“Good! 'Pon honour, that's good! The little vixen!—Half an hour at the triangles! Ha-ha! ha, ha, ha!”
“She is a strange child,” said Vickers, “and talks strangely for her age; but you mustn't mind her. She is neither girl nor woman, you see; and her education has been neglected. Moreover, this gloomy place and its associations—what can you expect from a child bred in a convict settlement?”
“My dear sir,” says the other, “she's delightful! Her innocence of the world is amazing!”
“She must have three or four years at a good finishing school at Sydney. Please God, I will give them to her when we go back—or send her to England if I can. She is a good-hearted girl, but she wants polishing sadly, I'm afraid.”
Just then someone came up the garden path and saluted.
“What is it, Troke?”
“Prisoner given himself up, sir.”
“Which of them?”
“Gabbett. He came back to-night.”
“Alone?” “Yes, sir. The rest have died—he says.”