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And Bob–this man of twenty-one or more–obeyed his father in this, and went. I can almost forgive him, knowing how the filial habit blinds a man. But I cannot forgive the letter he wrote to Miss Ormiston–whom he wished to make his wife, please remember. Nevertheless she forgave him. She had found another situation, and was working on. Her parents were dead.

Five years passed, and Bob’s mother died–twelve years, and his father died also, leaving him the lion’s share of the money. During this time Bob had worked away at Ballawag and earned enough to set up as lawyer on his own account. But because a man cannot play fast and loose with the self-will that God gave him and afterwards expect to do much in the 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 news.

“Ay, he’s back.”

“Losh, Uncle, I’d no idea you was there,” said the tin-smith, wheeling round. “And how’s your lad looking?”

“Tolerable–tolerable. ‘A’s got a black suit, my sonnies, and a white tie, and a soft hat that looks large on the head, but can be folded and stowed in your tail pocket.” Complacency shone over the speaker’s shrivelled cheeks, and beamed from his horn-spectacles. “You can tell ‘en at a glance for a Circuit-man and no common Rounder.”

“‘A’s fully knowledgeable by all accounts; learnt out, they tell me.”