One of the children brought me a photograph album, long ago finished and closed, and showed me a faded and blurred figure over which there had been a little dispute.  Was it Hercules with club and lion-skin, or was it a gentleman I had known?

Ah me! how soon a man’s place knoweth him no more!  What fresh recollections that majestic form awoke in me ­the massive features, with the steadfast eye, and low, square brow, curled over with short rings of hair; the mouth, that, through the thick, short beard, still invited trust and reliance, even while there was a look of fire and determination that inspired dread.

The thing seemed to us hideous and absurd when it was taken by Miss Horsman.  I hated it, and hid it away as a caricature.  But now those pale, vanishing tints bring the very presence before me; and before the remembrance can become equally obscure in my own mind, let me record for others the years that I spent with my young Alcides as he now stands before me in memory.

Our family history is a strange one.  I, Lucy Alison, never even saw my twin brothers ­nor, indeed, knew of their existence ­during my childhood.  I had one brother a year younger than myself, and as long as he lived he was treated as the eldest son, and neither he nor I ever dreamed that my father had had a first wife and two sons.  He was a feeble, broken man, who seemed to my young fancy so old that in after times it was always a shock to me to read on his tablet, “Percy Alison, aged fifty-seven;” and I was but seven years old when he died under the final blow of the loss of my little brother Percy from measles.

The dear old place ­house with five gables on the garden front, black timbered, and with white plaster between, and oh! such flowers in the garden ­was left to my mother for her life; and she was a great deal younger than my father, so we went on living there, and it was only when I was almost a woman that I came to the knowledge that the property would never be mine, but would go in the male line to the son of one of my disinherited convict brothers.

The story, as my mother knew it, was this:  Their names were Ambrose and Eustace:  there was very little interval between their births, and there had been some confusion between them during the first few hours of their lives, so that the question of seniority was never entirely clear, though Ambrose was so completely the leader and master that he was always looked upon as the elder.

In their early youth they were led away by a man of Polish extraction, though a British subject, one Count Prometesky, who had thrown himself into every revolutionary movement on the Continent, had fought under Kosciusko in Poland, joined the Carbonari in Italy, and at last escaped, with health damaged by a wound, to teach languages and military drawing in England, and, unhappily, to spread his principles among his pupils, during the excitement connected with the Reform Bill.  Under his teaching my poor brothers became such democrats that they actually married the two daughters of a man from Cumberland named Lewthwayte, whom Lord Erymanth had turned out of one of his farms for his insolence and radicalism; and not long after they were engaged in the agricultural riots, drilling the peasants, making inflammatory speeches, and doing all they could to bring on a revolution.  Dreadful harm was done on the Erymanth estate, and the farm from which Lewthwayte had been expelled suffered especially, the whole of the ricks and buildings being burnt down, though the family of the occupant was saved, partly by Prometesky’s exertions.

When the troops came, both he and my brothers were taken with arms in their hands; they were tried by the special commission and sentenced to death.  Lewthwayte and his son were actually hung; but there was great interest made for Ambrose and Eustace, and in consideration of their early youth (they were not twenty-two) their sentence was commuted to transportation for life, and so was Prometesky’s, because he was half a foreigner, and because he was proved to have saved life.

My father would not see them again, but he offered their wives a passage out to join them, and wanted to have had their two babies left with him, but the two young women refused to part with them; and it was after that that he married again, meaning to cast them off for ever, though, as long as their time of servitude lasted, he sent the wives an allowance, and as soon as his sons could hold property, he gave them a handsome sum with which to set themselves up in a large farm in the Bush.

And when little Percy died, he wanted again to have his eldest grandson sent home to him, and was very much wounded by the refusal which came only just before his death.  His will had left the estate to the grandson, as the right heir.  Everyone looked on it as a bad prospect, but no one thought of the “convict boy” as in the immediate future, as my mother was still quite a young woman.

But when I was just three-and-twenty, an attack of diphtheria broke out; my mother and I both caught it; and, alas!  I alone recovered.  The illness was very long with me, partly from my desolateness and grief, for, tender as my kind old servants were, and good as were my friends and neighbours, they could only make me feel what they were not.

Our old lawyer, Mr. Prosser, had written to my nephew, for we knew that both the poor brothers were dead; but he assured me that I might safely stay on at the old place, for it would be eight months before his letter could be answered, and the heir could not come for a long time after.

I was very glad to linger on, for I clung to the home, and looked at every bush and flower, blossoming for the last time, almost as if I were dying, and leaving them to a sort of fiend.  My mother’s old friends, Lady Diana Tracy and Lord Erymanth, her brother, used to bemoan with me the coming of this lad, born of a plebeian mother, bred up in a penal colony, and, no doubt, uneducated except in its coarsest vices.  Lord Erymanth told at endless length all the advice he had given my father in vain, and bewailed the sense of justice that had bequeathed the property to such a male heir as could not fail to be a scourge to the country.  Everyone had some story to tell of Ambrose’s fiery speeches and insubordinate actions, viewing Eustace as not so bad because his mere satellite ­and what must not their sons be?

The only person who had any feeling of pity or affection for them was old Miss Woolmer.  She was the daughter of a former clergyman of Mycening, the little town which is almost at our park-gates.  She was always confined to the house by rheumatic-gout.  She had grown up with my brothers.  I sometimes wondered if she had not had a little tenderness for one of them, but I believe it was almost elder-sisterly.  She told me much in their excuse.  My father had never been the fond, indulgent father to them that I remembered him, but a strict, stern authority when he was at home, and when he was absent leaving them far too much to their own devices; while Prometesky was a very attractive person, brilliant, accomplished, full of fire and of faith in his theories of universal benevolence and emancipation.

She thought, if the times had not been such as to bring them into action, Ambrose would have outgrown and modified all that was dangerous in his theories, and that they would have remained mere talk, the ebullition of his form of knight-errantry; for it was generous indignation and ardour that chiefly led him astray, and Eustace was always his double:  but there were some incidents at the time which roused him to fury.  Lewthwayte was a Cumberland man, who had inherited the stock and the last years of a lease of a farm on Lord Erymanth’s property; he had done a good deal for it, and expended money on the understanding that he should have the lease renewed, but he was a man of bold, independent northern tongue, and gave great offence to his lordship, who was used to be listened to with a sort of feudal deference.  He was of the fierce old Norse blood, and his daughters were tall, fair, magnificent young women, not at all uneducated nor vulgar, and it was the finding that my brothers were becoming intimate at his farm that made Lord Erymanth refuse to renew the lease and turn the family out so harshly, and with as little notice as possible.

The cruelty, as they thought it, was, Miss Woolmer said, most ill-judged, and precipitated the very thing that was dreaded.  The youths rushed into the marriage with the daughters, and cast in their lot with all that could overturn the existing order of things, but Miss Woolmer did not believe they had had anything to do with the rick-burning or machine-breaking.  All that was taken out of their hands by more brutal, ignorant demagogues.  They were mere visionaries and enthusiasts according to her, and she said the two wives were very noble-looking, high-spirited young women.  She had gone to see them several times when their husbands were in prison, and had been much struck with Alice, Ambrose’s wife, who held up most bravely; though Dorothy, poor thing, was prostrated, and indeed her child was born in the height of the distress, when his father had just been tried for his life, and sentenced to death.

It was their birth and education that caused them to be treated so severely; besides, there was no doubt of their having harangued the people, and stirred them up, and they were seen, as well as Prometesky, at the fire at what had been Lewthwayte’s farm; at least, so it was declared by men who turned King’s evidence, and the proof to the contrary broke down, because it depended on the wives, whose evidence was not admissible; indeed that ­as the law then stood ­was not the question.  Those who had raised the storm were responsible for all that was done in it, and it was very barely that their lives were spared.

That was the comfort Miss Woolmer gave.  No one else could see any at all, except a few old women in the parish, who spoke tenderly of poor Mr. Ambrose and Mr. Eustace; but then they had sons or brothers who had been out with the rioters, and after these twenty-six years no one remembered the outrages and terrors of the time with anything but horror; and the coming of the wild lad from the Bush was looked on as the end of all comfort.

I meant, as soon as I heard he was on the way, to leave Arghouse, make visits among friends, and decide on my future home, for, alas! there was no one who wanted me.  I was quite alone in the world; my mother’s cousins were not near, and I hardly knew them; and my only relations were the bushrangers, as Lady Diana Tracy called them.

She was sister to Lord Erymanth, and widow to an Irish gentleman, and had settled in the next parish to us, with her children, on the death of her husband.

Her little daughter, Viola, had been spending the day with me, and it was a lovely spring evening, when we sat on the lawn, wondering whether I should ever care for anything so much as for those long shadows from the fir woods upon the sloping field, with the long grass rippling in the wind, and the border of primroses round the edge of the wood.

We heard wheels and thought it was the carriage come for Viola, much too soon, when out ran one of the maids, crying, “Oh!  Miss Alison, he is come.  There’s ever so many of them!”

I believe we caught hold of one another in our fright, and were almost surprised when, outstripping lame old Richardson, as he announced “Mr. Alison!” there came only three persons.  They were the two tallest men I had ever seen, and a little girl of eight years old.  I found my hand in a very large one, and with the words “Are you my aunt Lucy?” I was, as it were, gathered up and kissed.  The voice, somehow, carried a comfortable feeling in the kindness of its power and depth; and though it was a mouth bristly with yellow bristles, such as had never touched me before, the honest friendly eyes gave me an indescribable feeling of belonging to somebody, and of having ceased to be alone in the world.

“Here is Eustace,” he said, “and little Dora,” putting the child forward as she backed against him, most unwilling to let me kiss her.  “And, I did not know I had another aunt.”

“No,” I said, starting between, for what would Lady Diana’s feelings have been if Viola had carried home an Australian kiss?  “This is Miss Tracy.”

Viola’s carriage was now actually coming, and as I went into the house with her, she held me, whispering to me to come home at once with her, but I told her I could not leave them in that way, and they were really my nephews.

“You are not afraid?” she said.

“What do you think he could do to me?” I asked, laughing.

“He is so big,” said Viola.  “I never saw any one so big, but I think he is like Coeur de Lion.  Ah!” We both shrieked, for a most uncanny monster was rearing up in front of us, hopping about the hall, as far as was allowed by the chain that fastened it to the leg of a table.

“Mr. Alison brought it, ma’am,” said Richardson, in a tone of disgust and horror.  “Will you have the carriage out, Miss Alison, and go down to the Wyvern?  Shuh! you brute!  He shan’t hurt you, my dear ladies.  I’ll stand between.”

We had recovered our senses, however, enough to see that it was only a harmless kangaroo; and Dora came running out, followed by Harold, caressing the beast, calling it poor Nanny, and asking where he should shut it up for the night.

I suggested an outhouse, and we conducted the creature thither in procession, hearing by the way that the kangaroo’s mother had been shot, and that the animal itself, then very young, and no bigger than a cat, had taken Harold’s open shirt front for her pouch and leaped into his bosom, and that it had been brought up to its present stature tame at Boola Boola.  Viola went with us, fed the kangaroo, and was so much interested and delighted, that she could hardly go away, Eustace making her a most elaborate and rather absurd bow, being evidently much impressed by the carriage and liveried servants who were waiting for her.

“Like the Governor’s lady!” he said.  “And I know, for I’ve been to a ball at Government House.”

He plainly cared much more for appearances than did Harold.  He was not so tall, much slighter, with darker hair, rather too shiny, and a neatly turned up moustache, a gorgeous tie and watch chain, a brilliant breast pin, a more brilliant ring, and a general air that made me conclude that he regarded himself as a Sydney beau.  But Harold, in his loose, rough grey suit, was very different.  His height was extraordinary, his breadth of chest and shoulder equally gigantic, though well proportioned, and with a look of easy strength, and, as Viola had said, his head was very much what one knows as the Lion Heart’s, not Marochetti’s trim carpet knight, but Vertue’s rugged portrait from the monument at Fontevrand.  There was the same massive breadth of feature, large yet not heavy, being relieved by the exceeding keenness and quickness of the light but very blue eyes, which seemed to see everywhere round in a moment, as men do in wild countries.  The short thick yellow curly beard and moustache veiled the lower part of the face; but the general expression, when still, was decidedly a sad one, though a word or a trick of Dora’s would call up a smile all over the browned cheeks and bright eyes.  His form and colouring must have come from the Cumberland statesman, but people said his voice and expression had much of his father in them; and no one could think him ungentlemanly, though he was not like any English gentleman.  He wore no gaieties like Eustace, the handkerchief loosely knotted round his neck sailor fashion was plain black, and he had a gold ring on his little finger.

Dora had the same yellow curly hair, in tight, frizzly rings all over her head, like a boy’s, a light complexion, and blue eyes, in a round, pug-nosed face; and she hung so entirely on Harold that I never doubted that she was his sister till, as we were sitting down to eat, I said, “Can’t you come a little way from your brother?”

Eustace gave his odd little giggle, and said, “There, Dora!”

“I’m not his sister ­I’m his wife!”

“There!” and Eustace giggled again and ordered her away; but I saw Harold’s brow knit with pain, and as she began to reiterate her assertion and resist Eustace, he gently sat her down on the chair near at hand, and silently made her understand that she was to stay there; but Eustace rather teasingly said: 

“Aunt Lucy will teach you manners, Dora.  She is my sister, and we have brought her home to send her to school.”

“I won’t go to school,” said Dora; “Harold would not.”

“You won’t get away like him,” returned Eustace, in the same tone.

“Yes, I shall.  I’ll lick all the girls,” she returned, clenching a pair of red mottled fists that looked very capable.

“For shame, Dora!” said the low voice.

“Harold did,” said she, looking up at me triumphantly; “he beat all the boys, and had to come back again to Boola Boola.”

I longed to understand more, but I was ashamed to betray my ignorance of my near relations, for I did not even know whether their mothers were alive; but I saw that if I only listened, Eustace would soon tell everything.  He had a runaway chin, and his mouth had a look at times that made me doubt whether there were not some slight want in his intellect, or at least weakness of character.  However, I was relieved from the fear of the vice with which the neighbourhood had threatened us, for neither of them would touch wine or beer, but begged for tea, and drank oceans of it.

We had not long finished, when Richardson brought me a note from Lady Diana Tracy, saying she had sent the carriage for me that I might at once take refuge from this unforeseen invasion.

I felt it out of all possibility that I should thus run away, and yet I knew I owed an apology for Harold’s finding me and the old servants in possession, so I began to say that my old friend had sent the carriage for me. ­I had been taken by surprise, their journey (one of the first across the Isthmus) had been so much quicker than I had expected, or I should have left the house free for them.

“Why?” asked Harold.  And when I answered that the place was his and I had no business there, he did not seem to see it.  “It is your home,” he said; “you have always lived here.”

I began explaining that this was no reason at all; but he would not hear of my going away, and declared that it was I who belonged to the place, so that I confessed that I should be very thankful to stay a little while.

“Not only a little while,” he said; “it is your home as much as ever, and the best thing in the world for us.”

“Yes, yes,” responded Eustace; “we kept on wondering what Aunt Lucy would be like, and never thought she could be such a nice young lady.”

“Not realising that your aunt is younger than yourselves,” I said.

“No,” said Eustace, “the old folk never would talk of home ­my father did not like it, you see ­and Aunt Alice had moved off to New Zealand, so that we could not go and talk about it to her.  Mr. Smith has got a school in Auckland, you know.”

I did not know, but I found that a year or two after the death of my brother Ambrose, his widow had become the second wife of the master of a boarding-school at Sydney, and that it was there that Harold, at ten years old, had fought all the boys, including the step-children, and had been so audacious and uncontrollable, that she had been forced to return him to his uncle and aunt in the “Bush.”  Eustace had been with the Smiths at Sydney until her move to Auckland, he had even been presented, and had been to a ball at Government House, and thus was viewed as the polished member of the family, though, if he had come as master, I should never have been drawn, as I was by Harold’s free, kindly simplicity, into writing my thanks to Lady Diana, and saying that I could not leave my nephews so abruptly, especially as they had brought a little sister.

It was gratifying to see that Harold was uneasy till the note was sent off and the carriage dismissed.  “You are not going?” he said, as persuasively as if he were speaking to Dora, and I strove to make a wise and prudent answer, about remaining for the next few days, and settling the rest when he had made his plans.

Then I proposed to take Dora up to bed, but though manifestly very weary, the child refused, and when her brother tried to order her, she ran between Harold’s knees, and there tossed her head and glared at me.  He lifted her on his lap, and she drew his arm round her in defence.  Eustace said he spoilt her, but he still held her, and, as she dropped asleep against his breast, Eustace related, almost in a tone of complaint, that she had cared for no one else ever since the time she had been lost in the Bush, and Harold had found her, after three days, in the last stage of exhaustion, since which time she had had neither eyes, ears, nor allegiance for any other creature, but that she must be taught something, and made into a lady.

Harold gazed down on her with his strange, soft, melancholy smile, somehow seeming to vex Eustace, who accused him of not caring how rough and uncultivated she was, nor himself either.

“We leave the polish to you,” said Harold.

“Why, yes,” said Eustace, simpering, “my uncle Smith gave me the first advantages in Sydney, and everyone knew my father was ‘a gentleman.’”

Harold bit the hair that hung over his lip, and I guessed, what I afterwards found to be the truth, that his stepfather was no small trial to him; being, in fact, an unprosperous tutor and hanger-on on some nobleman’s family, finally sent out by his patrons in despair, to keep school in Sydney.

Poor Ambrose had died of lock-jaw from a cut from an axe very soon after his emancipation, just as his energy was getting the farm into order, and making things look well with the family, and, after a year or two, Alice, deceived by the man’s air and manners, and hoping to secure education for her son, had married, and the effect had been that, while Harold was provoked into fierce insubordination, Eustace became imbued with a tuft-hunting spirit, a great contrast to what might have been expected from his antecedents.

I cannot tell whether I found this out the first evening, or only gradually discovered it, with much besides.  I only remember that when at last Harold carried Dora upstairs fast asleep, and my maid Colman and I had undressed her and put her into a little bed in a room opening out of mine, I went to rest, feeling rejoiced that the suspense was over and I knew the worst.  I felt rather as if I had a magnificent wild beast in the house; and yet there was a wonderful attraction, partly from the drawing of kindred blood, and partly from the strength and sweetness of Harold’s own face, and, aunt-like, I could not help feeling proud, of having such a grand creature belonging to me, though there might be a little dread of what he would do next.

In the morning all seemed like a dream, for Dora had vanished, leaving no trace but her black bag; but while I was dressing a tremendous cackling among my bantams caused me to look out, when I beheld them scurrying right and left at sight of the kangaroo leaping after the three strangers, and my cat on the top of the garden wall on tiptoe, with arched back, bristling tail, and glassy eyes, viewing the beast as the vengeful apotheosis of all the rats and mice she had slaughtered in her time.

From the stairs I heard Dora scouting her brother’s orders to tidy herself for breakfast, adding that Harry never did, to which he merely replied, “I shall now.  Come.”

There was a sound of hoisting, that gave me warning rather fortunately, for he came striding upstairs with that great well-grown girl of eight perched on his shoulder as if she had been a baby, and would have run me down if I had not avoided into the nook on the landing.

All that day and the next those three were out; I never saw them but at meals, when they came in full of eager questions and comments on their discoveries in farming and other matters.  These were the early bright days of spring, and they were out till after dark, only returning to eat and go to bed.  I found the fascination of Harold’s presence was on all the servants and dependents, except perhaps our bailiff Bullock, who disliked him from the first.  All the others declared that they had no doubt about staying on, now that they saw what the young squire really was.  It made a great impression on them that, when in some farmyard arrangements there was a moment’s danger of a faggot pile falling, he put his shoulder against it and propped the whole weight without effort.  His manhood, strength, and knowledge of work delighted them, and they declared already that he would be a good friend to the poor.

I confess that here lay what alarmed me.  He was always given to few words, but I could see that he was shocked at the contrast between our poor and the Australian settlers, where food and space were plenty and the wages high.  I was somewhat hurt at his way of viewing what had always seemed to me perfection, at least all that could be reasonably expected for the poor ­our pet school, our old women, our civil dependents in tidy cottages, our picturesque lodges; and I did not half like his trenchant questions, which seemed to imply censure on all that I had hitherto thought unquestionable, and perhaps I told him somewhat impatiently that, when he had been a little longer here, he would understand our ways and fall naturally into them.

“That’s just what I don’t want,” he said.

“Not want?” I exclaimed.

“Yes; I want to see clearly before I get used to things.”

And as, perhaps, I seemed to wonder at this way of beginning, he opened a little, and said, “It is my father.  He told me that if ever I came here I was to mind and do his work.”

“What kind of work?” I asked, anxiously.

“Doing what he meant to have done,” returned Harold, “for the poor.  He said I should find out about it.”

“You must have been too young to understand much of what he meant then,” I said.  “Did he not regret anything?”

“Yes, he said he had begun at the wrong end, when they were not ripe for it, and that the failure had ruined him for trying again.”

“Then he did see things differently at last?” I said, hoping to find that the sentiments I had always heard condemned had not been perpetuated.

“Oh yes!” cried Eustace.  “They were just brutes, you know, that nobody could do any good to, and were only bent on destroying, and had no gratitude nor sense; and that was the ruin of him and of my father too.”

“They were ignorant, and easily maddened,” said Harold, gravely.  “He did not know how little they could be controlled.  I must find out the true state of things.  Prometesky said I must read it up.”

“Prometesky!” I cried in despair.  “Oh, Harold, you have not been influenced by that old firebrand?”

“He taught me almost all I know,” was the answer, still much to my dismay; but I showed Harold to the library, and directed him to some old books of my father’s, which I fancied might enlighten him on the subjects on which he needed information, though I feared they might be rather out of date; and whenever he was not out of doors, he was reading them, sometimes running his fingers through his yellow hair, or pulling his beard, and growling to himself when he was puzzled or met with what he did not like.  Eustace’s favourite study, meanwhile, was “Burke’s Peerage,” and his questions nearly drove me wild by their absurdity; and Dora rolled on the floor with my Spitz dog, for she loathed the doll I gave her, and made me more afraid of her than of either of the others.

Harold was all might and gentleness; Eustace viewed me as a glass of fashion and directory of English life and manners; but I saw they both looked to me not only to make their home, but to tame their little wild cat of a child; and that was enough to make her hate and distrust me.  Moreover, she had a gleam of jealousy not far from fierce in her wild blue eyes if she saw Harold turn affectionately to me, and she always protested sullenly against the “next week,” when I was to begin her education.

She could only read words of four letters, and could not, or would not, work a stitch.  Harold had done all her mending.  On the second day I passed by the open door of his room, and saw him at work on a great rectangular rent in her frock.  I could not help stopping to suggest that Colman or I might save him that trouble, whereupon Dora slammed the door in my face.

Harold opened it again at once, saying, “You ought to beg Aunt Lucy’s pardon;” and when no apology could be extracted from her, and with thanks he handed over the little dress to me, she gave a shriek of anger (she hardly ever shed tears) and snatched it from me again.

“Well, well,” said Harold, patting her curly head; “I’ll finish this time, but not again, Dora.  Next time, Aunt Lucy will be so good as to see to it.  After old Betty’s eyes grew bad we had to do our own needling.”

I confess it was a wonderful performance ­quite as neat as Colman could have made it; and I suspect that Harold did not refrain from producing needle and thread from his fat miscellaneous pocket-book, and repairing her many disasters before they reached the domestic eye; for there was a chronic feud between Dora and Colman, and the attempts of the latter to make the child more like a young lady were passionately repelled, though she would better endure those of a rough little under-housemaid, whose civilisation was, I suppose, not quite so far removed from her own.

On Sunday, she and Harold disappeared as soon as breakfast was over, and only Eustace remained, spruce beyond all imagination, and giving himself childlike credit for not being with them; but when at church I can’t say much for his behaviour.  He stared unblushingly, whispered remarks and inquiries, could not find the places in his book, and appeared incapable of kneeling.  Our little church at Arghouse was then a chapelry, with merely Sunday morning service by a curate from Mycening, and the congregation a village one, to the disgust of Eustace, who had expected to review his neighbours, and thought his get-up thrown away.

“No one at all to see,” he observed with discontent over our luncheon, Harold and Dora having returned from roaming over Kalydon Moor.

“I go to afternoon service at Mycening, Harold,” I said.  “Will not you come with me?”

“There will be somebody there?” asked Eustace; to which I replied in the affirmative, but with some protest against his view of the object, and inviting the others again, but Dora defiantly answered that Harold was going to swing her on the ash tree.

“You ought to appear at church, Harry,” said Eustace.  “It is expected of an English squire.  You see everybody, and everybody sees you.”

“Well, then, go,” said Harold.

“And won’t you?” I entreated.

“I’ve promised to swing Dora,” he answered, strolling out of the room, much to my concern; and though Eustace did accompany me, it was so evidently for the sake of staring that there was little comfort in that; and it was only by very severe looks that I could keep him from asking everyone’s name.  I hoped to make every one understand that he was not the squire, but no one came across us as we went out of church, and I had to reply to his torrent of inquiries all the way home.

It was a wet evening, and we all stayed in the house.  Harold brought in one of his political economy studies from the library, and I tried to wile Dora to look at the pictures in a curious big old Dutch Scripture history, the Sunday delight of our youth.

Eustace came too, as if he wanted the amusement and yet was ashamed to take it, when he exclaimed, “I say, Harry; isn’t this the book father used to tell us about ­that they used to look over?”

Harold came, and stood towering above us with his hands in his pockets; but when we came to the Temptation of Eve, Dora broke out into an exclamation that excited my curiosity too much not to be pursued, though it was hardly edifying.

“Was that such a snake as Harold killed?”

“I have killed a good many snakes,” he answered.

“Yes, but I meant the ones you killed when you were a little tiny boy.”

“I don’t remember,” he said, as if to stop the subject, hating, as he always did, to talk about himself.

“No, I know you don’t,” said Dora; “but it is quite true, isn’t it, Eustace?”

“Hardly true that Harold ever was a little tiny boy,” I could not help saying.

“No, he never was little,” said Eustace.  “But it is quite true about the snakes.  I seem to remember it now, and I’ve often heard my mother and my Aunt Alice tell of it.  It was at the first place where we were in New South Wales.  I came running out screaming, I believe ­I was old enough to know the danger ­and when they went in there was Harry sitting on the floor, holding a snake tight by the neck and enjoying its contortions like a new toy.”

“Of course,” said Harold, “if it were poisonous, which I doubt, the danger would have been when I let go.  My mother quietly bade me hold him tight, which I suppose I had just sense enough to do, and in another moment she had snatched up the bill-hook they had been cutting wood with, and had his head off.  She had the pluck.”

I could but gasp with horror, and ask how old he was.  About two!  That was clear to their minds from the place where it happened which Harold could not recollect, though Eustace could.

“But, Harold, you surely are the eldest,” I said.

“Oh no; I am six months the eldest,” said Eustace, proud of his advantage.

We were to hear more of that by-and-by.

Monday afternoon brought Mr. Prosser, who was closeted with Harold, while Eustace and I devoted our faculties to pacifying Dora under her exclusion, and preventing her from climbing up to the window-sill to gaze into the library from without.  She scorned submission to either of us, so Eustace kept guard by lying on the grass below, and I coaxed her by gathering primroses, sowing seeds, and using all inducements I could think of, but my resources were nearly exhausted when Harold’s head appeared at the window, and he called, “Eustace!  Lucy! here!”

We came at once, Dora before us.

“Come in,” said Harold, admitting us at the glass door.  “It is all a mistake.  I am not the man.  It is Eustace.  Eu, I wish you joy, old chap ­”

Mr. Prosser was at the table with a great will lying spread out on it.  “I am afraid Mr. Alison is right, Miss Alison,” he said.  “The property is bequeathed to the eldest of the late Mr. Alison’s grandsons born here, not specifying by which father.  If I had copied the terms of the will I might have prevented disappointment, but I had no conception of what he tells me.”

“But Ambrose was Harold’s father,” I exclaimed in bewilderment, “and he was the eldest.”

“The seniority was not considered as certain,” said Mr. Prosser, “and therefore the late Mr. Alison left the property to the eldest child born at home.  ‘Let us at least have an English-born heir,’ I remember he said to me.”

“And that is just what I am not,” said Harold.

“I cannot understand!  I have heard Miss Woolmer talk of poor Ambrose’s beautiful child, several months older than Eustace’s, and his name was Harold.”

“Yes,” said Harold, “but that one died on the voyage out, an hour or two before I was born.  He was Harold Stanislas.  I have no second name.”

“And I always was the eldest,” reiterated Eustace, hardly yet understanding what it involved.

All the needful documents had been preserved and brought home.  There was the extract from the captain’s log recording the burial at sea of Harold Stanislas Alison, aged fifteen months, and the certificate of baptism by a colonial clergyman of Harold, son of Ambrose and Alice Alison, while Eustace was entered in the Northchester register, having been born in lodgings, as Mr. Prosser well recollected, while his poor young father lay under sentence of death.

It burst on him at last.  “Do you mean that I have got it, and not you?”

“That’s about it,” said Harold.  “Never mind, Eu, it will all come to the same thing in the end.”

“You have none of it!”

“Not an acre.  It all goes together; but don’t look at me in that way.  There’s Boola Boola, you know.”

“You’re not going back there to leave me?” exclaimed Eustace, with a real sound of dismay, laying hold of his arm.

“Not just yet, at any rate,” said Harold.

“No, no; nor at all,” reiterated Eustace, and then, satisfied by the absence of contradiction, which did, in fact, mean a good deal from the silent Harold, he began to discover his own accession of dignity.  “Then it all belongs to me.  I am master.  I am squire ­Eustace Alison, Esquire, of Arghouse.  How well it sounds.  Doesn’t it, Harry, doesn’t it, Lucy?  Uncle Smith always said I was the one cut out for high life.  Besides, I’ve been presented, and have been to a ball at Government House.”

I saw that Mr. Prosser was a little overcome with amusement, and I wanted to make my retreat and carry off Dora, but she had perched on her favourite post ­Harold’s knee ­and I was also needed to witness Eustace’s signatures, as well as on some matters connected with my own property.  So I stayed, and saw that he did indeed seem lost without his cousin’s help.  Neither knew anything about business of this kind, but Harold readily understood what made Eustace so confused, that he was quite helpless without Harold’s explanations, and rather rough directions what he was to do.  How like themselves their writing was!  Eustace’s neat and clerkly, but weak and illegible; and Harold’s as distinct, and almost as large, as a schoolboy’s copy, but with square-turned joints and strength of limb unlike any boy’s writing.

The dressing-bell broke up the council, and Harold snatched up his hat to rush out and stretch his legs, but I could not help detaining him to say: 

“Oh, Harry, I am so sorry!”

“Why?” he said.

“What does it leave you, Harry?”

“Half the capital stock farm, twelve thousand sheep, and a tidy sum in the Sydney bank,” said Harold readily.

“Then I am afraid we shall lose you.”

“That depends.  I shall set Eustace in the way of doing what our fathers meant; and there’s Prometesky ­I shall not go till I have done his business.”

I hardly knew what this meant, and could not keep Harold, whose long legs were eager for a rush in the fresh air; and the next person I met was Eustace.

“Aunt Lucy,” he said, “that old fellow says you are going away.  You can’t be?”

I answered, truly enough, that I had not thought what to do, and he persisted that I had promised to stay.

“But that was with Harry,” I said.

“I don’t see why you should not stay as much with me,” he said.  “I’m your nephew all the same, and Dora is your niece; and she must be made a proper sister for me, who have been, &c.”

I don’t know that this form of invitation was exactly the thing that would have kept me; but I had a general feeling that to leave these young men and my old home would be utter banishment, that there was nothing I so cared for as seeing how they got on, and that it was worth anything to me to be wanted anywhere and by anyone; so I gave Eustace to understand that I meant to stay.  I rather wished Harold to have pressed me; but I believe the dear good fellow honestly thought everyone must prefer Eustace to himself; and it was good to see the pat he gave his cousin’s shoulder when that young gentleman, nothing loath, exultingly settled down in the master’s place.

Before long I found out what Harold meant about Prometesky’s business; for we had scarcely begun dinner before he began to consult Mr. Prosser about the ways and means of obtaining a pardon for Prometesky.  This considerably startled Mr. Prosser.  Some cabinets, he said, were very lenient to past political offences, but Prometesky seemed to him to have exceeded all bounds of mercy.

“You never knew the true facts, then?” said Harold.

“I know the facts that satisfied the jury.”

“You never saw my father’s statement?”

No, Mr. Prosser had been elsewhere, and had not been employed in my brother’s trial; he had only inherited the connection with our family affairs when the matter had passed into comparative oblivion.

My brothers had never ceased to affirm that he had only started for the farm that had been Lewthwayte’s on hearing that an attack was to be made on it, in hopes of preventing it, and that the witness, borne against him on the trial by a fellow who had turned king’s evidence, had been false; but they had been unheeded, or rather Prometesky was regarded as the most truly mischievous of all, as perhaps he really had been, since he had certainly drawn them into the affair, and his life had barely been saved in consideration of his having rescued a child from the fire at great personal peril.

Ambrose had written again and again about him to my father, but as soon as the name occurred the letter had been torn up.  On their liberation from actual servitude they had sent up their statement to the Government of New South Wales; but in the meantime Prometesky had fared much worse than they had.  They had been placed in hands where their education, superiority, and good conduct had gained them trust and respect, and they had quickly obtained a remission of the severer part of their sentence and become their own masters; indeed, if Ambrose had lived, he would soon have risen to eminence in the colony.  But Prometesky had fallen to the lot of a harsh, rude master, who hated him as a foreigner, and treated him in a manner that roused the proud spirit of the noble.  The master had sworn that the convict had threatened his life, and years of working in chains on the roads had been the consequence.

It was no time for entertaining a petition on his account, and before the expiration of this additional sentence Ambrose was dead.

By that time Eustace, now a rich and prosperous man, would gladly have taken his old tutor to his home, but Prometesky was still too proud, and all that he would do was to build a little hut under a rock on the Boola Boola grounds, where he lived upon the proceeds of such joiner’s and watchmaker’s work as was needed by the settlers on a large area, when things were much rougher than even when my nephews came home.  No one cared for education enough to make his gifts available in that direction, except as concerned Harold, who had, in fact, learnt of him almost all he knew in an irregular, voluntary sort of fashion, and who loved him heartily.

His health was failing now, and to bring him home was one of Harold’s prime objects, since London advice might yet restore him.  Harold had made one attempt in his cause at Sydney, sending in a copy of his father’s dying statement, also signed by his uncle; but though he was told that it had been received, he had no encouragement to hope it would be forwarded, and had been told that to apply direct to the Secretary of State, backed by persons from our own neighbourhood, would be the best chance, and on this he consulted Mr. Prosser, but without meeting much sympathy.  Mr. Prosser said many people’s minds had changed with regard to English or Irish demagogues, and that the Alison Brothers themselves might very probably have been pardoned, but everyone was tired of Poles, and popular tradition viewed Prometesky as the ogre of the past.  Mr. Prosser did not seem as if he would even very willingly assist in the drawing up in due form a petition in the Pole’s favour, and declared that without some influential person to introduce it, it would be perfectly useless.

Eustace turned round with, “There, you see, Harold, nothing can be done.”

“I do not see that,” said Harold, in his quiet way.

“You do not mean to do anything?”

“Yes, I do.”

“But what ­what?  What can you do?”

“I do not yet know.”

“You see it is of no use.  We shall only get into a scrape with all the gentlemen of the county.”

“Never mind now, Eustace,” said Harold, briefly.  But I knew the expression of his face by this time quite well enough to be certain that nothing would make him abandon the cause of his father’s old friend; and that his silence was full of the strongest determination.  I think it fascinated me, and though in my cooler senses I reverted to my old notion of Prometesky as a dangerous firebrand, I could not help feeling for and with the youth whose soul was set on delivering his friend from exile.

My turn came the next morning, before Mr. Prosser went away.  He had much to say against my making Arghouse my home, telling me that I had a full independence and could live where I pleased; but that I knew already, and had decided on the amount I ought to pay towards the housekeeping.

Then he wanted me to understand how the young men were looked upon, and the dread all the neighbourhood had of them.  I said I had shared this dread, but on better acquaintance I found it quite undeserved, and this being the case it was incumbent on their only relation to stand by them, and not shun them as if they had brought the leprosy.

This he allowed, calling it a generous feeling, if they were worthy of it.  But what greatly amazed me was his rejoicing that Eustace had proved to be the heir, since nothing was known against him, and when the other young man was gone there was hope that any little distrusts might be allayed, and that he might ultimately take his place in the county.

The other young man!  Why should there be any distrust of Harold?  I grew hot and indignant, and insisted on knowing what was meant; but Mr. Prosser declared that he knew nothing, only there were vague reports which made him rejoice that Mr. Harold Alison was not called to be the manager of the property, and would make him question whether a young lady would find it expedient to be long an inmate of the same house.

What reports could he mean?  No ­I could get no more out of him; he was too cautious to commit himself, and seemed to be satisfied by observing that if I changed my mind, I could at any time leave my nephews.

“Her nephews,” I heard him mutter to himself; “yes, her nephews.  No one has any right to object, and she can but judge for herself ­there’s no harm done.”

I shall always believe, however, that he set on my friends to remonstrate, for letters began coming in, in all the senses of the imperative mood, commanding and entreating me to leave Arghouse.  There was one such as only Lord Erymanth could write.  He was an old man, and never could make short work of anything.  They say that his chief political value was to be set on when anyone was wanted to speak against time.  I know he was very dreadful at all the platforms in the county; but he was very good and conscientious, and everyone looked up to him as a sort of father of the country.

But oh! that letter!  Such a battery of heavy arguments against my unprecedented step in taking up my residence with these unfortunate young men, who, though they had not themselves openly transgressed the law of the land, yet were the offspring of unhallowed unions with the children of a felon.  I cannot go through it all, but it hinted that besides their origin, there was some terrible stain on Harold, and that society could not admit them; so that if I persisted in casting in my lot with them, I should share the ban.  Indeed, he would have thought my own good sense and love of decorum would have taught me that the abode of two such youths would be no fit place for the daughter of such respected parents, and there was a good deal more that I could not understand about interceding with his sister, and her overlooking my offence in consideration of my inexperience and impulsiveness.

On my first impulse I wrote to thank my old friend, but to say I could see no harm in an aunt’s being with her nephews, and that I was sure he had only to know them to lay aside all doubts of their being thorough gentlemen and associates for anybody.  My little niece required my care, and I should stay and give it to her till some other arrangement was made.  If Lady Diana were displeased with me, I was very sorry, but I could see no reason for it.

When I looked over the old Earl’s letter, before closing mine, some expressions wound out of the mist that made me uncomfortable, especially when I recollected that though it was a week since their arrival, no one had attempted to call but Mr. Crosse, the vicar of Mycening, a very “good man in the pulpit,” as the servants said, and active in the parish, but underbred and no companion.

Our neighbourhood was what is called very clannish.  There were two families, the Horsmans and the Stympsons, who seemed to make up all the society.  The sons either had the good livings, or had retired from their professions into cottages round and about, and the first question after any party was, how many of each.  The outsiders, not decidedly of inferior rank, were almost driven into making a little clique ­if so it might be called ­of their own, and hanging together the more closely.  Lord Erymanth of course predominated; but he was a widower of many years’ standing, and his heir lived in a distant county.  His sister, Lady Diana, had been married to an Irish Mr. Tracy, who had been murdered after a few years by his tenants, upon which she had come with her three children to live at Arked House.  I never could guess how she came to marry an Irish landlord, and I always thought she must have exasperated his people.  She was viewed as the perfection of a Lady Bountiful and pattern of excellence; but, I confess, that I always thought of her when I heard of the devout and honourable women who were stirred up against St. Paul.  She was a person who was admired more than she was liked, and who was greatly praised and honoured, but somehow did not proportionably endear herself on closer acquaintance, doing a great deal of good, but all to large masses rather than individuals.  However, all the neighbourhood had a pride in her, and it was a distinction to be considered a fit companion for Diana and Viola Tracy.  I never cared for Di, who was her mother over again, and used to set us to rights with all her might; but she had married early, a very rich man ­and Viola and I had always been exceedingly fond of one another, so that I could not bear to be cut off from her, however I might be disposed to defy her mother.

The upshot of my perplexities was that I set off to Mycening to lay them before Miss Woolmer, another of the few belonging to neither clan, to know what all this meant, as well as to be interested in my nephews.

Mycening is one of the prettiest country towns I know, at least it was twenty years ago.  There is a very wide street, unpaved, but with a broad smooth gravelled way, slightly sloping down towards the little clean stone-edged gutters that border the carriage road along the centre, which is planted on each side with limes cut into arches.  The houses are of all sorts, some old timbered gable-ended ones with projecting upper stories, like our own, others of the handsome old Queen Anne type with big sash windows, and others quite modern.  Some have their gardens in front, some stand flush with the road, and the better sort are mixed with the shops and cottages.

Miss Woolmer lived in a tiny low one, close to the road, where, from her upstairs floor, she saw all that came and went, and, intellectual woman as she certainly was, she thoroughly enjoyed watching her neighbours, as by judiciously-arranged looking-glasses, she could do all up and down the street.  I believe she had been a pretty woman, though on a small scale, and now she had bright eyes, and a very sweet bright look, though in complexion she had faded into the worn pallor that belongs to permanent ill health.  She dressed nicely, and if she had been well, might, at her age, scarcely above forty, have been as much a young lady as Philippa Horsman; but I fancy the great crush of her life had taken away her girlhood and left her no spring of constitution to resist illness, so that she had sunk into a regular crippled invalid before I could remember, though her mind was full of activity.

“You are come to tell me about them, my dear,” was her greeting.  “I’ve seen them.  No, I don’t mean that they have been to see me.  You’ll bring them some day, won’t you?  I’m sure Ambrose’s boy would come to see a sick woman.  I watched one of them yesterday pick up old Molly’s oranges for her in the street, when her basket got upset by a cart, and he then paid her for them, and gave them among the children round.  It did my heart good, I’d not seen such a sight since the boys were sent away.”

“Harold would do anything kind,” I said, “or to see an old friend of his father.  The worst of it is that there seem to be so few who wish to see him, or can even forgive me for staying with him.”

I showed her Lord Erymanth’s letter, and told her of the others, asking her what it meant.  “Oh, as to Lady Diana,” she said, “there is no doubt about that.  She was greatly offended at your having sent away her carriage and not having taken her advice, and she goes about saying she is disappointed in you.”

For my mother’s sake, and my little Viola, and Auld Lang Syne besides, I was much hurt, and defended myself in a tone of pique which made Miss Woolmer smile and say she was far from blaming me, but that she thought I ought to count the cost of my remaining at Arghouse.  And then she told me that the whole county was up in arms against the new comers, not only from old association of their name with revolutionary notions, but because the old Miss Stympsons, of Lake Side, who had connections in New South Wales, had set it abroad that the poor boys were ruffians, companions of the double-dyed villain Prometesky, and that Harold in especial was a marked man, who had caused the death of his own wife in a frenzy of intoxication.

At this I fairly laughed.  Harold, at his age, who never touched liquor, and had lived a sort of hermit life in the Bush, to be saddled with a wife only to have destroyed her!  The story contradicted itself by its own absurdity; and those two Miss Stympsons were well-known scandal-mongers.  Miss Woolmer never believed a story of theirs without sifting, but she had been in a manner commissioned to let me know that society was determined not to accept Eustace and Harold Alison, and was irate at my doing so.  Mothers declared that they should be very sorry to give poor Lucy Alison up, but that they could not have their children brought into contact with young men little better than convicts, and whom they would, besides, call my cousins, instead of my nephews.  “I began to suspect it,” I said, “when nobody left cards but Mr. Lawless and Peter Parsons.”

“And that is the society they are to be left to?”

“But I shall not leave them,” I cried.  “Why should I, to please Miss Stympson and Lord Erymanth?  I shall stand by my own brothers’ sons against all the world.”

“And if they be worthy, Lucy, your doing so is the best chance of their weathering the storm.  See! is not that one of them?  The grand-looking giant one, who moves like a king of men.  He is Ambrose’s son, is he not?  What a pity he is not the squire!”

Harold was, in effect, issuing from the toy-shop, carrying an immense kite on his arm, like a shield, while Dora frisked round in admiration, and a train of humbler admirers flocked in the rear.

I hurried down into the street to tell Harold of my old friend’s wish to see them, and he followed me at once, with that manner which was not courtesy, because, without being polished, it was so much more.  Dora was much displeased, being ardent on the kite’s tail, and followed with sullen looks, while Harold had to stoop low to get into the room, and brushed the low ceiling with his curly hair as he stood upright, Miss Woolmer gazing up to the very top of him.  I think she was rather disappointed that he had not taken more after his father; and she told him that he was like his uncle Lewthwayte, looking keenly to see whether he shrunk from the comparison to a man who had died a felon’s death; but he merely answered, “So I have been told.”

Then she asked for his mother, and he briefly replied that she was well and in New Zealand.  There was an attempt at noticing Dora, to which she responded like the wild opossum that she was, and her fidgeting carried the day.  Harold only made answer to one or two more observations, and then could not but take leave, promising on the entreaty of the old lady, to come and see her again.  I outstayed them, being curious to hear her opinion.

“A superb being,” she said, with a long breath; “there’s the easy strength of a Greek demi-god in every tread.”

“He seems to me more like Thor in Nifelheim,” I said, “being, no doubt, half a Viking to begin with.”

“They are all the same, as people tell us now,” she said, smiling.  “Any way, he looks as if he was a waif from the heroic age.  But, my dear, did not I hear him call you Lucy?”

“They generally do.”

“I would not let them.  Cling to your auntship; it explains your being with them.  A grand creature!  I feel like the people who had had a visit from the gods of old.”

“And you understand how impossible it would be to run away,” I said.

She smiled, but added, “Lucy, my dear, that looked very like a wedding-ring!”

I could not think it possible.  Why, he was scarcely five-and-twenty!  And yet the suggestion haunted me, whenever my eyes fell on his countenance in repose, and noted the habitual sadness of expression which certainly did not match with the fine open face that seemed fitted to express the joy of strength.  It came on me too when, at the lodge, a child who had been left alone too long and had fallen into an unmitigated agony of screaming, Harry had actually, instead of fleeing from the sound, gone in, taken the screamer in his arms, and so hushed and pacified it, that on the mother’s return she found it at perfect rest.

“One would think the gentleman was a father himself, ma’am,” she had said to me; and thereupon Harold had coloured, and turned hastily aside, so that the woman fancied she had offended him and apologised, so that he had been forced to look back again and say, “Never mind,” and “No harm done,” with a half laugh, which, as it now struck me, had a ring of pain in it, and was not merely the laugh of a shy young man under an impossible imputation.  True, I knew he was not a religious man, but to believe actual ill of him seemed to me impossible.

He had set himself to survey the Arghouse estate, so as to see how those dying wishes of his father could best be carried out, and he was making himself thoroughly acquainted with every man, woman, child, and building, to the intense jealousy of Bullock, who had been agent all through my mother’s time, and had it all his own way.  He could not think why “Mr. Harold” should be always hovering about the farms and cottages, sometimes using his own ready colonial hand to repair deficiencies, and sometimes his purse, and making the people take fancies into their heads that were never there before, and which would make Mr. Alison lose hundreds a year if they were attended to.  And as Mr. Alison always did attend to his cousin, and gave orders accordingly, the much-aggrieved Bullock had no choice but in delaying their execution and demonstrating their impracticability, whereas, of course, Harold did not believe in impossibilities.

It was quite true, as he had once said, that though he could not bring about improvements as readily as if he had been landlord, yet he could get at the people much better, and learn their own point of view of what was good for them.  They were beginning to idolise him; for, indeed, there was a fascination about him which no one could resist.  I sometimes wondered what it was, considering that he was so slow of speech, and had so little sunshine of mirth about him.

I never did enforce my title of Aunt, in spite of Miss Woolmer’s advice.  It sounded too ridiculous, and would have hindered the sisterly feeling that held us together.

Eustace was restless and vexed at not being called upon, and anxious to show himself on any occasion, and I was almost equally anxious to keep him back, out of reach of mortification.  Both he and Harold went to London on business, leaving Dora with me.  The charge was less severe than I expected.  My first attempts at teaching her had been frustrated by her scorn of me, and by Harold’s baffling indulgence; but one day, when they had been visiting one of the farms, the children had been made to exhibit their acquirements, which were quite sufficient to manifest Dora’s ignorance.  Eustace had long declared that if she would not learn of me she must either have a governess or go to school, and I knew she was fit for neither.  Harold, I believe, now enforced the threat, and when he went away, left her a black silk necktie to be hemmed for him, and a toy book with flaming illustrations, with an assurance that on her reading it to him on his return, depended his giving her a toy steam-engine.

Dora knew that Harold kept his word, even with her.  I think she had a great mind to get no one’s assistance but the kitchenmaid’s, but this friendship was abruptly terminated by Dora’s arraying the kangaroo in Sarah’s best bonnet and cloak, and launching it upon a stolen interview between her and her sweetheart.  The screams brought all the house together, and, as the hero was an undesirable party who had been forbidden the house, Sarah viewed it as treachery on Miss Dora’s part, and sulked enough to alienate her.

Dora could make out more to herself in a book than she could read aloud, and one day I saw her spelling over the table of degrees of marriage in a great folio Prayer-Book, which she had taken down in quest of pictures.  Some time later in the day, she said, “Lucy, are you Harry’s father’s sister?” and when I said yes, she added, with a look of discovery, “A man cannot marry his father’s sister.”

It was no time to protest against the marriage of first cousins.  I was glad enough that from that time the strange child laid aside her jealousy of me; and that thenceforth her resistance was simply the repugnance of a wild creature to be taught and tamed.  Ultimately she let me into the recesses of that passionate heart, and, as I think, loved me better than anybody else, except Harold; but even so, at an infinite distance from that which seemed the chief part of her whole being.