'An' why wouldn't I? Do you think I'll allow a great baby like you to go off alone among all those murtherin' ruffians? Yes,' he concluded, with a mock salute, 'with your leave, or without your leave, I'm going with you.' 'But--but----' began George in stammering protest. 'No buts, old fellow. I am going with you,' declared Terence; 'so there is no more to be said.' 'But your prospects?' objected George. 'Oh yes, my prospects. Fine, aren't they? I shall have quite as good a chance of getting on in the world--and a better--by going with you, as I shall by jogging peacefully behind a lot of fat cattle. Besides, we are not going away for ever, I hope; and I know plenty of people who will be only too glad to get me to drive their beasts, no matter how long I may stay away. So say no more about it; the thing is settled.' 'You are a good friend, Terence,' said George, with some emotion, and the two linked arms once more and set off in the direction of Woolloomooloo, where Terence resided when in town. * * * * * * _Midnight!_ The solemn strokes of some big clock in the city boomed over the quiet waters of the bay, and the two soldierly old men who were standing on the little jetty at the foot of the garden at 'Sobraon' turned rather helplessly towards one another. 'We may as well go in, Charles,' said the elder, who was Colonel Haughton's brother-in-law, General Cantor. He will not return to-night, I feel sure.' To himself he added: 'I don't believe he means to return at all, poor lad.' For General Cantor had been to a large extent in his nephew's confidence, and had long ago made up his mind that George would one day end the constant friction by a sudden snapping of home ties. 'I dare say you are right, William,' the colonel answered, too depressed to argue; 'yet he often pulls home across the bay at night. Well, well; I have been a tyrant and a fool. I see that {missing words} pray God not too late.' There was a {missing words} voice, and he turned about to cast one more look over the shimmering sea. 'God bless the boy, wherever he is, whatever he does,' he murmured, and, leaning heavily upon his upright little brother-in-law, went back to the house. There they wished one another good-night rather tremulously; but the colonel set the French-window of his son's room ajar, and with a prayer in his sorrowful heart for the absent lad went thoughtfully to bed. The first streak of morning found him again in George's room, looking eagerly for some sign of his presence. George was not there, but the window had been shut, and a letter lay conspicuously upon a table. The colonel caught it up and tore it open with trembling fingers. A glance gave him a grasp of the contents, and with a bitter cry he flung himself upon his knees by the empty bed and poured out his heart in prayer that no harm might come to the son whom he loved so well and had used so hardly. The letter ran: