed by them? James
North declines to answer for his part. I have made my farewells to my
friends, and on looking back on the pleasant hours I have spent, felt
saddened. It is not likely that I shall have many such pleasant hours.
I feel like a vagabond who, having been allowed to sit by a cheerful
fireside for a while, is turned out into the wet and windy streets, and
finds them colder than ever. What were the lines I wrote in her album?

"As some poor tavern-haunter drenched in wine With staggering footsteps
through the streets returning, Seeing through blinding rain a beacon
shine From household lamp in happy window burning,--

"Pauses an instant at the reddened pane To gaze on that sweet scene of
love and duty, Then turns into the wild wet night again, Lest his sad
presence mar its homely beauty."

Yes, those were the lines. With more of truth in them than she expected;
and yet what business have I sentimentalizing. My socius thinks "what a
puling fool this North is!"

So, that's over! Now for Norfolk Island and my purgation.

CHAPTER II. THE LOST HEIR.

The lost son of Sir Richard Devine had returned to England, and made
claim to his name and fortune. In other words, John Rex had successfully
carried out the scheme by which he had usurped the rights of his old
convict-comrade.

Smoking his cigar in his bachelor lodgings, or pausing in a ca