It was too great a responsibility to persuade him to put himself into temptation, even now that he knew what prayer was.  I longed to have seen him come yet nearer, and taken the means of strengthening and refreshing.  But he said, “I cannot; I have not time to make fit preparation.”  And when I pleaded that I could not bear to think of his encountering danger without fulfilling that to which the promise of Everlasting Life is attached, I struck the wrong key.  What he was not ready to do for love, he would not do for fear, or hurry preparation beyond what his conscience approved, that he might have what I was representing as the passport of salvation.  Whether he were right or wrong I know not even now, but it was probably through the error of the very insufficient adviser the poor fellow had chosen in me.  It may seem strange, but I had never thought of his irreligion as an obstacle with Viola, for, first, I knew him to be a sincere learner, as far as he went; and next, her sister’s husband had none of the goodness that Lady Diana’s professions would have led one to expect in her chosen son-in-law.

We all met and parted at the railway-station, whither Viola came with her brother.  Dora had been only allowed to come upon solemn promises of quietness, and at the last our attention was more taken up with her than anyone else, for she was very white, and shook from head to foot with the effort at self-restraint, not speaking a word, but clinging to Harold with a tight grip of his hand, and, when that was not attainable, of his coat.  Fortunately the train was punctual, and the ordeal did not last long.  Harold put in all his goods and Dermot’s, and finally he lifted the poor child up in his arms, held her close, and then, as her hands locked convulsively round his neck, Eustace unclasped them, and Harold put her down on my lap as I sat down on the bench, left a kiss on my brow, wrung Eustace’s hand, pressed Viola’s, saying, “I’ll take care of your brother,” and then, with one final impulse, carried the hand to his lips and kissed it, before springing into the carriage, which was already in motion.  Poor Dora was actually faint, and never having experienced the feeling before, was frightened, and gasped out, “Hasn’t it killed me, Lucy?”

The laugh that was unavoidable did us all good, and I sent Eustace for some restorative from the refreshment-room.  The child had to be carried to the carriage, and was thoroughly out of order for several days.  Poor little girl, we neither of us knew that it was the beginning of her darker days!

Of Harold’s doings in Australia I can tell less than of those at home.  He kept his promise, dear fellow, and wrote regularly.  But, alas! his letters are all gone, and I can only speak from memory of them, and from what Dermot told me.