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."