Untitled

Otago Witness, Issue 2008, 18 August 1892, Page 37

THE NOVELIST.

I Now Fibst Published. I HE AND SHE. o . A COLONIAL STOItY.

By FABIAN BELL. Author of "Stella," " After Long Years," "Tho Letter in Cypher," &c, &c. Chapter VIII. Retrospective. [CIIA.KD Campbell was not dead — either by drowning in the Motuaka river or in any other way, and while the search for his body was being anxiously prosecuted by his friends he was on his way to more distant lanrls.When he left his wife he had

already formed the design of releasing Ler from bis unwelcome presence by taking away his own life, and when he entered the boat he had intended to go out to sea and then lat bis boat drift while be flung hirasslf overbt atd. But tlero were difficulties in the way for which he was not prepared. In the first place it is not easy for a man who is a good swimmer to drown himself deliberately, the instinct of self-preser nation ia so strong that when he touches the water he cannot re3ist stiikiDg out, and so it was with him ; for before be knew what he wa>* about he found himself scramb.ing back into the boat, laughing at his own folly ; and when a man has once laughed at himself for trying to commit suicide he is not very likely to repeat the offence. A wet jacket wag no great grievance on such a hot evening, it was rather agreeable than otherwise, and it certainly had the effect of changing the current of his thoughts. He did not waver in his resolution to relieve Aline of his presence, for to his simple and straightforward mind it seemed impossible that they should continue to live together after she had said that she hated him. He never for an instant doubted the tiuih of her words, which he knew would be for ever between them, yet he felt that if he could manage to efface himself without taking away his life the same result would be obtained. Ha remembered to have seen in the papers some time before that more than a hundred persons disappear ia London every year. How and why do they disappear ? obviously because the conditions of their lives are un endurable. Why then should he not in like manner vanish. He had hoped to make his death appear accidental, and in the same manner his disappearance might be made to seem the result of some fatal accident, even though his body were not found.

He sat in the thwarts of the boat and thought it cub. His resolution to free Aline from the incubus of his presence never wavered, but now that he took time to ponder the question it seemed to him nobler to live than to die. Was it not the act of a coward to cut the thread of his own existence simply because its conditions were painful and difficult. Would it not be better to live out the life that God had given him, miking of it the best that he could for himself and others, rithtr than fling it rashly and ungratefully away. 11 The man who kills himself, simply bscause he is unhappy, is a coward or worse," so he decided ; and having decided, it merely remained for him to consider how he might best vanish and leave no sign.

He put his hand in his pocket. It was not hia custom to carry money about with him on the fa*m, having no use for it; bat eirlier in the day a neighbour had paid him ii rotes the prica of a couple of young heiferp, and the money was still in his pocki t book. So far so good. It woul 1 be awkward to cast oneself upon tie world liteia'ly without a penny. He then searched h ; s pickets fcr letters atd papers, read them through one by one, and, tearing them inta the smallest fragments, scattered them on the wave?. His handkerchief was marked with bis name ; he pushed it through a ringb lfc in the tt'rn, where it was afterwards found. Hi 3 linen was not marked, and nothing romair.edon his person by which he cjul t be identified.

All this tims the boat had been drifting with the current and the ebb tide. It had not. however, got vc-iy far from land.

Dick knew the currents well — no one better — and be knew that if he allowed tho boat to continue in her present N.E. course it would be impossible for her to drift back again ; so he took up the sculls and began to row steadily towards the south, bis object being to land somewhere south of the river's mouth, in the hope that the win-3 (which was now rising) and the flood tide would carry the boat back, and give colour to the supposition that it had been swamped at sea. How exactly this programme was fulfilled we already know. When he was within easy distance of the shore, he sprang out of hi 3 skiff and swam to land, and the boat tossed up and down like a dead bird — now driven forward and again diiven backward — seemed to hover for a long time in one place, and then began to drift slowly away towards Jthe N E., where she was soon caught by the wind, and the flood tide, and driven on the bar of the river at the spot where Andrew Maclane afterwards found her, and saw in

her p -Mtion a ceituin proof of his master's} destruction.

Dick Campbell found himself on dry lancT at the edge of the bush, and at a spot perfectly well known to him. He struck a track leading southward, and walked steadily on fcr some hours. The night wa3 not dark, but it was very best, and ia the narrow bush track no circulation of air waa apparent. His clothes were heavy with moisture, and as they began to dry upon him they proved very uncomfortable. The sandflies also were somewhat pressing in tbeir attentions. Altogether it -was not an •agreeable walk, but the physical discomforts were not without their use ; they roused the combative nature whicb lies in every man, and strengthened him tj bear and to do. When the storm broke he had gained the shelter of a deserted hut, and here ke listened to the roll and rattle of the thunder, watched the flashing of the lightning, and fell asleep to the music of plasbing raindrops and the whistle of the wind.

On the following day when his friends were searching the estuary of the Motuaka liver and the coast north and south of it, he was tramping steadily inland up the basin of the Clutha towards Queens! owu and the lakes. Naturally these who weie looking for him along the coast and inquiring at the poitG heard nothing of hid whereabouts.

In order to save his money ho walked most of the way, getting an occasional lift in a driy ; and to preserve hid incognito he avoieled the large hotels and stations where he miyht be likely to meet friends and acquaintances,.and purchasing food at small store?, ate it, picnic fashion, in the bush or by the roadside. In the warm summer weather such a life presented no hardshipsnay, it was not without its cbarm in its adiui.-sion to many a fair sight end sound of nature which might otherwise have remained for ever hidden from his careless CjCB.

In tho shabby swagger, whose clothes were travel-stained and discoloured with sea water, his best friend could hardly have recognised the smart young farmer who had married Aline Glover 12 months before.

At Qaeenstown he went up the lake to Kinloch, crossed the saddle, and descended on to ths We3t Coast. Here he came on a party of prospectors and miners, and having nothing better to do, he remained and worked with them for a time, and was initiated into the art and mystery of gold digging. Here began the extraordinary luck whkh from this time forth followed him wherever he went and whatever he did. Where other men had worked, finding nothing, he, turning over the ground carelessly, aamo upon a rich yield ; every panful that he washed out yielded better than those to the light and left of him, and in a deserted hole he found a nugget worth a king's ransom — one of those sports of nature that makes gold digging the most entrancing form of gambling.

But Dick, or, as he now called himself, Richards, did not care for the life, and having shared his spoil with bis mates, giving them indeed the lion's share, aud taken advantage of a chance steamer, he departed for Melbourne. Here one of hi 3 first tasks was to examine a file of the Otago Daily Times. From its columns he learned tho s£ory of his own disappearance and supposed deatb, a detailed account of the search for his body, with many suggestions as to his probable fate, and much condolence for his widow. It is not often that a man thus reads the account of his own death, and it struck him with surprise and a queer sense of amusement as of something altogether beyond and outside the usual experiences of men, a little drama enacted and carried out for his own sole delectation. He wished he could have had a little more of it, and heard what people said and thought on the spot. It is at all times so hard for us to imagine the woild existing and flourishing in the absenco of our own small ego, that most of us will find no difficulty in understanding his state of mind, and sympathising with it. It is terrible to think that when we are gone we shall not be missed.

In a later issue he read that the search had been abandoned, that a cenotaph had been erected to his memory in the little church at Motuaka by his friends and sorrowing widow (" I wonder what they have put on it," he thought) — and again, tbab his insurance of L2OOO had been paid, under protest, to his executors, and by them to his widow.

When be bad read as far as this he threw down the paper, put on his hat, and went out. He went to the Melbourne office of the insurance company who had paid his policy, and requ?sto3 to see the manager; into whose presence he was speedily ushered.

The manager was a stranger, who received his visitor courteously.

"What can we do for you Mr ' " Richards," said Dick.

" Ye3 l " said the other interrogatively, and waited.

Diik also hesitated

" The fact is, I want to ask you a question, and I do not quite know how to put it into wcrds."

" Will you sife down 1 "

Dick complied, thus pacing himself in a strong light, where the play of every feiture was di&tinctly visible to bis astute companion.

A momentaiy silence ensued, during which the maDag' r seemed to be turning over his paper 5 -, waiticg while hi? visitor was colleccing his thought". What manner of man might this be, he wondered. " A canny Scot, who wants to insure his life, but wishes some specially favourable conditions."

Wheu the question came, it proved a surprise.

" Suppose," said Dick, " that you made a mistake and paid a man's insurance when he was not really dead."

" That could not very easily happen," said the manager. 'iWe generally require and receive very conclusive evidence of death before we pay anything." "But suppose it did happen."

" In the case of a f i-aud, you mean ? "

"Not necessarily. Ie might be an accident all round. If a man were lost at sea, for instance, and turned up aftor the insurance had been paid to his suppoaed survivors."

" His own case," thought the manager, and tried to remember what policies had been recently paid under the like conditions, then added quickly aloud, " If he were an honest

man he would pay it back Otherwise we could proceed against him." " But suppose he could not pay it back. If, for instance, it were spent." " That might be awkward for him," said the manager significantly. " Precisely so," said Dick, and looked full at his companion, who saw at once that he had an honest man to deal with and not a, rogue. 'I Precisely so. Well, the man in question is not dead, though he wishes to be thought dead. Why, is no business of yours or ot anyone. It is not to escape from his creditors, and if it were, you w»ull not pay them. The reasons are good and sufficient, or at least he thinks them so. Bnt he does not wish to cheat anyone. He has deputed me to act for him. He will pay back the insurance money on condition that the fact of his doing so, and being still alnre, is kept as a profound secret from everyone." " It will be like compounding a felony." " I can't sec that. It is more like the conrcieuce money which is ysarly sent to the Chancellor ot the Exchequer as unpaid income tax." " It is a question of ethic 3." "Itis a question of common sense. A man may think it necessary or expedient to disappear from his home and friends, and yet have no desire to cheat anyone. An insurance office pays his policy without sufficient evidence of death. Is he the only person to blame 1 " " When you put it in that way — " " I do put it in that way, for tho3e are the exact facts. Will you on behalf of the company take the money on the condition named, or shall I advise my friend to let the matter drop ? " "Give me time to think." " No, that is not possible. My friend is leaving Melbourne at once. Ho wishes to treat you honourably, but naturally he does not wish his stoiy to got wind. It cannot hurt you in any way to give the required promise, it will pat a good sura of mono} in the pockets of the company, and enable my friend to feel that he has not cheated you If, however, 3'ou cannot meet him in the same spirit, he will leave Melbourne at once, and there will be an end of the matter." "What is the sum ?" Dick shook his head. " That is beside the question. I do not mean to put any clue into your hands. Give me your word as a man and a gentleman that you will keep my friend's secret, and I will give j'ou a cheque in my own name ([ will wait here until it is cashed) and you can then give me a receipt."

The mauagsr leaned back in his chair. Never in the whole course of his experience had he met wiih a similar case. He scarcely knew how to deal with it. Dick's frank bearing disarmed his natural suspicions, and yet it seemed hard to believe that the man was really as straight-forward as he appeared. Was it possible that some trap lay behind this fair exterior ?

" Choose," said Dick impatiently. And thus adjured he chose. Gave the required promise — which ho faithfully kept — and received the money.

When this little affair was settled, Dick— with considerably lightened pockets — left Melbourne and went up-conntry. After wandering about for some considerable time accident led him in the direction of Buallah and the upper tributaries of the Murray, here he found among the ranges some excellent cattle ground ; plains wooded, watered, and sheltered, the very existence "of which were unsuspected by the squatters on the big river, who were unanimous in giving the back country a bad name, difDcult of access, prone to drought, and altogether a bad spec. But Dick Richards, as he now called himself, was not given to see with other men's eyes and judge with other men's judgment. He had spent his whole life on the soil. And

though some men do this and know very little about it after all, Dick was not one of the number. He knew that the land was good, one of the streams being snow-fed had eVery appearance of being perennial, and the scrub was mere like real bush than anything he had seen in Australia. So he hastened to the nearest Government Land Office, put in his claim, and took up a piece of unimproved land almost as big as an English county.

John Graham and others thought he was mad, and did not scruple to say so.

" You'll lose every penny you have got, and you'll never come back alive."

" Aa I am as good as dead already, that won't much matter," he answered enegmaticallj, and rode away.

But he did not ride alone. He was soon joined by two young and able men, whom he had bound to him by strong ties of gratitude for favours received, and they drove before them a picked mob of cattle, thin but wellbred, which had been half starved on the arid plains further north, where they had bsen purchased far * mere song.

In f-pite of all prognostications to the contrary, things prospered with the new settlers. Oa the rich plains of Waratah the lean kine scon became fat, and when they were sent in to town topped the maiker.

" Luck, mere luck," said the older settlers. Bat it was a kind of luck which repeated itself gysamatically, and bore such a resemblance to prac'ioal common s^nse and knowledge, that peop'e began to suspect that Mr Richards was a clever, capable man as well as a fortunate one.

No one call ;d him Dick now. That phase of his life — when he was young and happy and "a goo- n . fellow" — had entirely passed, arid he had become middleaged all at once. Nothirg keeps people young like happiness — than 13 the tine elixir vita. Dick 1 >st them both at a single stroke, and grew middle-aged. Not that he was unhappy. Do not suppose it for a moment. His life was too busy and too useful not to bring with it a sense of satisfaction in honest work, well done, which was in itself a pleasure.

But happiness is a different thing; it comes to vi like light, and air, and sunshine—a free gift of God. I suppose that none of us ever deserve if, and few know that they have had it until it has flown.

Dick was not unhappy, but bis heart became more and more wrapped up in his work. Strangers would have thought him a miser, in haste to be rich ; but it was not so. He worked for the work's sake, and because it was impossible for him not to do his best in whatever he undertook. For the money, which was the reward of his toil, he cared but little, and was ready to bestow it freely

on any who appeared to need it, so that hlft generosity became almost a by-word in tho distneh. Yet, not being a fool, but a shrewd man of business, his very charities prospered, for the people that he helped generally helped themselves, and rewarded hirii with tho best kind of gratitude— their own ultimate success.

AmoDg other things, Dick contrivod to keep himself informed as to the state and condition of his supposed widow. Her marriage to Tom Webster gave him a sudden pang of the most acute and passionate jealousy. It ocourred soon after he went to Waratab, and for weeks it took away all hi 3 courage and made him wish that he bad indeed ended his life in tna rough waves of tho Pacific. That she should turn from him and take up with such a scoundrel was indeed a terrible shock. In his wrath he felt inclined to step forward and claim her; and then, again, he knew, if never before, thai he must now for cvermoro remain as one dead, and never more hope to clasp the hand of an old friend or to regain his place amorjg living men. Strange to say, he had never thought of the possibility that Aline might marry again, but fancied that she would be contonted to be free and enjoy the quiet competence whicb. he had secured to her. Now she had given herself and her money, both of which were really his, to another man, and that man a scoundrel. It was a crushing blow. That he did not go mad was due to the saving power of haid woik. At the very crisis of his misery, a flood of the snow-fed stream imperilled" his choicest stock. He turned out and fought the snow water for hours, and in fightino- it, fought down his own baser passions. When the last heifer was saved, he knew that he must possess his soul in patience. That the time for action on his part had passed ; that he had chosen to die, and that lie was to all intents and purposes ('cad, and must remain so ; and furthermore, that if he would not earn his own scorn and reprobation, he must; live out the life ha bad ohosen and make tho best of ir.-

This was his philosophy: work and do your best ; and as a simple and practical rulo of life I know nothing better. Then from time to time came the news of Tom's inveterate gambliug, of his loss of position, his debts, his drinking, finally that ho and his wife had left Dunedin and gone to Melbourne, and there he lost them— lost them as completely as a stone dropped into the water. The turgid waves of the great city cljsed over them, and they rose no more to the surface. Ha might have employed detectives to trace theix ; but did not, first of all Lecause he shrank from applying to the myrmidons of the law, lest he should in some manner betray his own identity, and secondly because ho had no great faith in antipodean detectives and their power to penetrate mysteries of any kind. He thought; he should piobably hear of their fate, but ho did not, and therefore icmained in ignorance of Tom's deatb.

Often and often he pictured to himself Alines probable fate. But never onco did he approach the truth. If he had known it — known that she was in want of every com« fort, sometimes in want of actual food, — nothing could have kept him from her. He would have contrived in some way to help and to serve her. But he naturally imagined that she still had the little competence that he had left her, and that it would at least preserve her from penury. Of course ho knew that a man like Tom Webster would never work, that he would squander every penny he could lay his hands on, and run into debt ; but judging Aline by his own past experience he did not think tbat she would give all the power out of her own hands, and he had of course no means of suspecting the change and development which had taken place in her nature, and which had made ir, impossible for her to keep the money. Often he thought seriously of going to Melbourne aud prosecuting a search for the missing pair, but a very natural fear lest he himself should be seen and recognised, deterred him.

The world is a very small place. The friends who part in London may meet again at the Cape, and to all intents and purposes Melbourne and Paris are nearer now than were London and York 100 years since; while in the Australasian colonies peopie move about so constantly that go where you will you are pretty certain to meat with old friends and acquaintances. This is particularly the case in Melbourne, which serves as a kind of metropolis for the whole of Australasia ; and the well-known Mr Richards, the successful squatter, could not hope to pass through it as an unknown and obscure individual might have done. His fame had preceded him, and bankers, agents, and brother squatters would expect to lionise him. It was a risk that he dared not run for Alines sake even more than his own ; for if he were once seen and recognised what was she? An adultress, a bigamist, the wife of two living men. Never should such shame come upon her through his means. His resolution was irrevocably taken. He v/ould efface himself more completely than before, would avoid all social gatherings and intercourse in his own neighbourhood, and would especially avoid Melbourne and other large towns.

So he knew nothing of her struggle?, or of Tom's death. She was always to him the womaa who hated him, whom ho ha I loved and resigned, and who kad married hii enemy. And over it all, and through it all, and in his heart of heart 3, he knew that ha loved her still, and should love her till he died — aye, an-J beyond it, to the very confines of eternity. She was the one woman in the world to him. Others might be fairer and sweeter and younger and more charming, but—

If she be not fair to me, What care I how fair she be,

Mr Rxhards remained at Waratah and attended to his business, and that business prospered in a most unusual degree. A3 Tom Graham paid, " AU that he touched turned to gold." It seemed as if having lost the one thing that he cared for on earth, fate was trying to make it up to him by giving him all the other thirgs which men chiefly desiro — health and wealth, a good position, and the esteem of his fellow men. Nor was ho ungrateful for any of these good thingp, though he waa perfectly conscious that not; one of them was the greatest thing of all. It; rarely happens that any business is perfectly successful unless the master's eye ba everywhere ; Pick knew this, and. bis ready

braiD, fertile of resource, was always clear and prompt for action, so that in any difficulty he seemed prepared, and small matters that if neglected might have grown into serious misfortunes, were checked at the outeet. Therefore much that his friends attributed to good-luck was really due to good management. He would have been a general favourite had he been a little more sociable, for the manner in which he held himself aloof from all society was curiously beliad by his frank and pleasant countenance, which was that of a man made fcr social amenities. Had he been less prosperous people might have doubted the purity of bis motives, and suspected him of having some ugly secret to keep ; but who can suspect a man whose balance at his bankers is always on the right side 1 For some reason. Dick was less shy of the Buallah people than of most others. They were his nearest neighbours, bound to him by many ties of mutual kindness. They really liked him, and he could not help knowing it; and they paid him the rare compliment of being at their best in his presence. Mrs Graham was les3 querulous, her husband less free with his tongue, and the children more obedient when Mr Richards was in the house.

Like many solitary men with no home ties of their own, he was very fond of the children, Dolly especially, who ruled him with a iod of iron.

•' Me 'oo dirl 7 " was one of her first spoken sentences, and the claim then preferred was never permitted to fall into abeyance. 11 What 'oo bwought for 'oo dirl 1 " "Oo dirl wants a doll with weal hair." A pony, a cart, a wheelbarrow, lollies, whatever the young monkey fancied, she asked Dick for, and he generally contrived to satisfy her demands, giving the same to Duncan, lest that young man should be jealous. He rarely went to Buallah empty-handed, and it was small wonder that his visits were eagerly anticipated and desired. " What oo bwought me 7 " was the children's usual greeting, and when their mother, with infinite difficulty, had stopped the too open question, their eager eyes put the same unmistakable demand.

Some times he would declare that he had nothing for them, and again he would tell them to hunt and see what they could find, when they would feel him carefully over and search every pocket until the desired parcel waß forthcoming, which would be the signal for a great game of romps and a general scrimmage. No wonder Mr Richards was a favourite. But he had not been at Buallah for a long time. He had been a long way into the back country, exploring districts that are scarcely mentioned on any map, or known to any but a few pioneers. He had had a good offer for Waratah and was determined to sell it and go further back if he could only light upon a suitable location. A half breed, to whom he bad been kind, had told him of such a spot, and he had been to see it. It realised bis most sanguine expectations, the only drawback being the neighbourhood of a tribe of blacks, who were supposed to be unfavourable to settlement, bub he was confident in his ability to keep these troublesome neighbours in check, and had therefore put in a claim for tbe land. On his way back he called at Buallah.

The children watched for him as already stated. Duncan from the top of an orange tree, and Dolly from the gate post.

He saw the latter first and dismounted to greet her. "My dear child ! what are you doing here 7 Looking for me 7 "

" Yeth," said Dolly, giving him a hug, while Duncan scrambled down his tree in hot haste to join them. " I look houws and houwp."

He smiled.

" Scarcely so long as that I fancy. And is this you, Duncan ? how you have grown to be sure."

"Yes, I shall soon be a man," returned Duncan, looking at his own sturdy limbs with much satisfaction.

41 Not much of a man till you can read and write," said Dick decidedly.

" Jem Read says be don't see the good of writing, and it is horrid, nasty stuff. I hate it."

" Oh ! That's the way the wind blows, ia it ? " said the visitor. "It strikes me you have been seeing too much of Read and Co. lately. Now listen to me, young shaver, I've got something for you, but you won't get it till you promise me to learn to read and write."

" I can wead," here interposed Dolly, " I can wead my letteths. ABC lots of 'em. I can wead splendid." " Can you, indeed, that's good hearing."

" Mithith Web teached me," pursued Dolly, delighted with her audience and hi 3 evident interest. " I can wead, and I can say poetwy, too, 'Twinkle, twinkle, icele star.' "

" You shut up," cried Duncan, highly dissatisfied that his sister should usurp more than her share of attention. " That's a baby piecs. I can say • The spider and the fly.' My eye 1 isn't that prime where the spider pounces on the fly." And acting out the drama as he conceived it should be done, ho caught tight and eudden hold of Dolly's flowing locks.

Mr Richards rescued D,olly and scolded Duncan, and giving a hand to each of the youngsters allowed the.m to drag him up the pith, asking in the meanwhile who was the Mrs Webb who had taught Dolly her letters, surmisiDg that the Grahams had engaged a governess for their children, an institution that was indeed greatly needed.

"Who is she?"

" She's Mithith Web, and she teached me," said Dolly. '* And she twided to teach Duncan, too, only he's welly naughty." " She is your governess then 7 "

Dolly nodded assent.

"No she's not," broke in Duncan, " she's a — a — lady help ; but Jem says she's not a lady, and "

" Silence, sir," cried Richard sternly, " I won't allow you to speak of any lady in that manner. It seems to me that you have learned a great deal of mischief since I was here last, if you have learned nothing else. Who is this Jem of whom I bear so much ? "

"He is the new stockman," said Duncan proudly, " and he has got the biggest whip in the country, but I can crack it. You should hear me crack it." " Thank you, I am not ambitious." •' I wish you'd give me a new oraoker. A

real good 'un, I'd rather have it than a book. I can plait one myself, but it won't cut. Jem can cut a piece out of a bullock." " A very gentlemanly ambitioD," said Dick, and resolved that he would advise his friend to send Duncan to school before any more mischief was done.

"There she ith," cried Dolly, suddenly pulling at the hand she held. " There'th Mithith Web."

And she began to draw him down one of the gadren paths, over which the great orange trees met, and which was sprinkled here and there with their white petals. The cool shade was tempting; the rich greenery, the patches of golden light, the shimmer of moving leaves and glancing sunbeams, allured his senses, and were doubly grateful after the long ride in the dust and heat.

The children drew him on.

"Mithith Web, Mithith Web," cried Dolly, " where are you 7 I want you. Oh, thewe she ith ; no, she ith gone. Stay, pleathe Btay, I want you."

Dick looked carelessly along the path. Where the golden shadows were thickest, he saw a tall, slender figure dressed in black. The face was turned from him, and he could not tell at that distance whether it were that of a woman or a girl.

He bent over Dolly, laughing at her eagerness. When he looked up again the figure was gone. Whether it had really been there, or whether the tree-trunks had formed themselves for a moment into the shape of a. woman, he could not tell ; he was halfiuclined to think the latter, so dimly was the figure outlined, and so swiftly had it vanished from his sight.

" There is no one here, Djlly," he said, looking round; "but what a nice cool place this is. Let us sit down and eat oranges." He had no particular interest in the governess, except a general sense of satisfaction that the children would now be kept away from the men's hut and its contaminating influences; and he was hot and tired and thirsty. " Let us sit down and eat oranges."

Dolly made another effort to find Mrs Webster, and called for her again aud again at intervals, then she yielded to the temptation and sat down in the golden shade. She was not particularly fond of oranges ; she had too many of them ; but she liked to peel them with her deft little fingers, and thrust the quarters iato Dick's mouth, so that the juice ran over his great tawny beard.

Thus employed Mrs Graham found them when she came out of the house a little later.

" Oh, here you are," she criel, •' Dolly, you naughty child ! Why did you not tell me that Mr Richards was come '/ And why don't you come on to the verandah 1 "

"It is so pleasant here," pleaded Dick, " and I am so lazy."

" But it isn't safe. One of the men saw a black snake here the other day, and John has been looking for it ever since. By the way, have you seen him 1 "

"Not yet. I have only just come, and Dolly brought me round this way to introduce me to Mrs Webb, who in the meantime ha 3 vanished, and so we sat down to oat orange 3. But if we must go in, we must. Come along, little woman." He lifted himself from the ground with an effort. It was so cool and pleasant under the orange trees, and Dolly again possessed herself of his hand. Duncan had disappeared. "He is off to the men's hut," said his mother with a sigh, half glad to be rid of him at any price, and half afraid of what Dick would say. What he did 6ay was : " I fear he spends too much time there, Mrs Graham. Then, after a pause, " I am glad you have got a governess for them ; it is the best thing you could do." " She is not exactly a governess, though she does teach them. She helps me in all kinds of ways. I find her very useful ; much better than a common servant." " She is not a lady then 1 " *'I don't say that, but she says herself she is only a kind of upper servant, and though. Bhe takes her meals with us, she never puts herself forward at all, She is a widow, and I believe Bhe has had a great deal of trouble. My sister-in-law sent her to me about six months ago." As Mrs Graham spoke Dick pictured to himgelf a middle-aged woman, gaunt and thin, worn with poverty and other ills—perhaps a sick husband and many children, glad to take refuge from the world's hard buffets, even in the anomalous position hinted at by his hostess ; and his kind heart grieved for thi3 woman who was neither a lady nor a servant, and yet filled tha place of both. He thought he knew now why she had hidden herself when she saw the children dragging him aloDg the path, the feared lest he also might flout her poverty. " Here we are," said Mrs Graham. "I am glad to be out of that heat. Go and find your father, Dolly, and tell him to come here. Sit down, Me Richards, and let me mix you a cool drink. We shall have dinner presently, and then you will sea my lady help and the children's governess."'

(To he continued.)