Well, this has been a thundering long yarn, hasn’t it? All my whole life I seem to have lived over again. It didn’t take so long in the telling; it’s a month today since I began. And this life itself has reeled away so quick, it hardly seems a dozen years instead of seven-and-twenty since it began. It won’t last much longer. Another week and it will be over. There’s a fellow to be strung up before me, for murdering his wife. The scoundrel, I wonder how he feels?

I’ve had visitors, too; some I never thought to see inside this gaol wall. One day who should come in but Mr. Falkland and his daughter. There was a young gentleman with them that they told me was an English lord, a baronet, or something of that sort, and was to be married to Miss Falkland. She stood and looked at me with her big innocent eyes, so pitiful and kind-like. I could have thrown myself down at her feet. Mr. Falkland talked away, and asked me about this and that. He seemed greatly interested. When I told him about the last fight, and of poor Jim being shot dead, and Starlight dying alongside the old horse, the tears came into Miss Falkland’s eyes, and she cried a bit, quite feeling and natural.

Mr. Falkland asked me all about the robbery at Mr. Knightley’s, and took down a lot of things in his pocket-book. I wondered what he did that for.

When they said good-bye Mr. Falkland shook hands with me, and said “he hoped to be able to do some good for me, but not to build anything on the strength of it.”

Then Miss Falkland came forward and held out her beautiful hand to me—to me, as sure as you live—like a regular thoroughbred angel, as she always was. It very nigh cooked me. I felt so queer and strange. I couldn’t have spoken a word to save my life.

Sir George, or whatever his name was, didn’t seem to fancy it over much, for he said—

“You colonists are strange people. Our friend here may think himself highly favoured.”

Miss Falkland turned towards him and held up her head, looking like a queen, as she was, and says she—

“If you had met me in the last place where I saw this man and his brother, you would not wonder at my avowing my gratitude to both of them. I should despise myself if I did not. Poor Jim saved my life on one occasion, and on another, but far more dreadful day, he—but words, mere words, can never express my deep thankfulness for his noble conduct, and were he here now I would tell him so, and give him my hand, if all the world stood by.”