“Then what makes you look so glum?”
“I was thinking about the convicts.”
“And a very unpleasant subject too, Nic. Don’t think about them, boy. They used to make me ill when I first went out yonder. It seemed so horrible to have them mixed up so with one’s daily life.”
“Yes, that’s it,” cried Nic; “that’s what I’ve been thinking. I suppose father will have some at his station?”
“Not a doubt about it.”
“Well, it seems so shocking, and—and unsafe.”
“Not a bit of it, my boy. That’s just what I used to think, but I don’t now.”
“But I shall never get hardened to it, Lady O’Hara.”
“Sure, I hope not, Nic. I don’t like hardened people. You think by my words that I’m hardened to it. There, don’t turn red, boy. I can read what you thought. I’m as soft as you. Sure, I wept all night when that poor boy died over there, and kept crying out for his mother when he was delirious; and it was no use to say to myself, he should have thought more of his mother and her teachings when he grew wasteful and dissipated and stole his master’s money, for I couldn’t help thinking that he was back in the old days and felt in trouble, and called for his mother; and who should a boy call to but his mother at a time like that?”
Nic sadly thought of how little he had seen of his, and the governor’s wife went on.