probably mere guesswork; even if it were not, my departure would strengthen the chances of Ellen's safety. Before I left there was still a neglected duty to perform--to inform Ellen that I had deceived her as to my real name. She evinced no surprise, and did not reproach me, nor did it shake her faith in me. From the hour we met my dear Ellen has never uttered a word to cause me pain. Humbly do I ask forgiveness for the sorrows I have brought upon her. At length the day of our separation arrived. I had put off my departure to the latest moment, and was to travel by the night train to meet my ship. We sat together in Ellen's humble room, her head on my shoulder, our child in my arms. Though he could not yet speak an intelligible word he had, thank God, learned to love me. What Ellen and I had to say was but a repetition of the fond assurances we had exchanged that we would be true to each other to the last hour of our lives. She was outwardly more cheerful than I; such women as she have a strength of endurance denied to man, whose courage often deserts him at the supreme moment of a moral crisis. Ellen rose to spread the cloth for our last meal together, and it touched me to observe how she had consulted my tastes in what she had placed upon the table. To please her I forced myself to eat, and supper ended, she gave her babe the breast, her eyes shining with tenderness and love. "You must be brave, dear," she said. "You must never lose heart--never for one single moment." "And you, Ellen, you must also be brave." "I am--I shall be; and cheerful, too. If I were to mope, dear, baby would suffer--and that would never do, would it, darling?" I see her now a picture of sweetest motherhood, as she sat crooning to the little fellow, who was drawing life and goodness from nature's fount. In the dark watches of my lonely life the picture rose before me, and I saw the dear woman with her baby at her breast, her tender eyes shining upon me. It taught me patience, and never failed to comfort me. Across the seas a heart was throbbing with love for the wanderer, a mother was whispering to her babe of the absent father; an invisible link stretched from the quiet bush to the fevered city, along which, in hours of unrest, sped the spiritual message: "I am thinking of you. Dear love, dear love, do not lose heart; I am thinking of you." And so we parted. The last words were spoken, the last kiss given. I turned and saw, through tears, Ellen standing at the door, a blessing on her lips, her soul in her eyes. "Farewell, dear heart, farewell!" CHAPTER XXIII. It is not pertinent to my story to dwell at any length upon my Australian experiences. As I am not writing for literary purposes, brief allusion to them will suffice.