Five years have to pass by ere we meet the characters in this story again. Five years, with their many changes and strange vicissitudes. Old Time rolls on like a river, that flows, heedless of what it bears on its bosom, to the great sea—heedless of the wreckage that strews its banks—heedless of all that lies lost in the depths of its weed-tangled bed. Old Time rolls on, and bears its human freight nearer and nearer to the last haven. They are a strange and motley group, whose ends destiny shapes during the years that elapse ere the curtain rises again on the little life drama that you and I, gentle reader, are waiting to see played out. In one of Her Majesty’s prisons a young man—a felon, with the bearing of a gentleman and the garb of a convict—counts the years as they go by and wonders what justice there can be in heaven that a cruel fate should raise this bar of shame between him and the young wife he loves. Up in the great city a woman toils wearily night and day, for a scant wage, to keep the wolf at bay, toiling for bare subsistence, and weeping over her work, when she thinks of the past that was happy, and of the fearful blow that dashed the cup of joy from her lips for ever. Only in her sleep sometimes she looks up, and the skies are bright, and a loving arm encircles her waist, and a musical voice whispers in her ear. ‘Bess, my darling, ’tis I—George!’ Out in Australia a burly grey-haired man keeps a low drink store, and upholds the reputation of the old country for thoroughpaced blackguardism. ‘Bully Heckett’ his customers call him, and his customers are as nice and select a lot as he could possibly wish to have, and they find him remarkably useful in more ways than one. He talks about going back to England ‘some day,’ and his customers say, ‘When the coast’s a bit clearer, eh, Bully?’ and laugh. Among the Surrey hills there is a beautiful mansion, and there the new Squire Heritage and his lady pass their days in peace and contentment. Nothing has come to mar their happiness. Ruth’s greatest trouble was the death of her father. He died thanking God that his Ruth had found so good a husband and his old wife so kind and gentle a son. No children have blessed the union yet, but there is a young lady who lives with them, and who is their adopted daughter And there isn’t a prettier little lady for miles round, or one more beloved by the people on the estate and the villagers than ‘Miss Gertie up at the hall,’ as they call her. Gertie and Ruth attended by a faithful mastiff dog, who follows closely at their heels, and is almost as great a favourite as Gertie, are to be seen out on all the fine days, going hither and thither among the people and spreading happiness wherever their two kind faces are seen.