“Yes, sir, and I’m going with those beasts.  I’ve nothing to say against Old England so long as you don’t ask me to live here.  I’ve been here six weeks, and there’s only one thing that I feel I want and can’t get—­no, miss, it ain’t rum, there’s plenty of that, thank God!—­it’s air, air.  I suppose the city gents are used to living without it, though some of you look pale enough. You don’t look quite the thing yourself, sir; rather white about the gills, and not enough meat on you.  Ah!  I’d soon alter that if I had you at Salisbury Plain.  Lord!  I should like to take out a whole shipload of you; and mind, I could do with a few, and pay you better wages than you get in the City of London.  And the life!  Why, you’d think yourselves kings, with a horse to ride and plenty to eat, and plenty of fun.  But there! you can’t tell what it’s like unless you’ve seen it, and if ever you should have a fancy to see it, you come out to Salisbury Plain, to my little place on the Burra-Burra; for I like the look of you, young man; you’re a gentleman, though I’ve an idea you’re down on your luck—­I ain’t so drunk that I can’t see through a man’s eyes, and there’s trouble in yours; been outrunning the constable, eh?  And you’re not too proud to take a drink with an honest man—­honest, though rough, maybe.”

“Not at all,” said Stafford, “and now you will take a drink with me, or shall we make it a cigar?” for he did not want to lead the man any further on the road of inebriety.

“A cigar?  Right you are,” the settler replied, promptly.  He took out an envelope, intending to screw it up for a light, but suddenly caught sight of the address, and with genial gravity handed the envelope to Stafford.  “There’s my name—­Henery Joffler, and there’s my address, and anybody at Melbourne will tell you the best way of getting there.  Come when you like, winter or summer, and you’ll find Henery Joffler ready to receive you with a welcome. Now I will have a drink,” he remarked, as if he had not partaken of one for a calendar month.

When Stafford left the little public house, he held the envelope in his hand and was about to tear it up, when he checked himself and mechanically put it into his pocket.  The incident, if it had not actually amused him, had diverted his mind in a wholesome manner for a short space; but he had almost forgotten it when has reached his rooms.  The time had slipped by him and it was now twilight and as he was crossing the room in the dusk to ring the bell for a light, a woman rose from his chair and came towards him with out-stretched hands and his name on her lips.

“Maude!” he exclaimed, startled out of his self-possession.  Then it flashed upon him that she should not be there, in his rooms, alone; and he looked at her gravely.

“Why have you come, Maude?” he said.  “Wait but one moment and I will call a cab—­go home with you.”

“No,” she said, presently.  “Did you think I should not come, Stafford?  I have been here for hours.”  She drew nearer to him, her eyes, so cold to others, burning like sapphires as they were raised to his.  “Did you think when I had heard what you had done that I should keep away?  No!  I—­I am proud of you—­can you not guess how proud?—­my heart is aching with it.  Ah, but it was like you, Stafford!”