"I was transported, and for ten years lived the life of a convicted
felon. It was a rough school, my boy, but in it I learned lessons an
eternity of happiness might never have taught me. Christ is very
pitiful. They brought me out of madness into sense, and out of storm
into calm. As I sat at night in my cell I could bear once more to think
of the little ivy-covered cottage, of the green grave in the churchyard,
and of the two helpless children who might still live to call me father.
What had become of them? They were perhaps growing up into boyhood and
girlhood, beginning to discover for themselves the snares and sorrows of
the world which had overcome me. Need I tell you I prayed for those two
night and day? A convict's prayer it was--a forger's prayer, a thief's
prayer; but a father's prayer to a pitiful Father for his children.
"After ten years I received a `ticket-of-leave,' and was free to return
home. But I could not do it yet. I preferred to remain where I was, in
Australia, till the full term of my disgrace was ended, and I was at
liberty as a free and unfettered man to show my face once more in
England. It is not two years since I returned. No one knew me. Even
in--my name had been forgotten. The ivy-covered cottage belonged to a
stranger, and no one could tell me what had become of the forger's
children who once lived there. It was part of my punishment, and it may
be my long waiting is not yet over."
Here once more he paused, looking hard at me with his frightened eyes.
I was going to speak, but he stopped me.
"No; let me finish. I came here, sought work, and found it; and found
more than work--I found your friend. When I first met him he was
unhappy and friendless. You know why better than I do. I watched him,
and saw his gallant struggle against poverty and discouragement and
perhaps unkindness. I found in him the first congenial companion I had
met since she died. I shared his studies, and--and the rest you know.
But now," said he, as once more I was about to speak, "you will wonder
what all this has to do with the questions I asked you just now. You
may guess or you may not; I don't know. This is why. When she died,
and I madly deserted all the scenes of my old happiness, my two orphan
children were left in the charge of a nurse, a young married woman then,
whose name was Shield. Now do you wonder at my questions?"