"I feel as if I must know.

I do like you, Leather--I do really; and it worries me.

I think of it at night when I go to bed, and it makes me wild to hear Brookes talk to you as he does." "Brookes is an honest man, sir; I'm a convict," said Leather bitterly.
"There you are, going back to your old way!" cried Nic; "and it isn't fair, after I've told you I liked you." The convict caught the boy's hand, and his eyes softened again; but he dropped the hand and drew back, sending a pang through Nic, who felt that he must have been guilty of some terrible crime, and they stood looking in each other's eyes for some little time.

Then the boy spoke in a husky whisper--for he said to himself, "Poor chap, he must be very sorry for it now,"-- "What was it you did, Leather ?" "Nothing." "Then why were you sent out here ?" Nic started, and repented having spoken, for the convict drew himself up, with his eyes flashing and his face convulsed by rage, scorn, and indignation.
"Why was I sent out here, boy ?" he raged: "because a jury of my fellow-countrymen said I was guilty, and the judge told me that I deserved the greater punishment because I--a man of education, holding so high and responsible a position, and who ought to have known better-- was worse than a common ignorant thief; and that he must make an example of me, that the world might see how government servants found no favour when they sinned.

He said I had had a fair trial, that my countrymen condemned me, and that he quite agreed with their verdict; and he sentenced me to twenty-one years' transportation,--he might as well have said for life." Nic stood looking at him in pain and misery, and the convict began pacing up and down in the agony evoked by this dragging up of the past.
"I'm sorry I spoke," faltered Nic.
"No, no: I'm glad.