Sylvia had become the wife of Maurice Frere. The wedding created excitement in the convict settlement, for Maurice Frere, though oppressed by the secret shame at open matrimony which affects men of his character, could not in decency — seeing how “good a thing for him” was this wealthy alliance — demand unceremonious nuptials. So, after the fashion of the town — there being no “continent” or “Scotland” adjacent as a hiding place for bridal blushes — the alliance was entered into with due pomp of ball and supper; bride and bridegroom departing through the golden afternoon to the nearest of Major Vickers’s stations. Thence it had been arranged they should return after a fortnight, and take ship for Sydney.

Major Vickers, affectionate though he was to the man whom he believed to be the saviour of his child, had no notion of allowing him to live on Sylvia’s fortune. He had settled his daughter’s portion — ten thousand pounds — upon herself and children, and had informed Frere that he expected him to live upon an income of his own earning. After many consultations between the pair, it had been arranged that a civil appointment in Sydney would best suit the bridegroom, who was to sell out of the service. This notion was Frere’s own. He never cared for military duty, and had, moreover, private debts to no inconsiderable amount. By selling his commission he would be enabled at once to pay these debts, and render himself eligible for any well-paid post under the Colonial Government that the interest of his father-in-law, and his own reputation as a convict disciplinarian, might procure. Vickers would fain have kept his daughter with him, but he unselfishly acquiesced in the scheme, admitting that Frere’s plea as to the comforts she would derive from the society to be found in Sydney was a valid one.

“You can come over and see us when we get settled, papa,” said Sylvia, with a young matron’s pride of place, “and we can come and see you. Hobart Town is very pretty, but I want to see the world.”

“You should go to London, Poppet,” said Maurice, “that’s the place. Isn’t it, sir?”

“Oh, London!” cries Sylvia, clapping her hands. “And Westminster Abbey, and the Tower, and St. James’s Palace, and Hyde Park, and Fleet-street!” ‘Sir,’ said Dr. Johnson, ‘let us take a walk down Fleet-street.’ Do you remember, in Mr. Croker’s book, Maurice? No, you don’t I know, because you only looked at the pictures, and then read Pierce Egan’s account of the Topping Fight between Bob Gaynor and Ned Neal, or some such person.”

“Little girls should be seen and not heard,” said Maurice, between a laugh and a blush. “You have no business to read my books.”

“Why not?” she asked, with a gaiety which already seemed a little strained; “husband and wife should have no secrets from each other, sir. Besides, I want you to read my books. I am going to read Shelley to you.”

“Don’t, my dear,” said Maurice simply. “I can’t understand him.”

This little scene took place at the dinner-table of Frere’s cottage, in New Town, to which Major Vickers had been invited, in order that future plans might be discussed.

“I don’t want to go to Port Arthur,” said the bride, later in the evening. “Maurice, there can be no necessity to go there.”

“Well,” said Maurice. “I want to have a look at the place. I ought to be familiar with all phases of convict discipline, you know.”

“There is likely to be a report ordered upon the death of a prisoner,” said Vickers. “The chaplain, a fussy but well-meaning person, has been memorializing about it. You may as well do it as anybody else, Maurice.”

“Ay. And save the expenses of the trip,” said Maurice.

“But it is so melancholy,” cried Sylvia.

“The most delightful place in the island, my dear. I was there for a few days once, and I really was charmed.”

It was remarkable — so Vickers thought — how each of these newly-mated ones had caught something of the other’s manner of speech. Sylvia was less choice in her mode of utterance; Frere more so. He caught himself wondering which of the two methods both would finally adopt.

“But those dogs, and sharks, and things. Oh, Maurice, haven’t we had enough of convicts?”

“Enough! Why, I’m going to make my living out of ’em,” said Maurice, with his most natural manner.

Sylvia sighed.

“Play something, darling,” said her father; and so the girl, sitting down to the piano, trilled and warbled in her pure young voice, until the Port Arthur question floated itself away upon waves of melody, and was heard of no more for that time. But upon pursuing the subject, Sylvia found her husband firm. He wanted to go, and he would go. Having once assured himself that it was advantageous to him to do a certain thing, t............