her husband and Ralph Somers; and then
the dreaded doom of transportation for life
awarded to them. As they turned to leave
the dock, Martin looked down upon the
crushed and broken-hearted being whom he
had sworn to protect and cherish through life,
and in spite of every effort to repress it, a cry
of agony burst from his lips; it was answered
by a fainter sound, and Alfred Gray lifted the
helpless, lifeless woman from the ground, and
carried her into the open air.

Months passed; and on the day when the
convict ship, with its freight of heavy hearts,
began its silent course over the great waters,
the widowed wife took her fatherless child by
the hand, and again traversed the weary road
which led them to their desolated home.

The kindness of the Grays had supplied a
few immediate necessaries. Some one had
told her of women having, by the aid of friends,
managed to meet their husbands once more
in those distant parts of the earth; and this
knowledge, once in her agitated mind, raised
a hope which inspired her to pursue her daily
task without fainting, and to watch an
opportunity of making an attempt which she had
meditated, even during that dreadful day of
Martin's trial. She resolved to seek admission
into Sir George Roberts' mansion, and appeal to
the pity of his wife. It was told in the village
that Lady Roberts had implored her husband
to interpose in behalf of the men; that his
angry and passionate refusal had caused a
breach between them; that they had lived
unhappily ever since; that he had strictly
forbidden any one to mention the subject, or to
convey to Lady Roberts any remarks that
were made in the neighbourhood.

Susan Harvey trembled when she entered
the mansion, and timidly asked leave to speak
to Lady Roberts.

The servant she addressed had known her
husband, and pitied her distress; and, fearing
lest Sir George might pass, he led her into
his pantry, watching an opportunity to let the
lady know of her being there.

After a time, Lady Roberts' maid came, and
beckoned her to follow up-stairs. In a few
moments the soft voice of the lady of the
mansion was cheering her with kind words,
and encouraging her to disclose her wishes.

Before she had concluded, a step was heard
without, at which the lady started and turned
pale. Before there was time for retreat Sir
George hastily entered the apartment.

"Who have you here, Lady Roberts?"

"One who has a request to make, I believe,"
said the lady, mildly. "I wish a few moments
with her."

"Have the goodness to walk out of this
house," said the baronet to Susan. "Lady
Roberts, I know this woman, and I will not
allow you to harbour such people here."

Although the convict's wife never again
ventured into that house, her wants, and those
of her child, were, during three years,
ministered to by the secret agency of the Good
Heart that lived so sadly there; and when, at
the expiration of that period, Lady Roberts
died, a trusty messenger brought to the
cottage a little legacy; sufficient, if ever news
came of Martin, to enable the wife and child,
from whom he was separated, to make their
way across the earth, and to meet him again.

But, during those weary years no tidings of
his fate had reached either his wife or Alfred
Gray—to whom he had promised to write
when he reached his destination. Another
year dragged its slow course over the home of
affliction, and poor Susan's hopes grew fainter
day by day. Her sinking frame gave evidence
of the sickness that cometh from the heart.

One summer evening, however, in the next
year, Alfred Gray entered his uncle's garden
with a letter, and was soon seated in the
summer-house reading it aloud to his uncle
and Martha. Tears stood in the old man's
eyes, as some touching detail of suffering or
privation was related. And, indeed, the letter
told of little beside. It was from Martin.
Soon after his arrival in the settlement, Martin
had written to Alfred, but the letter had never
reached England—not an unusual occurrence
in those times. After waiting long, and getting
no reply, he was driven by harsh treatment,
and the degradation attending the life
he led, to attempt, with old Ralph, an escape
from the settlement. In simple language,
he recorded the dreary life they led in the
woods; how, after a time, old Ralph sickened
and died; and how, in a desolate place, where
the footsteps of man had, perhaps, never trod
before, Martin Harvey had dug a grave, and
buried his old companion. After that, unable to
endure the terrible solitude, he had sought his
way back to his former master, and had been
treated more harshly than before. Fever and
disease had wasted his frame, until he had
prayed that he might die and be at rest; but
God had been merciful to him, and had
inclined the heart of one for whom he
laboured, who listened with compassion to his
story, took him under his roof, and restored
him to health. And now, Martin had obtained a
ticket of leave, and served this kind master
for wages, which he was carefully hoarding to
send to Alfred Gray, as soon as he should
hear from him that those he loved were still
preserved, and would come and embrace him
once more in that distant land.

"They shall go at once, Alfred," said old
Mr. Gray, the moment the last sentence was
read; "they shall not wait; we will provide
the means,—hey, Martha?"

He did not now fear to appeal to his
companion. Martha had grown kinder of late,
and she confessed she had learned of her
cousin what gives most comfort to those who
are drawing near their journey's end. "I can
help them a little," she said.

"We will all help a little," Alfred replied.
"I shall be off at break of day to-morrow, on
neighbour Collins's pony, and shall give him
no rest until he sets me down at Uffculme."