This precipitated Harold's departure. Dermot was just well enough to
be likely to be the better for a voyage, and the first week in May
was fixed for their setting forth. A great box appeared in my
sitting-room, where Harold began to stow all manner of presents of
various descriptions for friends and their children, but chiefly for
the shepherds' families at Boola Boola; and in the midst, Mrs.
Alison, poor thing, brought a whole box of beautifully-knitted
worsted stockings, which she implored Harold to carry to her dear
Henry; and he actually let her pack them up, and promised that, if he
ever found Henry, they should be given. "And this little Bible,"
said the good old lady; "maybe he has lost his own. Tell him it is
his poor papa's, and I know he will bring it back to me."
"He shall if I can make him," said Harold.
"And Harold, my dear," said Mrs. Alison, with her hand on his
shoulder, as he knelt by his box, "you'll go to see your own poor
mamma?"
Harold started and winced. "My mother is in New Zealand," he said.
"Yes, my dear," said the old lady triumphantly; "but that's only the
other side of the way, for I looked in Lucy's map."
"And she has a husband," added Harold between his teeth, ignoring
what the other side of the way might mean.
"Yes, my dear, I know he is not a nice man, but you are her only one,
aren't you?"
"Yes.
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