"He's wrote me two letters, an' the last, as come more than a year ago, was from a place called Maryborough."
The other still preserved an absent expression; his eyes travelled about the room.
"I always said," pursued Mrs. Peckover, "as it was Snowdon as put Australia into the boy's 'ed. He used to tell us he'd got a brother there, doin' well. P'r'aps it wasn't true."
"Yes, it was true," replied the old man coldly. "But you haven't told me what came to pass about the child."
An exact report of all that Mrs. Peckover had to say on this subject would occupy more space than it merits. The gist of it was that for less than a year she had received certain stipulated sums irregularly; that at length no money at all was forthcoming; that in the tenderness of her heart she had still entertained the child, sent her to school, privately instructed her in the domestic virtues, trusting that such humanity would not lack even its material reward, and that either Joseph
