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“Then he had better stop with you. The interest of my money will be about six hundred a year. You can draw a hundred of that for Georgey’s education, leaving the rest to accumulate till he is of age. My friend here will be trustee, and if he will undertake the charge, I will appoint him guardian to the boy, allowing him for the present to remain under your care.”

“But why not take care of him yourself, George?” asked Robert Audley.

“Because I shall sail in the very next vessel that leaves Liverpool for Australia. I shall be better in the diggings or the backwoods than ever I could be here. I’m broken for a civilized life from this hour, Bob.”

The old man’s weak eyes sparkled as George declared this determination.

“My poor boy, I think you’re right,” he said, “I really think you’re right. The change, the wild life, the—the—” He hesitated and broke down as Robert looked earnestly at him.

“You’re in a great hurry to get rid of your son-in-law, I think, Mr. Maldon,” he said, gravely.

“Get rid of him, dear boy! Oh, no, no! But for his own sake, my dear sir, for his own sake, you know.”

“I think for his own sake he’d much better stay in England and look after his son,” said Robert.

“But I tell you I can’t,” cried George; “every inch of this accursed ground is hateful to me—I want to run out of it as I would out of a graveyard. I’ll go back to town to-night, get that business about the money settled early to-morrow morning, and start for Liverpool without a moment’s delay. I shall be better when I’ve put half the world between me and her grave.”

“Before he left the house he stole out to the landlady, and asked same more questions about his dead wife.

“Were they poor?” he asked, “were they pinched for money while she was ill?”

“Oh, no!” the woman answered; “though the captain dresses shabby, he has always plenty of sovereigns in his purse. The poor lady wanted for nothing.”

George was relieved at this, though it puzzled him to know where the drunken half-pay lieutenant could have contrived to find money for all the expenses of his daughter’s illness.

But he was too thoroughly broken down by the calamity which had befallen him to be able to think much of anything, so he asked no further questions, but walked with his father-in-law and Robert Audley down to the boat by which they were to cross to Portsmouth.

The old man bade Robert a very ceremonious adieu.

“You did not introduce me to your friend, by-the-bye, my dear boy,” he said. George stared at him, muttered something indistinct, and ran down the ladder to the boat before Mr. Maldon could repeat his request. The steamer sped away through the sunset, and the outline of the island melted in the horizon as they neared the opposite shore.

“To think,” said George, “that two nights ago, at this time, I was steaming into Liverpool, full of the hope of clasping her to my heart, and to-night I am going away from her grave!”

The document which appointed Robert Audley as guardian to little George Talboys was drawn up in a solicitor’s office the next morning.

“It’s a great responsibility,” exclaimed Robert; “I, guardian to anybody or anything! I, who never in my life could take care of myself!”

“I trust in your noble heart, Bob,” said George. “I know you will take care of my poor orphan boy, and see that he is well used by his grandfather. I shall only draw enough from Georgey’s fortune to take me back to Sydney, and then begin my old work again.”

But it seemed as if George was destined to be himself the guardian of his son; for when he reached Liverpool, he found that a vessel had just sailed, and that there would not be another for a month; so he returned to London, and once more threw himself upon Robert Audley’s hospitality.