It contained a touching lie, describing the writer as being
still very happy with the master who months since had
sent him to the iron*gang. The rest was a wondrous



THE OUTBE DARKNESS 291

jumble . . . "and I inform you that snaiks is very bad
in this country. We ofttimes see from 14 to 15 feet
long. Parrots is as thick as crows in your country, kan-
garoos too, and it is night here when it is day there, but
Arthur Smith, I do not know where he is. Mutton is
4d. Ib.f beef — " But he had written no further, and Tom
said, "Thank you. Butter; it should make them happy,"
as he returned the letter. He felt that he ought to be
touched, and he was not. His heart seemed turned to
stone, when suddenly he felt it quicken.
The lad had simply said, "My name isn't Butter; it's
Butterfield."

"A Yorkshireman? You talk like one! " cried Tom,
with a most painful flash of memory. Once more he
was a lucky, hopeful, penitent sinner, in a sweet-smell-
ing waggon, on a night in spring; with Blaydes's watch
ticking no warning in his pocket, and with a vivid men-
tal picture of Blaydes himself smiling wistfully across
the stile, beside which he was even then lying dead.
"Ay," said young Butterfield, "poor old Yarkshire! I
doubt I'll never see it again. My folks have left there
an' all."

Tom had more flashes. He was getting used to them
now.
