"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