Before the expiring of the month from the date of the deception practiced upon me I had put into execution a plan I formed while Maxwell was threatening me. To continue to live in England persecuted by his malignant ingenuity would have been an act of folly; to purchase intervals of peace at the cost of being reduced to beggary in a year or two would have been no less. At all hazards I was determined that some small sum should be secured to Ellen, to shield her and our child from penury, and to this end I made over to her the balance of my fortune, securely invested in Consols, the interest on which she would receive monthly from my solicitor, the principal reverting to her at my death. I take this opportunity of expressing my heartfelt thanks to this gentleman for the faithful manner in which he has carried out my instructions and executed the delicate business I entrusted to him. For my own immediate necessities I took one hundred pounds, which indeed was all that remained after the investment which secured to Ellen one pound a week during my lifetime. It was my desire at first, that she should accompany me to Australia, but my solicitor argued against it; and his arguments were strengthened by a medical opinion that neither the voyage nor the Australian climate would be good for my dear Ellen's health.

In the winding up of this business and the preparations for my departure, I exercised the greatest caution and secrecy, in order that my enemies should have no suspicion of the locality in which it was determined that Ellen should reside. We chose London as offering the greatest security for her, and because she would be within hail of my solicitor, to whom she was to apply for protection in the event of molestation. The knowledge that I had baffled my pursuers was a satisfaction to me, and more than once I put successfully into practice the tactics I adopted when I first discovered I was being watched and followed. With respect to our correspondence I arranged that my letters to Ellen, and Ellen's to me, should be sent under cover to my solicitor, who would forward them to their correct address. It was probable that I should be shifting from place to place in Australia, and Ellen might have occasion to remove. During the month a number of communications from Maxwell reached me through my solicitor. Some contained threats, some invited me to a meeting in which a modification of his terms could be discussed. I did not acknowledge one of these letters, and in the last I received Maxwell wrote: "I have discovered that it is your intention to leave England with Madame Virtue and your precious infant. If you think you will escape me you are mistaken. Go where you will you will be shadowed and not allowed to rest until you come to terms. Be wise in time, dear John." This threat did not alarm me; the discovery he announced was 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!"