“I am not surprised,” said the doctor drily.
“But, father—” began Nic.
“Not to-night, my boy. I know what you are going to say. This man was rather a favourite of yours. Now, what other troubles?”
“None, father.”
“That’s good. Then you’ve done well, boy. But I was very anxious to get back, for there has been a serious rising among the convicts, and two parties have escaped to the bush. I was afraid you might be having a visitation.”
“They’re taken by this time, Braydon, depend upon it,” said Sir John. “My people will not rest till they are. There, I’m tired out. You’ll excuse me to-night?”
“I beg your pardon, O’Hara,” said the doctor. “Yes, bed for us too. Good night, Nic. To-morrow you will have to render me an account of your stewardship.”
Nic sought his bed that night with mingled feelings of pleasure and pain.
It was delightful to feel the warm grip of his father’s hand again, and to see Lady O’Hara’s merry, cheery face; but, on the other hand, after being captain of the station so long, there was a slight suspicion of regret at having to give up his independent position; and then there was the trouble about the convict. His father said he would go and see Mr Dillon, and there was what the magistrate would say about him. Then his conscience smote him for that which was a lapse of duty. He had made so great an intimate of Leather, and he felt as if he had been helping him to defy the law. Sir John O’Hara was sleeping under their roof now, and he was governor, judge—a regular viceroy in the colony. What would he say?
Above all, what would the doctor do?