was a small Bible and a packet of letters--and portraits, maybe.

"Now, missus," he said, "you mustn't think me soft, and I'm neither
a religious man nor a hypocrite. But that Bible was given to me by my
mother, and her hand-writing is in it, so I couldn't chuck it away.
Some of the letters are hers and some--someone else's. You can read
them if you like. Now, I want you to take care of them for me and dry
them if they are a little damp. If I get clear I'll send for them
some day, and, if I don't--well, I don't want them to be taken with
me. I don't want the police to know who I was, and what I was, and
who my relatives are and where they are. You wouldn't have known, if
you do know now, only your husband knew me on the diggings, and
happened to be in the court when I got off on that first
cattle-stealing charge, and recognized me again to-night. I can't
thank you enough, but I want you to remember that I'll never forget.
Even if I'm taken and have to serve my time I'll never forget it, and
I'll live to prove it."

"We--we don't want no thanks, an' we don't want no proofs," said the
bushwoman, her voice breaking.

The sister, her eyes suspiciously bright, took up the packet in her
sharp, practical way, and put it in a work-box she had in the kitchen.

The settler brought the young fellow out dressed in his own clothes.
The elder shook hands quietly all round, or, rather, they shook hands
with him. "Now, Jack!" he said. They had fastened an oilskin cape
round Jack's shoulders.

Jack came forward and shook hands with a nervous grip that he seemed