Australian Tales and Adventures.

Wairarapa Standard, Volume XX, Issue 2029, 11 February 1887, Page 1 (Supplement)

Australian Tales and Adventures.

By A. 0. DONNELLY.

NOi 14,— (Conti nurd.') An Episode of New Zealand Life.

I thought her evident pille in being the descendant pi a chief rathev absurd for I was not well enough acquainted then with Maori customs to know how highly they value a brilliant ancestry. lleturning to the subject evidently uppermost in her mind she said. “My father has not many books. I have one a beauty that Paul Moss brought me from Sydney. I hate him but I like tha book. It is full of stories about beautiful ladies and their lovers, end it has a great many pictures.” “ If you will oomo up with me to the house I said, I will And you one that you will “Not to night thank you,” she answered. “It ia too late now my father docs not like mo to be out in the dark. I will come tomorrow. Good bye now.” And ahe held cut her hand but withdrawing it again the flung her arms round my neck whispering, in her peculiar cooing voice. " I like you better than any ono I ever saw. I will be your friend till I die.” A moment after sho had descended the bank and waa again seated in the canoe. She looked up waved her hand, then the oars rose and fell, and the little boat shot cut from the bank and glided swiftly away over the water, a projection of the bank soon hid her from my view but floating hack upon the air came in a rich sweet voico the words of an old Maori chant. He han hinga He ban ora oi Ko tamange mange 0 Tcu He han hinga He hau ora oi. The words rising and falling with a curious kind of sing song ryihin, and growing fainter and fainter until’the halt mournful and wholly wild and weird, “He ban bin on,” died quite away upon tire air. For some time I stood upon the bank, after tire rote bad died away. Almost fancying that the whole scene waa an illusion, or that I had been dreaming, until the peoniiar twitter of the birds reminding mo til,.; r.j.jht we, m ruing I turned and made my w«y thiourh iha woeda homewards. My adventure, however, was real enough for after that evening, scarcely a (’ey ps-tsed upon which the little canoe with ha tints of bright feathers at the stern was not moored at the nearest point to cur house and 1 soon grew to listen tor the light footfall and to look for the bright fr.ee petping ia a; the door or window. Her father, I learned, tame to the settlement about nineteen or twenty years before. Ho was the Erst white man who settled in this district. Who ha v/ca, whence he came, or what had been hi’, past history, no one knew. Eia name was Or .than!, and that waa all that anyone Jtrcw coma ruing him, beyond what waa known of him since he had built hia half Maori and half Europe an cabin at the verge of the forest. The old chief Atemai had been kind to the tall silent white man, and his daughter, the beautiful llangi, whom many a brave young chief coveted, waa kinder still. She loved the white man, and he married her. The marriage was celebrated by a French priest who had visited the district eighteen years before. The bronze-skinned black-eyed wife bad been faithful and true to him, loving him devotedly and adapting herself to his ways until summoned away to the Riergi. She Isle her grave silent husband and her little daughter, her beautiful little Kotuka, alone in their solitary wildwood home.

He cultivated some land about his place, and hunted in the woods, trapping !;;vd« and roiling their skins to traders from Sidney. During the long years that ha bad i pent in bis lonely home, he had evidently devoted rani'll time to the cultivation of his daughter'a mind. In some things her knowledge was in advance of that possessed by girls of her age in civilized lands, in others, of course, she wan dtCcitnt. She could repeat whole poems from memory, and could give every detail of the wanderings of Eneas and of Dido’s passionate love. The histories of heroes and kings of the old world she knew by heart. She frequently accompanied her father upon his hunting expeditions, and knew every plant and tree in the forest, giving not only the native names, but the botanical ones as well. The same with the birds, she could name end classify each one as it flew past her or hopped among the branches over her head. Mixed up with all this were innumerable old Maori fables of a most bewildering character. She was primed as it were, to the finger tq;s with superstition, and attached the greatest importance to the moat trivial oircumatauoes. This, of course, was partly inherent in her blood and partly arose, 1 suppose, from her own efforts in her solitary musings to interpret the sounds and signs of nature. I tried again and again to reason her out of these fancies, but with very little effect. One morning she came to me, her eyes dark and solemn, and told me she knew something would happen, because some particular bird had brushed past her either on the right or left side, I forget which. I laughed at her. During the day a child attending the Mission School was accidentally killed. Whenever I talked about her fancies again, ehe pointed significantly in the direction of little Weku’s grave. Her religious opinions, too, were always a little confused. " Ah yes, she believed that the Christian God ruled everything, “ but you could see that she still retained a lurking opinion that one or two at least of the old Maori deities had, had something to do with the C.oation, She never would allow that sorrows came from God for our good. Her answer to that was always a most emphatic dissent. “My poor child,” 1 said to her one day, much troubled by her opinions, “ What will become of you if sorrow ever comes to you, as it does come to all of us, how will you bear it.” She drew a long breath and her eyes grew thoughtful as she appeared to be thinking out the question, After a moment she seemed to satisfactorily settle it. Looking straight before her with her hands clasped, die answered quietly, “ If I could not be happy in the world I would leavo it. I would e-ink my canoe in the river, or go away and die in the woods.” Although the girl came often, her father came rarely. “ I have been too long a recluse now, I belong too much to to the past, he said sadly 11 to be a very entertaining companion to any one except my poor little daughter here, and I am only a very gloomy one, at times, for her, poor child. ' Lpon another occasion he said to mo, wrt.i much self-reproach in his voice when thanking me for my kindness to his daughter, ” I should in justice to the child have sent her away to Sydney to school years ago, but could not do it Mrs Austin. I could not bear to ba alone in the wilderness. My poor girl’s cotnpanionghip ia my only to tried upon various pretests to win him away from bis solitary life, but though ho seemed always grateful, with a kind of gentle appreciating gratitude for my efforts. I very seldom succeeded. I suppose he had been so long used to his solitary life that it required too great an effort on his part to change it. Each time that I saw him I became more and mote interested in the grave sad-eyed man, who

had taught his daughter bo many things among tho lonely hills of this new unsettled h.rd. Clad in uncouth shapelees garments as ho woo, with a cap: of Kiel skin upon his iron-grey hair, theta was a courtliness and statelin-sH in his manner that always made me marvel s.frrth every time I met him at what combination of circumstances bad bioughs bin hero. Often I rat in the twilight li-tenirg to Lis dark-eyed daughter weaving imaginary histories of her father’s past life. I suppose it seemed in some vagus way f I,range even to her that be should thus i-i.late himself from his kind. Her web of romance wool! one (ima be woven of iho exploits of sum? f ;boloii3 god of a Most! hj genu, at smother of the achievements of some old world hero. Olten as I eat listening to her my own mind was actively en-gagr-d upon the fame subject—forming conjrciurc.i as to what this man’s past had been. Too days passed quietly and uneventfully away, we living our peaceful life at the Mission house, the tall thin gvey-haired man, and hie winsome impulsive young daughter, living out theirs in their lonely home by the woods. One of tho events of tho settlement wan the arrival and departure of a trader or kind oi hawker named Paul Moss, the man conoerniug whom Marion had so strongly expressed her dislike, that first evening that I met her by the river. Ido not know whether he was a Jew or not, but I think he was not. lie was flightly lame and always carried a heavy fitick. His features were regular and he was what might bo called a good looking men. Ido cot know why, but I always disliked him and always felt relieved when the furtive glances of hia email black eyes were withdrawn and I heard the gate click after his unwelcome form. He came out from Auckland twice a week, bringing necessaries for the eettlcrs here and at other placet farther away in thebufh. He was about thirty five years of age. This man had fallen in love with Marion and desired to make her his wife. Her aversion to him daily increased, while it was quite evident that his strange infatuation never diminished. His eyes followed her about os a dog’s will follow the movements of his master. I have seen hia hands pliake and hia whole form tremble when she suddenly came near. After a vague feeling of alarm used to flit through my mind as I watched him, and a feeling of the necessity of protecting Marion from him arose in my he ’.vt. We had been about two years in the settlement when Marion’s eighteenth birthday c;\ir,e around. Her father promised to come with her to eprnd the day with ua. I expected Paid Mur.s to call on hia return innrnev to Auckland to leave a parcel which had arrived for me from Sydney, in which was a work-box that I had destined as a birthday present for Marion. I have it still. The satin lining is faded, and the silk upon the ivory reels has lost their bright hues, but the happy gladness ia the girl’s dark eyes as she looked wonderingly upon them, as never faded from my mind. The evening of the birthday came, and Paul Moss had not arrived. I was feeling very much disappointed, but just as wo were sitting down to out tea, one of the little Maori girls whom I was training in housework, rushed in to tall me that he was outside.

The lines of social distinction was not very finely drawn in the bush in those days, and the man was invited to join us at the table. He reta-A d the usual scraps of information which ho had gathered since his last visit, chief among which, was the arrival of the schooner “ Seagull” from Sydney. He handed a couple of papers to my husband, saying, 11 1 might have sold these for gold, as I came along.” They were two weekly papers of a recent dat?, published in Sydney. My hutband passing cue to Mr. Graham, began eagerly glancing over the columns cf the other. Suddenly he looked up saying ; “ Here is a curious advertisement,” and proceeded to read— 11 A reward cf one hundred pounds will paid by the undersigned solicitors, or by Victor Vere, Oakded Hail, Clifton Dawns, near Bristol. England, for any information concerning the whereabouts of Francis Vere, who diseppeared from Bristol flvo-and-twenty years ago. The unfortunate circumstances which led to his departure have been entirely explained. It is believed that he landed in K;>.v South Wales, from South America, about twenty-one years ago, and that thence he departed for the Now Zealand coast upon a whaling expedition.”

MA It ST OS ,?■ WETSB lilt. Sal id tom, Yoi k-strssf, Bristol, Bngland, “ Vere, Tore, Victor Vere,” I said, “lam sure I have heard that name before.”

11 You ore ill, Mr. Graham,” exclaimed the cold voice of Paul Moss, gazing anxiously and intently across the table at Marion’s father.

1 n truth there was cause for the remark. The cup in Mr. Graham’s hand rattled against his saucer, and bis face, at least that portion of it whifh his beard left uncovered, had suddenly become of a dead sallow paleness. Instantly Marion was at his side.

“It is nothing child, nothing,” he said, impatiently,go back to your tea, my dear, I am quite well,” and he seemed to make a strong effort to control his nerves, 1: By the way Paul, he asked,” directly after, when dees the'Seagull’return to Sydney.” “ To-morrow night,” why, ate you contemplating a trip? “Not this time, not this time,” he repeated, still not quite recovered from bis " nervous attack,” as he called it. " I suppose if you were to leave the settlement, you would taka Miss. Graham away with you.” Tho'man questioned, with what I deemed impertinent pertinacity. “ Certainly, I would,” answered the older man, looking up in surprise at the question. “ My little girl has been too long baried in the wilderness.”

A curious look flittered over the face of Paul Moss, and. immediately after he took hia leave. A few minutes later I went out to the verandah to look for Marion, and was astonished to see Paul at her side, and to heat him pouring out his love to her. 11 1 have money, plenty money,” ho was saying “ I will make you a lady, I am rich.” Either carried away by his fervor or emboldened by her silence, for she appeared too astonished to speak, he passed his arm around her and his face was approaching hers, when, like a flash she twisted herself out of his grasp, and full of passion at the insult, she struck him across the face with her hand saying with scathing contempt the one word “ Kari.” His passion cooled as quickly as hers had risen. He stood one instant looking at her, hia face suddenly grown a hiri white, his eyes gleaming, his lips drawn away from his teeth.' I almost screamed, for he looked as it ha would murder her as she stood scornfully before him pointing to the path that led away from the house. Then without a word ho picked up hia stick and walked away. As the evening advanced the wind began to rise and moan about the house, and as Mr. Graham and Marion arose to depart, one of those sudden, heavy downfalls of rain, peculiar to New Zealand, began to fall, and my husband suggested that our guests should remain for the night. “ Thank you,” Mr, Graham replied. I was just going to propose to leave Marion, but I will go home myself, I feel like wanting to be out in the air. Old memories seem to crowd upon me to-night, and I do not feel myself. I feel a curious premonition of aomo coining change, kind of low spirited. Nothing braces a man’s nerves like a walk in the open air, and with a good stiff wind blowing, and a smart rain falling, the cure is sure to be effectual. Gaod-night Mrs. Austen, good-night Mr. Austen, thank you for your kindness. “ Good-night my darling,” stooping and kissing his daughter, and

resting his hand lingeringly and affectionately upon her dark hair. “Father, do not go to-night unless I come,” bis daughter cried excitedly, “I am afraid of I know not what. I dreamed last night that I saw the fatal sap of the totu falling in rain over you. Oh, do not go, or if yon do I will come toe” "You must pet rid of those wild fancies, my dear, they are foolish,” her father said gravely and kindly. I do not wish you to go out in the rain, but I must go, the animals are abroad and I could not rest knowing that they were not under shelter.” “Suppose yon take Bees and ride over and fix up everything, and then return,” I suggested, seeing the girl's excited state, and knowing how useless it was to reason with her when any of those foolish superstitions got into her head. She was of a very nervous temperament, and physically rather fragile and I knew she wonld work herself into a fever before the morning. Her lather hesitated a moment, then decided to adopt my suggestion. Bess was brought round to the door, and with a cheery “good-bye for the present,” Mr. Oraham mounted upon her back, and the tall spare figure disappeared in the darkness, never to re-appear upon this earth again. He left about eleven, and we knew he oonld be back by twelve, but twelve passed, and one, and two, and three, and still we waited listening for the sound of the pony’s footfall, but Bess’s hoofs, with Mr. Graham on her back never fell npon the sward before oar door again. All that day and the next, search was mada every where for the missing man, but from the time be left our door no traces of him could be discovered. Upon the evening of the second day, Bess was returned to us by a woodman, who with some natives had found her some miles away near the Auckland traok. This circumstance was a great relief to our tears, for it now seemed probable that Mr. Qrahatn bad gone to Auckland. His sadden and inexplicable manner of departure was, of conrae, mysterious, but then be was rather a mysterious person altogether. Marion, however, was not satisfied. She still clung to the belief that some evil had befallen her father. " The sap of the tutu means blood,” she said ebadderingly. Two days more passed in expectation oi his return. But still no sign. On the evening of the fourth day my husband was preparing to start for Auckland npon the following morning, when a footstep sounded upon the path. Marion sprang to the door and Sung it open, Paul Moss appeared in the doorway. " Have you seen my father ? ” she asked. “ Yes,” he replied, entering. " 4 bade him good-bye the night before last in Auckland."

“ Bade him good-bye,” she repeated, struck by something in his manner. “ Why, when is he returning.” “ Not at all,” he answered shortly, be has cut the settlement and gone off to civilization. He bade me thank you, Mr. Austin, for the loan ol your pony. She got knocked up, and he left her where' you would be sate to get her. fie then made the rest ol the way on foot.”

“ Speak plain and tell me at once what you mean,” the girl replied sharply. '• I mean just what I eay,” ha answered deliberately. “Do not get into a passion, or you might call names again. You will learn directly that it ia a great thing to have aright to any name sometimes. Yes, Mr. Graham has cut the settlement pretty nameless, daughter and all. Don’t you remember his sodden illness when that advertisement was read. He is the Francis Vers that was there enquired tor, and be has gone back to his wife and his son. I saw him on board the Seagull last night. As he stepped on board be asked me to give this book to Mrs. Austin, saying that it would explain his position, and that as soon as he settled his'business he would not neglect to provide for you.” As he finished speaking he laid opon the table beside her a small, square thickly-bound black morocco covered book, saying, “ I will leave you now to learn its contents.” A strange stillness seemed to settle over the girl while he was speaking. Perhaps her mind was busy with the past, and found there in many circumstances that carried conviction as to the truth of the story shadowed forth in the man’s brutal words and half triumphant manner.

When he left the room she pointed to the book, saying quite calmly, " Open it please Mrs. Austin. It is my father's. I have eeen it with him, but only three or foot times in my life.” I took up the book, turned the tiny key in the lock, and the covers fell open. It was an old fashioned diary, the leaves of which were nearly all written npon in the handwriting of Mr. Graham. But it was not the writing that caused me to gaze so intently, that sent my thoughts like a flash through the bygone years, and showed me myself, again a little girl, standing at the top of the staircase in the great Bristol hotel, and saying wistfully “ good night Victor,” as I leant forward to kiss a quaint little figure in bine velvet. Framed in the inner side of the book were two portraits, one that of a woman, the other that of a boy with smiling mouth and deep blue eyes. Instantly I remembered them, and understood why the name of Vere had seemed so familiar to me. There faithfully portrayed upon ivory by some old fashioned art, were the two faces which I had last looked npon twenty years ago in Bristol. There was no need for me, now, to read a single line within the blank covers. The whole story was so clear. Here was the sequel to the story, of the Bristol forger, began far away in England, it had its continuation here upon the banks of the Waikato. The tall quiet man with the iron grey hair and stooping shoulders and courteous manners, the mysterious reticent backwoodsman who had taught his daughter the old virgilian story beneath the New Zealand pine-woods, was the same for whose escape I had breathed my childish, fervent prayer on that far off night in England. Ha was innocent of the crime for which he was convicted, and learning from the advertisement that m some way his name had been cleared, a longing had rnshed over him to go back to his old life. The years that had passed fell out of his life and the face of his eon, long since become a man, and that of his pale high bred wife arose before him and called him to come. Casting away from him the memory of poor dead Bangi and abandoning his poor little impulsive half-tamed daughter of the forest, be had gone. Such was the theory that I rapidly constructed as I stood with the book in my hand gazing out through the window over the dark green woods, mechanically noting the blue smoke curling up from the native fires, and afraid to turn round and meet the eyes of the deserted girl. She waited for me to speak. I could not, I could only turn and put my arm around her and lay her head upon my breast, while my tears fell fast upon the glossy black hair. For a moment she remained so then gently disengaging herself from my arms she took the book ont of my hand and gazed long and earnestly at the two faces, the one smiling and innocent, the other haughty and cold. “It is all true then," she eaid. “He is Francis Vere. I knew it the moment that man said bo. And these era his wife and hie eon. How fait and beautiful they are. He will not like them to know that I am alive. He will want to forget me. He has gone away to them and left me alone to die. White people are very cruel. Do not speak about it any more now. We will talk of it another day." And with one last lingering look at the two faces, she closed tho book and laid it down. But that other day on which she wonld again speak of it never dawned. A couple of honrs later she complained of being tired, and after kissing me and bidding me good night she went to bed. It was late when I retired

to rest. Before doing bo I wont into M iri m a room to poo if she were <•!»< fug- Vi'n n'gV, light was horning dimly, havs'i ; r fh n •"■■■n. I.i deep shadow, hut the dark Iran-.tiil >o nt face was clearly outl>-d upm t'.n w«■ ,» pillow. Or.c little dark hind My out <!■:■ id the cover, and stooping I kirsed it t"’' '• away lest I should .a*-aim her. A' f ru.-’-el the door I thought 1 1 card a ' s>V ■' . I turned toward the bed ,i"-.in. but • ■■, ire face still woro its 'vprer-ioi of r. pr,.t.l; cover over her brnift r-vc '’d Ml ■••.r.h her calm regular breathing. Viv'-teriu" >.! ,''.o tnarvcllcus power if jouih it .=hv f > lift •r----fully with a mind over.'har; 1 - -1 v ’• hj I: > f I went to bed, when I awo’-e the in r.- .r. r, my first thought was 0! M n r 1 I >v.'u: i • room. The night light sl.l! burned Wh a feeble ghostly giimrair, but Mai ion vm. tot there. I called her name, ruin’d bnum, vert to the door and called again and again with a atr&ngo chill creeping around ray hear*, hut the voice that in those two years, I had learned to love so well never answered arum. We sought her in her old home, but ehe was not there. lie little oanre with its strange carving and ornaments of bright feathers was in its shed by the river, and bet shaggy old dog Rover that used to trot by ter side, was asleep in hia kennel and only raised his head to look enquiringly at us and then dropped it again upon his paws. In the woods they fonnd her lying cold and dead among the ferns, the sweet voice that once fibed tbo woods with melody, was hushed for ever. One hand was still under her head as if she were still sleeping as I saw her the night before, the other hand was lull ( f the fatal seeds of the tutu, and her lips were stained with dark purple juice. She had done as she once said ehe would if trouble oame to her, she had gone away to die in the woods. From the day that Marion was brought home dead, Paul Moss apneared no more in the settlement. He left Auckland shortly alter to go, none knew whither. After Marion was buried 1 wrote to her father, addressing my letter to Mr. Francis Mere in cate of the Bristol solicitors mentioned in the advertisement which had led to such lamentable results, I wrote somewhat coldly and bitterly telling him of hia daughter’s death. Two years passed away and I received no reply. Mails travelled but slowly in those days, but I knew that I could have heard from him in a much shorter time than that. Thinking that he wished to hear no more of his New Zealand life, I had given up all hopes of hearing from him, when one day a little more than two years after I had written, a gentleman came to our bouse. He said ho was Mr, Marston, solicitor, from Bristol, and that ha came to New Zealand to institute enquinea concerning Mr. Vere. No person calling himself by that name bad applied to their firm or to the family at Oakden Hall. They had received no communication whatever upon the suhj et uutil my letter arrived, (lathering from it that Mr. Vere had resided in this colony, Mr. Marston, as soon as it became possible, started for New Zealand. I told him all 1 knew of the man whom I had known as Mr. Graham, of bis sudden departure and of Marion’s death, and handed him the black covered diary. He perused it carefully. '■ Yes, ”he said, •‘there is no doubt whatever that Graham ana Veto wore one.” Too Seagull is in Auckland just now. I saw her lying at the wharf. That is fortunate, especially as you say she has not made the voyage to New Zealand since the night Mr. Mere is said to have sailed in her. I shall proceed at oucc to Auckland and make enquiries.” B (orndoing so, however, be informed me of many circumstances bearing upon the history of Francis Vere. After his escape from the Bristol gaol and disappearance from F.ngUnd, Lady Clarice, chafing bitterly under the disgrace, with its accompanying social ostracism, that had fa'lcn npon her, bad gone abroad and alter restlessly travelling for « couple of teats over Euiope, died of typhoid ever at Athens. I i was possible that Mr. Vire knew of his wife’s death when he married Ring!. I always think he did. About four years ago the rnyetcry of the forgery had been cleared up by the dying confession of an cM clerk who had et one t ms been in tlv> 1 rnp’oy n=nt of the Veres. It was this mar. who” to make; good a large mm of money which his eon had embezzled from his employers had committed the foigc y for which Francis Vere had to pay the p 1 naltv, by a life of e ails from his country and his horn". The wretched man had imagined that in acme way Mr. Vere owing to his wealth and position, w old manage to evade the law while his own son would be sure to fall s victim to it. It was this mao, in the character of faithful servant to the Versa who had assisted “ 1 iclu Georgs,” to effect the escape of Francis Vere, which was successfully accomplished by bribing some of the gaol officials and with the assistance of the (Uptain of a Spanish schooner who had taken the fugitives to South America.

To the old man with death before him, repentance came as it too often comes to many of us, when the power to further injure oat fellows has passed away and we make a Irantio effort to makegood terms for ourselves in the next world.

Mr, Marston's enquiries in Auckland elicited no information concerning Francis Vere. Tas Captain of the Ssagull had never sc°n him. The only passenger on board of his vessel on his last trip two years ago, was u well known business man resident in Auckland. Of course the only thing that remained to be done was to discover Paul Mors. For many months his whereabouts could not bo ascertained. At length he was discovered nadir circumstance* which gsve shape to the dark suspicions concerning him, which nines Mr. Marston’s arrive’, had been forming in my mind. Paul Moss was found under another name, in f hs D-.r'inghurst gao) awaiting death, under sentence for tho murder of his mate, whose skull ha had beaten in. with his heavy stick, somewhere in the interior of New Smith Wales. Ha was questioned concerning Mr. Vere, and as to how he became poss -esr-d of the diary, but though he grew pat?, and his black eyes fell, like lago he would “ answer nothing." Wnatcvcr the secret of that night was, he carried it with him to the grave, and with him all hope of over converting conjecture into certainty was lost. Had he mot Mr. Graham that night, and spoken of his affection for Marion, and been haughtily repulsed? Or guessing with that keen scent for which ho was always remarkable, the identity of Mr. Graham witn Francis Vere had he, fearing that the girl would be taken away and thus lost to him for ever, in a fit of desperation to prevent this, killed her father? Or had ha, knowing the girl’s pride in regard to her birth’, made away with her father in order that he might bring tho humiliating glory to her, and thus punish her for her insulting reception of his addresses, perhaps hoping too, that with her pride humbled she might lend a more willing ear to bis snit 7 No one can tell now. The only two who could reveal the mystery of that night are silent for ever. The one I firmly believe lies murdered at the bottom of the river, or in some lonely epot in the woods, and the other lies buried beneath the flags of Darlinghnrat gaol. Suob is the story that clings around the name of Marion Vere, and even as 1 tell it to yon now, 1 can hear again, as 1 heard it, that first evening by the river, her sweet voice singing the words of the old Maori Karakia and—- “ He ban hinge He ban ora oi." and the distant sounds of the cars come float, ing around me upon the air.