"From Mrs. Brent," said Harry; "but I promised her not to tell."
A thought struck Tom.
"Did Mrs. Brent make any clothes or things for you, Harry?" he asked.
"Yes," said Harry. "And, father, she's got an old portrait of you—same's what we've got. I saw her looking at it one day—but I promised not to tell that either."
Just then there was a step outside, and Tom opened the door, and there stood Mrs. Brent, who started, gasped, turned very white, and then flushed in the moonlight.
"Oh!" she gasped, "I—I—didn't know you were home, and—and I just come to see if little Harry was alright."
Tom suddenly stepped forward, took both her hands, and looked into her startled eyes. They stood so for a moment; then, as she felt, or fancied she felt, his hands loosen, she cried out, as though pleading for life.
"Tom—Tom! It happened so long ago, and I'd be a good wife to you; forgive me."
And Tom took her to him.
And, one morning in the New Year, after the washup (and the claim panned out very well), the four of them went away in the coach, and for a long time after the dust cloud disappeared down the road, Mrs. Foster sat staring blindly at the pages of the Australian Journal.
