as we all were told. Your true Christian name's Mary. But, Una, you
were always Una to all of us in England; and though the real Una
Callingham died when you were a little girl of three or four years
old, you'll be Una always now to Elsie and me. We can't think of you
as other than we've always called you."

Then he went on to explain to me how the stranger had landed in
London, alone and friendless, twenty years later, from a passing
Australian merchant vessel which had picked him up on the island.
All those years he had waited, and fed himself on eggs of penguins.
He landed by himself, the crew having given him a suit of old
clothes, and subscribed to find him in immediate necessaries. He
began to inquire cautiously in London about his wife and family. At
first, he could learn little or nothing; for nobody remembered him,
and he feared to ask too openly, a sort of Enoch Arden terror
restraining him from proclaiming his personality till he knew
exactly what had happened in his long absence. But bit by bit, he
found out at last that his wife had married again, and was now long
dead: and that the man she had married was Vivian Callingham, his
own treacherous companion on the Crozet Islands. As soon as he
learned that, the full depth of the man's guilt burst upon him like
a thunderbolt. Richard Wharton understood now why Vivian Callingham
had left him alone on those desert rocks, and sailed away in the
ship without telling the captain of his fellow-castaway's plight. He
saw the whole vile plot the man had concocted at once, and the steps
he had taken to carry it into execution.

Vivian Callingham, whom I falsely thought my father, had gone back
to Australia with pretended news of Richard Wharton's death. He had
sought my widowed mother in her own home up country, and told her a