’But this has nothing to do with Mr Jones.  I heard, casually from my friend, Mrs Merryweather, that he had left them and gone to college; what college, she did not say.  For some years I had quite enough of painful duty to perform to make me forget the weeks passed in his society, and their termination; or to think of a person of whom I had quite lost sight.  About six or seven years ago, however, I heard of him, strange to say, through my sister.  I had, of course, told her of his proposal and my refusal.

’She and her husband were among the early settlers at Melbourne, and in the course of time became tolerably prosperous.  He, you know, was obliged to leave his regiment for drunkenness, and contrary to the usual course of things, became steadier, though not steady, in Australia.  My sister lost two children in one week from fever, and during her great sorrow, was constantly visited by the clergyman of her parish, who turned out to be my early friend, Mr Jones.  I do not think he knew she was my sister for some time; but she described his untiring kindness and gentleness as her greatest comfort during her troubles.  He was also of great benefit to her husband, by taking advantage of the opportunity offered by the loss of his children, to press upon him the necessity of a reformation in his own course of life, which, I am thankful to say, has been gradually effected.  They became very intimate, and, I suppose by mutually comparing notes concerning Old England, found one another out, so to say.  But he seldom spoke of me.  If my sister tried to draw him into the subject of his acquaintance with me, he changed it as soon as possible, as if it were disagreeable to him.  And no wonder.

’However, my sister looks upon this man as her greatest benefactor—­him, whom I, in my pride and ignorance, considered beneath me in every respect; and when he left Melbourne a year or two ago, she said they had lost their best and dearest earthly friend, and that the children cried when he wished them good-bye, as if they were parting from a father.’

Whilst Miss Hall was telling this simple narrative, Freda was very attentive.  As it drew to a close, she rose from her drawing, and kneeling, as she sometimes would do, by Miss Hall’s side, put her arm affectionately round her.  There was something in the action at that moment which drew tears from Miss Hall’s eyes.

‘But he is not married, Serena, I know he is not married,’ she exclaimed.  ‘Who knows!’

‘My dear child,’ said Miss Hall, smiling, and stroking Freda’s shining hair, ’I have long given up all thoughts of matrimony.  But the recollection of old times always affects me, and your love affects me still more.  I have not told you this because I regret not being married to Mr Jones—­it was mercifully ordained that I should not marry any one.  What would my dear father have done if I had? but simply to show you how the very people we think the least of frequently become our best friends; the “weak things of the earth confounding those that are mighty,” in scripture phrase.’