ill. Oh! if there was anything in this country that would do you

good, however difficult it might be to be obtained, I would not cease using all my efforts until I had got it for you. If I can find anything at any time which may be new to you, and please your dear, good mind, anything you have not heard of before, what pleasure it will be to me!

"Oh! never can I be dutiful or grateful enough to you for your goodness to me. God preserve you long to be a blessing to your dear family and friends!

"I am ashamed, my dear madam, to send this hasty scribble into your hands, but the ship is about to sail directly, and I am hard pressed for time. I am pleased to think that you got my long list of dried plants and birds. I am sorry the insects were not better fastened in the case; I will attend particularly to your instructions about them for the future. I am living alone, as I was when I last wrote you, and am getting on well, in a very honest and independent way of life. People wonder why I do not marry. I cannot forget my late trials, troubles, and horrors, and I dread forming any acquaintance with any man. I was happy before such notions entered my mind, and I have been comparatively happy since I have had no more notions of the same sort. So I am single and free.

"The cap you have sent me, which you say is a great favourite of yours, I put on last evening, and drank my tea in it, with some tears of reflection. My heart was so full, to think that the work of your own hands, and that which had graced your own head, should cover such an unworthy one as mine, it made me feel humble and sorrowful, as well as joyful and thankful. I must hastily conclude this letter, as the messenger calls for any ship letters for Sydney. May the blessings and thanks of your grateful servant reach your dear heart, from the soul of

"Your ever devoted servant, "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

"J. COBBOLD, ESQ., Cliff, Ipswich."

It is now time that our attention should be recalled to one whose conduct has, we trust, already gained him a place in the reader's esteem, and who after all must be looked upon as the true hero of our simple story. John Barry (now most worthy to have that old English title of Esquire attached to his name, as being the highest which was acknowledged in the settlement, under the governor) had, as the reader will remember, arrived at New South Wales, and settled at Liberty Plains. He was among the earliest free settlers in the land, and was a man of such firmness and steadiness of character, of such integrity and perseverance, that he succeeded far beyond his own most sanguine expectations, and established for himself such a character for probity, sagacity, and general worth, that he was consulted upon all the most interesting concerns of the colony. He it was who suggested to Governor King the first idea of establishing the "Female Orphan Asylum," and proposed attaching one hundred acres of land as a marriage portion for the children. He it was who laid the second stone of St. John's Church, Paramatta. He built the first free-trader that was ever launched from Port Jackson. That he prospered it is needless to declare, because industry and integrity, with activity of mind, intelligence, and sincerity, must prosper in any place. He was a merchant as well as a great corn grower: he was also, as we have before stated, the government contractor for land. He never caballed with any one party against another, for the sake of increasing the price of land, but honestly, in a straight-forward way, stated the price per acre, the quantities that parties might have, and the money expected in a given time. He had sold for the government many thousand acres of the finest tract of land, which bordered upon the river Hawkesbury, and retained a portion for himself at Windsor, by the Green Hills, for which he strictly paid the highest price that was then given for land in that district.

His residence, called Windsor Lodge, was situated on a very commanding spot upon the south bank of the river. At a short distance from the water he had built very large granaries, capable of holding an immense quantity of grain, and this spot became the great corn-mart of the country; the grain was thence transported to the coast, and supplied every port connected with the colony. The Hawkesbury is a noble river, particularly opposite to Windsor Lodge, the house, or rather mansion, of the owner of the Green Hills around. If real worth and talent, if public and private benevolence, with the most expansive views of men and things, together with acts of such virtue and dignity as speak the spirit of true nobility, could be found in any one, they existed in the mind and heart of that youth, who left the shores of old England a simple, single-minded Suffolk farmer's son, to become a man of wealth and goodness in a distant land.

It is true that no chivalric deed of arms signalized his career: he was an enterprising, but a peaceful man; he could boast no long line of ancestry higher or more exalted than himself. His parents were good, honest, and virtuous people, and their son bore the same character, but with the possession of superior information; and may we not, in some measure, trace the origin of all this man's virtues and good qualities to that passion which still, as it was in the olden times, is the parent and prompter of all that is great and noble, all that is gentle; all, in short, that distinguishes man from the brutes that perish? Love dwelt, a pure and holy flame, in the breast of this young man; and change of scene, change of condition, increase of knowledge, of wealth, and of circumstances--in short, circumstances which would have changed almost any other being--changed not him.

It may seem strange to many that Mr. Barry should have been so long a leading man in the colony, and in constant communication with England, and never have heard of the fate of Margaret Catchpole. But when they understand that all notice of her career had been studiously excluded from the correspondence of his friends in England; and, moreover, that convicts of all classes, when they came to Botany Bay, were sent to the northward to be employed on the government stores, and that the Hawkesbury was devoted principally to free labourers and settlers, and that the line of demarcation between convict and free settler was extremely strict, their surprise will in a great degree cease.

Beloved and respected by all, as John Barry was, the wonder with all was that he never married. With every comfort around him, with health and cheerfulness, a goodly person, great repute, and wealth scarcely equalled by any one in the colony, he still remained a lone man; and but that he evinced a kind, benevolent, and friendly disposition towards all their sex, the females would have set him down as a cold ascetic. He was far from being this kind of person. Love was the ruling principle of his life; and though he had himself suffered so much from disappointment that he never had the slightest inclination to address his affection to another, yet he encouraged social and domestic virtues in others, and advised many not to follow his bachelor example. His own sisters he had portioned off handsomely; and one of his greatest relaxations was to visit their abodes and to delight in their happiness and prosperity.

In the year 1811, Mr. John Barry was visited with a deep affliction, in the loss of one of his sisters, who died of fever, leaving a husband and a young family of seven children. But how surely does good spring out of seeming evil! Fraught as this event was with the most poignant grief to John Barry, it was, nevertheless, the ultimate cause of the consummation of all his hopes, and the completion of that happiness which he had so richly earned. Deeply desiring the welfare of his sister's children, and seeing the forlorn condition to which they were reduced by the death of their excellent mother, he at once acted with an energy and discretion which the afflicted husband could not command. He sought to obtain as speedily as possible some respectable person to take charge of the family, and he remembered that Mrs. Palmer had mentioned to him a valuable person, whom she had sent to Richmond Hill, to take charge of some motherless children related to herself. He therefore went down to Sydney immediately, and obtained an interview with that lady at the Orphan Asylum.

"I think, my dear madam, you mentioned to me, two or three years ago, that you lost a relative who left a young family, and that you sent a confidential female to superintend and take care of the children?"

"I did, sir, and a most valuable treasure she has always been to me. She lived with the husband of my relative for two years as housekeeper and general superintendent of his establishment. He is, however, since dead."

"And she----"

"Is still living at Richmond Hill, but perfectly independent. It was a curious and unprecedented fact in this country, for a young woman in her situation to refuse the hand of the very man whose family she managed; but she did so, and to her honour and credit; for the love she bore me she left his service and returned to live with me. I was, as you may conceive, greatly pleased with her, and took her still more closely into my confidence. Two years after this the husband of my late relative died, leaving his whole property at Richmond Hill to me, for the benefit of his children, and in case of their death, to me and my heirs for ever. The poor children, always sickly, died in this house, and the property is now let to a most respectable tenant. I reserved twenty acres and a cottage for this young woman, who had acted so generously; and I do not scruple to tell you, that though she pays a nominal rent to me for the cottage and land, yet I have always put that rent into the bank in her name, with the full intention of leaving her the property I mention."

"I am very much obliged to you for the information which you give me. You have heard that I have lost my youngest sister Maria. She leaves a disconsolate husband with seven young children, the eldest only eight years of age. My object in asking about this person was to secure her as guardian of these dear children; and the manner in which you have spoken of her convinces me that she would be eligible and valuable, if she were but at liberty to come. Do you think you could persuade her to undertake the duty? I would send a man to farm her land for her, and devote the whole rent to her remuneration."

"I am afraid she would not leave her present home and occupation. She keeps a small store and lives entirely by herself, except that a little girl, whose life she saved from the great flood, assists her. You would have been very much pleased with her had you witnessed her brave conduct in risking her own life in the attempt to save a Mr. Lacey and his family, who on that day were carried away in their barn. She put to shame the spirits of several men who stood looking on the waters, and refused to go to the assistance of those poor creatures. She would positively have gone alone, and entered the boat with the full determination to do so, if they refused to accompany her. They were at length fairly shamed into going along with her to the spot where the barn had grounded, and thus actually rescued the whole family from their perilous situation. I wonder you did not see the account of it in the _Sydney Gazette_."

"You interest me very much in this person," said Mr. Barry; "she must be a very extraordinary woman."

"She is, indeed. But this is not the most extraordinary feat of her life. She is a convict, and was transported to this country for stealing a horse, and riding it a distance of seventy miles in one night."

"But how came you to know her?"

"She was recommended to me by Captain Sumpter, who conveyed her in his ship to this country, and gave her an excellent character. She was so highly mentioned in his letters, that I took her into the establishment at the Female Orphan Asylum, and found her all that I could desire, and much more than I could have had any reason to expect."

"Do you know what her character was in England?"

"Her whole history has been laid before me. And this I can conscientiously declare, that she was guilty of but one great error, which betrayed her into the commission of an offence for which she was sent to this country. Her besetting sin was misplaced affection, an unaccountable attachment to an unworthy man. She stole a horse from her master to meet this lover in London, and was sentenced to death for so doing. She was reprieved, owing to her previous good character, and would never have been sent to this country, had she not been persuaded by the same man to break out of prison. She effected her escape from gaol, and would have got clear out of the country, but for the activity of a young man (by-the-by, a namesake of yours) in the coastguard, who shot her lover in a skirmish on the sea-shore; and then she was retaken, tried a second time, and a second time condemned to death; but her sentence was commuted to transportation for life."

On looking on the countenance of Mr. Barry at this moment, Mrs. Palmer was surprised to see it deadly pale.

"You are ill, sir," she exclaimed; "pray let me send for assistance."

"No, no, I thank you; I shall be better presently. A little faintness came over me, doubtless from the interest I feel in the history you have related to me."

With great effort Mr. Barry commanded himself, as he said in a trembling voice, "And the name of this singular person is----"

"Margaret Catchpole," replied Mrs. Palmer, as he seemed to pause.

Overpowered by emotion of the most conflicting kind, Mr. Barry was completely unmanned. Accustomed for so long a time to smother his affections, he now found his heart bursting with the fullness of agony at finding the being so highly recommended to him, and one whom he had never ceased to love--_a convict_.

"Oh, my respected friend!" he exclaimed, "I loved that woman long before I came to this country. I love her still--I confess I love her now; I cannot, I do not, from all I know of her, and from all you tell me, believe her to be an abandoned character;--but she is a convict."

"Alas! she is," replied Mrs. Palmer. "You astonish, you amaze me, Mr. Barry. Does she know your situation in this country?"

"I should think not, for I have had no information of hers up to this time. You must know that I would have brought her out to this country as my wife, but she was then attached to another. That other, I fear, was shot by my brother. He was a smuggler, and my brother was in the preventive service. She may not retain any feeling towards me but respect."

"I have never heard her mention your name, nor had I the slightest hint of these circumstances. I do not think she dreams of your existence. This is a large country, Mr. Barry, and if your name and fame in it have ever reached her ear, depend upon it she does not think that you are the person who once addressed her. But if she should hear it, I can tell you that she is so truly humble a creature, that she would think it presumption even to fancy that you could still love her. She is the meekest and most affectionate creature I ever knew."

"I can believe it, if she is anything like what I remember of her; she is warm-hearted, honest, open, and sincere, but uneducated."

"She is all the first-mentioned, but far, very far from being the last. In some things she is as well informed as ourselves, and in the best of all books she is really well read. She daily reads and understands her Bible. Her mistress, copies of whose letters I can show you, instructed her with her own children; and I can assure you, that in nothing but the want of station is she inferior to the best of her sex."

After the first struggles of his emotion were over, Mr. Barry made a complete confidante of Mrs. Palmer, and at once revealed to her the state of his own feelings respecting Margaret; and she fully explained to him what had been the excellent conduct of the object of his affection since her residence in that country. After hearing her statement, and appearing to consider within himself for a brief space, he said--

"I think I have sufficient interest with the governor to obtain her free pardon. If you can furnish me with the numbers of the _Sydney Gazette_ in which she is mentioned, I will urge upon that humane man the policy of rewarding such an example as that which she set in rescuing the lives of Mr. Lacey and his family from the flood. I will take your recommendation, also, to the governor, and see what may be done. In the meantime, I beg you to take the earliest opportunity of mentioning my name to her in any manner you may think best. My mind is made up. If I procure her pardon, and she will listen to me favourably, I will marry her. You may tell her so, if you find her favourably disposed towards me."

That very day the good Mrs. Palmer wrote the following note to Margaret Catchpole:--

"SYDNEY, Sept. 21, 1811.

"MY GOOD MARGARET,

"I desire to see you at Sydney, and have sent a conveyance for you that you may not be oppressed with the journey. I have something particular to communicate, but shall not tell you by letter what it is, that you may not be over-anxious. I shall simply call it a matter of most momentous business, which concerns both you and me, and also a third person. Your attendance here will greatly facilitate the settlement of the affair. And in the meantime, believe me,

"Your sincere friend, "ELIZA PALMER.

"To MARGARET CATCHPOLE, Richmond Hill."

It was indeed a great piece of news which this kind-hearted woman had to communicate to her husband. Still he was not so surprised as she expected him to have been.

"I have always thought, from his manner, that Mr. Barry had some strong and secret attachment in England. I fancied that he was in love with some damsel of high birth in his native country; and truly do I think him worthy of any lady's hand. I little dreamed, however, of his real position. He is a good man, and will make a most excellent member of our highest society, and will exalt any woman he may take to be wife. But how do you think Margaret is affected towards him?"

"It is that very thing I wish to know. I cannot really tell. She has been as great an exclusive in her way as he has been in his; and I confess that my present opinion is, that she will never marry."

"She would really be to blame if she did not. I think this match would tend to soothe that growing distance and disrespect which exists between the emancipated and the free settlers. At all events, it is highly honourable and noble in our excellent friend."

"I think she would be wrong to refuse such an offer. But she has shown herself so independent, that unless a real affection should exist, I feel persuaded that she will live at Richmond Hill in preference to Windsor Lodge. I expect her here to-morrow, as I have sent the chaise for her."

Mr. Barry repaired to the governor's house and had a long interview with him. He had some general business to speak of and several public matters to arrange; but he made haste to come to the case of a female convict, Margaret Catchpole, which he laid before the governor with such zeal, that the latter could not help observing the deep interest he took in her behalf.

"Has your honour seen the nature of the offence for which she was transported, or ever heard of the motive which prompted it? I have brought testimony sufficient to corroborate my account of her. I have the letters of recommendation for good conduct during her voyage to this country. I have the highest character to give of her all the time she has been with Mrs. Palmer, and a particular instance of personal courage and self-devotion, in saving the lives of a whole family in the late dreadful flood. Her present situation is so highly respectable, and exhibits such an instance of moral and religious influence triumphant over the dangers of a degraded position, that, when I heard of it, I could not fail to lay it before your honour."

"And a most admirable advocate would you have made at the bar, Mr. Barry. You have pleaded this young woman's case with such fervour, that positively, but for your well-known character in the colony, I should suspect you had some private interest in obtaining her pardon. I do think, however, that the case is a very proper one for merciful consideration, and highly deserving of the exercise of that prerogative which the government at home has attached to my power; and I shall certainly grant a free pardon. But, without any intention of being too inquisitive, may I candidly tell you, that from the animated manner in which you have spoken of the virtues of this said female, I am induced to ask, why you have taken such a peculiarly personal interest in her favour?"

"I will honestly confess at once that I ask it upon the most self-interested grounds possible: I intend to offer her my hand."

The governor looked all astonishment. "What? Do I really hear it, or is it a dream? You, Mr. Barry, the highest, and wealthiest, and most prudent bachelor in the settlement, one who might return to England and be one of her wealthiest esquires; and here, enjoying more reputation, with less responsibility, than the governor--you about to form a matrimonial alliance with----"

The governor paused; he found his own eloquence carrying him too far; he considered the character of the man before him, knew the excellence of his principles and his heart, and dreaded to wound his generous soul; he changed his tone, but not the earnestness of his appeal.

"Have you well weighed this matter, Mr. Barry? Have you consulted with your friends around you? You are not the man to be caught by outward appearances, nor to be smitten by passing beauty without some qualities of domestic happiness, arising from temper, mind, character, and disposition. How long has this attachment been in existence?"

"From my youth, your honour: I have not yet seen her since that happy time when she was a free woman in my native land, enjoying that honest liberty which is the pride and glory of England's virtuous daughters of every station in the land. I was then in her own condition of life. We had both to earn our bread by the labour of our hands; we both respected each other: would I could say that we had both loved each other! I should not like to see her again until I can look upon her as a free woman, and it is in your power to make her that happy being, upon whom I may look, as I once did, with the warmest affection."

"I ask no more, Mr. Barry, I ask no more. You have been an enigma to many of us; it is now solved. It gives me real pleasure to oblige you, and in such a case as this the best feelings of my heart are abounding for your happiness. Her freedom is granted. To whom shall I commit the pardon?"

"Will you permit me to take it?"

"Most gladly."

The governor's secretary was immediately summoned, and the form of pardon duly signed, sealed, and delivered to the joyful hand of Mr. John Barry.

"And now," said the governor, "permit me to say that we shall at all times be happy to receive you at Sydney; and in any way in which you can find my countenance and support serviceable, I shall always be ready to give them."

A cordial shake of the hand was mutually exchanged, and Mr. Barry returned that day to Windsor Lodge one of the happiest, as far as hope and good deeds can make a man so, on this changing earth.

He had communicated his success to Mrs. Palmer before he left Sydney. The green hills of Hawkesbury never looked so bright in his eye before, his house never so pleasant.

His servants saw an evident change in his manner, from the anguish of mourning for the loss of a sister, to what they could not quite comprehend; a state of liveliness they had never before witnessed in him. Their master never appeared so interested about the house, the rooms, the garden, and the green lawn. He was most unusually moved; he gave orders for the preparation of his house to receive his brother-in-law's children, to the great amazement of his female domestics, who could not conceive how a bachelor would manage such a family.

He did not breathe a word of his intention to any of his domestics; but every one observed a great change in his behaviour, which all his habitual quietude could not entirely conceal.

He wandered down to his favourite spot upon the river, and indulged in a reverie of imaginary bliss, which, to say the truth, was more real with him than with many thousands who fancy themselves in love.

Margaret arrived at Sydney on the day following the receipt of Mrs. Palmer's letter. She was a little excited at the tone of that epistle, but much surprised at being received in a manner to which she had never been accustomed. Margaret saw in a moment, from Mrs. Palmer's manner, that she had something to communicate of a very different kind to what she had before mentioned, and at once said--

"I perceive, my dear lady, that you have something to say to me which concerns me more than you wish to let me see it does, and yet you cannot conceal it. You need not be afraid to tell me; good or bad, I am prepared for it, but suspense is the most painful."

"The news I have to tell you then is good; to be at once declared--it is your free pardon!"

"This is news indeed, my dearest lady; almost too good news--it comes so unlooked for; forgive my tears." Margaret wept for joy.

"Shall I again see dear old England? shall I again see my dear friends, my mistress, my uncle, aunt, and family? Oh! how shall I ever repay your kindness? Oh! what can I say to you for your goodness? On my knees, I thank God, my good friend, and say, God be praised for His mercies, and bless you, the instrument thereof!"

"You may thank God; but you must not bless me, Margaret, for I am only the bearer of the news. I have not even got the pardon in my possession; but I have seen it. It is signed by the governor, and I know that you are free."

"Oh! thanks, dear lady, thanks!--but is it not to Mr. Palmer that I am indebted? You must have had something to do with it."

"Nothing farther than the giving you a just character to the governor by the hand of a gentleman, who has interceded with him, and has pleaded your cause successfully."

"Who is the gentleman? Do I know him?"

"Yes, you may know him when you see him. He read the account of your saving the family of the Laceys in the flood; he listened with attention to your former history: he does not live in Sydney, but at Windsor, on the Hawkesbury; yet, from his interest with the governor, he obtained your pardon."

"Bless the dear gentleman! How shall I ever be grateful enough to him? But you say I know him?"

"I say I think you will. I know you did once know him, but you have not seen him for many years."

"Who can it be, dear lady? You do not mean my brother Charles?"

"No."

"Who then can it be? Not my former master, or any of his family?"

"No, Margaret; I must be plainer with you. Do you remember a young man of the name of Barry?"

"John Barry! Yes, I do. What of him? He went to Canada."

"No, he did not. He came to this country, has lived in it many years, and has prospered greatly. He is in the confidence of the governor. He accidentally discovered you were in the country. He it was--yes, he it was--who went that very hour to the governor, and I have no doubt asked it as a personal favour to himself that you should be pardoned. What say you to such a man?"

"All that I can say is to bless him with a most grateful heart. Oh! dear lady, he saved my life once, and now he gives me liberty! He was a good young man; too good for such as me to think upon, though he once would have had me think more of him. I had forgotten all but his kindness, which I never can forget; and now it overwhelms me with astonishment. Is he married, and settled in this country?"

"He is settled, but not married. He has been a prosperous man, and is as benevolent as he is rich; but he never married, at which we have all wondered."

This declaration made Margaret blush; a deep crimson flush passed over her cheeks, and was succeeded by extreme paleness. Her heart heaved convulsively, a faintness and dizziness came upon her, and she would really have fallen had she not been supported by the kind attentions of her benefactress.

"He has kept his word! Oh, Mrs. Palmer! I never thought to see him again. I mistook the country he left me for. I have often thought of his goodness to me in former days. I am now indebted to him for double life!"

"Margaret, what if I tell you that for you only has he kept himself single?"

"There was a time when he might and did think of me; but that time must be gone by."

"I tell you, he loves you still."

"Impossible! Oh, if he does!--but it is impossible! Madam, this is all a dream!"

"It is a dream, Margaret, from which you will shortly awake, as he is in the house at this moment to present himself with the governor's pardon!"

"Dear lady, pray be present with me; I know not how to meet him!"

The door just then opened, and in came Mr. Barry, with the governor's pardon in his hand. He approached Margaret, as she clung to Mrs. Palmer, agitated beyond measure. She regarded him with more solemn feelings than she did the judge who condemned her twice to death. She dropped upon her knees, and hid her face before her deliverer. He lifted her up and seated her, and, in the language of gentleness and tenderness, addressed her thus:--

"Margaret, I have brought you a free pardon from the governor. Need I remind you that God has mercifully sent me before you in this instance to be your friend? To Him I know you will give all the thanks and praises of a grateful heart."

"To Him I do first, sir; and to you, as his instrument, in the next place. I am afraid to look upon you, and I am unworthy to be looked upon by you. I am a----"

"You need not tell me, Margaret, what you have been. I know all. Think not of what you were, but what you are. You are no longer a convict; you are no longer under the ban of disgrace; you are no longer under the sentence of the offended laws of man; you are now a free subject; and if your fellow-creatures do not all forgive you, they cannot themselves hope for forgiveness. You are at liberty to settle wherever you please."

"Oh! dear sir; and to you I owe all this! What will they say to you in England, when I again embrace my dear friends there, and bless you for the liberty thus granted me?"

"Margaret, hear me again. Remember, when I last saw you, I told you then what I dreaded, if you refused to come out to this country with me. How true those fears were, you can now judge. You made a choice then which gave me anguish to be surpassed only by the present moment. You speak now of returning to England. You have got your pardon, and are at liberty so to do. It may seem ungenerous to me, at such a moment, to urge your stay; but hear now my opinion and advice, and give them the weight only of your calm judgement. If you return to England, take my word for it you will not be happy. You will never be as happy as you may be here. I speak this with feelings as much alive to your interest now as they were when I last parted with you. I will suppose you returned. Your own good heart makes you imagine that every one would be as glad to see you there as you would truly be to see them. Your own heart deceives you. I have known those who so bitterly lamented their return to England, that they have come again to settle in this country, and have offended those friends who would have respected them had they remained here. When at a distance they felt much for them; but when they came near to them, the pride of society made them ashamed of those who had been convicts. It may be that some would be glad to see you; your good mistress, your uncle and aunt: but circumstances might prevent their being able to do you any great service. Your former mistress has a large family, your uncle the same; you have no independence to live upon there. The eye of envy would be upon you if you had wealth, and detraction would be busy with your name. People would talk of your sins, but would never value you for your integrity. You would probably soon wish yourself in this country again, where your rising character would be looked upon with respect, and all the past be forgiven, and in time forgotten. Here you would have an established character: there you would always be thought to have a dubious one. Besides all this, you are here prospering. You can have the great gratification of relieving the necessities of your aged relatives, and of obliging your best friends. You would, believe me, be looked upon by them with far greater respect and esteem than if you were nearer to them. Think, Margaret, of what I now state, and divest yourself of that too great idea of happiness in England. You are at liberty to go; but you will enjoy far greater liberty if you stay in this country."

"What you say, sir, may be true in some respects; but I think I should die happy if I once more saw my dear friends and relatives."

"God forbid that I should not approve your feeling! I, too, have a father, and mother, and brothers in England, but I hear from them continually, and they rejoice in my welfare. I love them dearly as they do me. Two sisters have come out to me, and both have married and settled in the country. One I have lost, who has left a husband and seven children to lament her loss. I have strong ties, you see, in these young people, to bind me to this country, for they look up to me as they do to their father. But they are without female protection."

"If, my dear sir, I can be of any service to you or them for a term of years, I shall feel it part of the happiness of that freedom you have obtained for me to abide as long in this land. But I own that I still feel that I should like to return one day to England. I am very grateful for all your goodness, and shall ever bless you for the interest you have taken in one so unworthy your favour."

"Margaret, I am deeply interested in these children. They have lost their mother, my sister. Their aunt, now resident in the colony, has ten children of her own, and it would not be fair that she should take seven more into her house. The young man, now left a widower, is in such a delicate state of health, and so disconsolate for the loss of his wife, that I do not think he will be long amongst us. These circumstances made me come to my good friend Mrs. Palmer for assistance and advice. Guess, then, my astonishment to hear you recommended to me: you, above all people in the world, whose presence I could have wished for, whose gentleness I know, and who, if you will, can make both myself and all these children happy."

"My dear sir, I stand in a very different position with regard to yourself to what I formerly did. I do not forget that to your protecting arm I owe the rescue of my life from the violence of one in whom my misplaced confidence became my ruin and his own death. I never can forget that to you I am a second time indebted for liberty, and that which will sweeten the remainder of my days: the consciousness of being restored, a pardoned penitent, to virtuous society. But I cannot forget that I am still but little better than a slave: I am scarcely yet free. I am not, as I was when you first offered me your hand and heart, upon an equality with yourself. How then can you ask me to become your wife, when there is such a disparity as must ever make me feel your slave? No, generous and good man! I told you formerly that if Laud were dead I might then find it in my heart to listen to your claims; but I never thought that I should be in a situation so much beneath you as I am, so very different to that which I once occupied."

"And do you think, Margaret, that I can ever forget that I was a fellow-servant with you at the Priory Farm, upon the banks of the Orwell? It was then I first made known to you the state of that heart which, as I told you long ago, would never change towards you. You say that our conditions are so very dissimilar: I see no great difference in them; certainly no greater than when you lived at the cottage on the heath and I was the miller's son. You are independent now. Your good friend, Mrs. Palmer, has made you so, and will permit me to say, that you have already an independence in this country far greater than ever you could enjoy in England."

Margaret looked at Mrs. Palmer. That good woman at once confessed that all the rent that Margaret had paid for the years she had been in the farm was now placed in the Sydney bank, to her account, and quite at her disposal. She added, that she had made over the estate she occupied at Richmond Hill to her for ever.

What could Margaret now say? She found herself on the one hand made free, through the intercession of a man who loved her, and on the other she was made independent for life by a lady who had only known her in her captivity, but who had respected and esteemed her. That lady now thought it time to speak out.

"Margaret, do not think that I have given you anything more than what you are strictly entitled to. Remember that, from a sense of justice towards me, you refused the hand of a man who probably would have settled all the estate upon you. But you chose to think yourself unworthy of my kindness had you accepted his offer. You acted with great discretion; and in settling this small portion upon you, I was guided by a sense of justice and gratitude, which made me anxious to discharge a just debt, and I do not consider that I have even given you as much as I ought to have done."

"Indeed, you have, dear lady, and you have bound me to you for ever. Have I, indeed, such dear friends in this country? Then do I feel it my duty to remain in it, and I will learn to sigh no longer after that place where I had so long hoped to live and die. You give me, however, more credit for refusing the hand of Mr. Poinder than I deserve: I never could have married a man who, in such an imperious manner, gave me to understand his will. No; I was his servant, but not his slave. And any woman who would obey the nod of a tyrant, to become his wife, could never expect to enjoy any self-estimation afterwards. He told me his intention of making me his wife in such an absolute way that I quite as absolutely rejected him. I deserve no credit for this."

"Margaret," said Mr. Barry, "understand the offer I now make you. If you are not totally indifferent to all mankind, and can accept the offer of one whose earliest affections you commanded, then know that those affections are as honest, and true, and faithful to you this day, as they were when I first addressed you. Think me not so ungenerous as ever to appeal to any sense of gratitude on your part. You cannot conceive what unspeakable pleasure I have always thought it to serve you in any way I might. You cannot tell how dead I have been to every hope but that of being enabled to do good to others. This has been my purest solace under your loss, Margaret; and if in daily remembrance of you I have done thus much, what will not your presence always urge me to perform?

"I sought a servant, a confidential kind of friend, to govern my brother's household: I little thought that I should find the only person I ever could or would make my wife. I offer you, then, myself and all my possessions. I am willing to make over all I have, upon the contract that you become the aunt of those dear children, and I know you too well ever to doubt your kindness to them.

"As to your respectability, I have already declared to the governor my full intention of offering you this hand. He has promised to recognize you as my wife. Your friend here will not like you the less because you are so nearly allied to me; and I will answer for all my relatives and friends. None will ever scorn you, all will respect you, I will love you. Say, then, will you live my respected wife at Windsor Lodge, or will you still live alone at Richmond Hill?"

"It is you must choose," replied Margaret; "I cannot refuse. I never can doubt you. I will endeavour to fulfil the station of a mother in that of an aunt; and if my heart does not deceive me, I shall do my duty as an honest wife."

After this explanation, it is needless, perhaps, to add that Margaret Catchpole changed her name, and became the much-respected and beloved wife of John Barry, Esq., of Windsor, by the Green Hills of Hawkesbury.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 11: The specimens in question may be seen distinguished by a label attached to them with the following words:--

"MANURA SUPERBA. "LYRA, OR BOTANY BAY PHEASANT.

"These beautiful birds were sent to the late Mrs. Cobbold, of the Cliff, by Margaret Catchpole, a female servant, who stole a coach-horse from the late John Cobbold, Esq., and rode it up to London in one night. She was in the act of selling the horse when she was taken. She was in man's apparel. She was tried at Bury in 1797, and received sentence of death, which sentence, owing to the entreaties of the prosecutor, was changed to seven years' transportation; but breaking out of gaol, she was afterwards transported for life.

"Presented to this Museum by R. K. Cobbold, Esq."]