We began in this way with an excellent speculation in cattle—­buying them for shillings and selling them for pounds.  With the profits thus obtained, we next tried our hands at houses—­first buying in a small way, then boldly building, and letting again and selling to great advantage.  While these speculations were in progress, my behavior in my wife’s service was so exemplary, and she gave me so excellent a character when the usual official inquiries were instituted, that I soon got the next privilege accorded to persons in my situation—­a ticket-of-leave.  By the time this had been again exchanged for a conditional pardon (which allowed me to go about where I pleased in Australia, and to trade in my own name like any unconvicted merchant) our house-property had increased enormously, our land had been sold for public buildings, and we had shares in the famous Emancipist’s Bank, which produced quite a little income of themselves.

There was now no need to keep the mask on any longer.

I went through the superfluous ceremony of a second marriage with Alicia; took stores in the city; built a villa in the country; and here I am at this present moment of writing, a convict aristocrat—­a prosperous, wealthy, highly respectable mercantile man, with two years of my sentence of transportation still to expire.  I have a barouche and two bay horses, a coachman and page in neat liveries, three charming children, and a French governess, a boudoir and lady’s-maid for my wife.  She is as handsome as ever, but getting a little fat.  So am I, as a worthy friend remarked when I recently appeared holding the plate, at our last charity sermon.

What would my surviving relatives and associates in England say, if they could see me now?  I have heard of them at different times and through various channels.  Lady Malkinshaw, after living to the verge of a hundred, and surviving all sorts of accidents, died quietly one afternoon, in her chair, with an empty dish before her, and without giving the slightest notice to anybody.  Mr. Batterbury, having sacrificed so much to his wife’s reversion, profited nothing by its falling in at last.  His quarrels with my amiable sister—­which took their rise from his interested charities toward me—­ended in producing a separation.  And, far from saving anything by Annabella’s inheritance of her pin-money, he had a positive loss to put up with, in the shape of some hundreds extracted yearly from his income, as alimony to his uncongenial wife.  He is said to make use of shocking language whenever my name is mentioned, and to wish that he had been carried off by the yellow fever before he ever set eyes on the Softly family.

My father has retired from practice.  He and my mother have gone to live in the country, near the mansion of the only marquis with whom my father was actually and personally acquainted in his professional days.  The marquis asks him to dinner once a year, and leaves a card for my mother before he returns to town for the season.  A portrait of Lady Malkinshaw hangs in the dining-room.  In this way, my parents are ending their days contentedly.  I can honestly say that I am glad to hear it.