"And now you are home for good," said the Padre, and his face took a more serious expression, as he sat erect and crumpled his terai hat in his vigorous hands.
"Look here, Gascoigne," he continued with an effort, "I've come to have a good square jaw with you, about something that will be disagreeable, but you know it's the Padre's duty to stand in the forefront, when talking has to be done."
"I know," assented his companion. "I suppose you want me to take back Johnson, the overseer—I honestly would if I could—I'm sorry for his family—I've given him two chances."
"My dear fellow," interrupted the chaplain, stretching out his hand, "it is not that at all. I've come to speak to you about Miss Gascoigne, your ward."
"What about Miss Gascoigne?" inquired her cousin. His manner stiffened, and his voice assumed an Arctic coolness.
"I suppose you know how a station gossips—in the billiard-room, barracks, and bazaar?"
"I suppose I do," he said contemptuously.
"Have you any notion of the talk there has been respecting Miss Gascoigne?"
"Every new-comer has to pass through that ordeal—by tongue," interrupted the other man with a gesture of impatience.
"Please allow me to finish," protested his friend gravely. "Of course you are not likely to hear a breath—no one would venture to tell you; but the air is thick with rumours concerning your cousin and yourself."