Chapter VIII: Part 8

New Year's Day had been fixed originally for the great event: but the Clerk of the Weather had been singularly tactless, and had ushered in the New Year with such deluges of rain that hurried telegrams had been sent to Sale and Bairnsdale and other district towns, postponing the regatta; and hundreds of would-be excursionists had unpacked their luncheon-baskets and remained at home. But to-day was to make amends for all disappointments. Rain had fallen, just enough to clear the air and secure the very perfection of autumn weather, while laying the dust on the roads for the folk who rode and drove. The sands were dry and firm: the hummocks shone white against the sky, across the lagoon. There was just enough breeze for sailing--enough to dot the lake with tiny wavelets, gleaming and dancing in the sun. Just to look at that blue, restless surface was enough to set the heart dancing, too.

The Macleods came early, since Garth's impatience was a thing not to be gainsaid. He had never seen a regatta, and the stories told him by the young O'Connors had set him dreaming of nothing else for weeks past. Soon after breakfast he arrayed himself, emerging from his room shining and speckless in white duck, with white sand-shoes and bare brown legs, and a white felt hat held in readiness. After which, his attitude began with sublime patience, which collapsed after a time and merged into trenchant inquiries as to why people couldn't be ready as soon as he was, and lugubrious certainty that they were missing all the best of the fun. Eventually they found themselves driving into the township quite an hour earlier than they had thought of starting, while Horrors, on Jane, jogged in the rear, and wondered how soon he might begin to eat the enormous packet of lunch with which he had been provided.

Early as they were, the O'Connors were before them. It was a day of which no young O'Connor was willing to miss a minute. What was it to them that the regatta itself did not really begin--save for a few sailing races, which nobody noticed--until one o'clock? Was there not all the unusual stir and bustle of the town to see?--the gay shops, decked for the occasion with brave displays of fruit and sweets and cakes, to tempt hungry picnickers; the gallant array of boats, glistening with new paint and varnish, and as bright as "elbow-grease" would make them: the crowds arriving from all the countryside by land and water--people they knew, to greet and by whom to be greeted--schoolfellows, curiously unfamiliar in their best clothes--school teachers, even more curiously human and approachable, and not at all suggesting the week-day discipline of desk and ruler? Not a yard of the esplanade was without its excitements. There were the summer visitors from the houses that were shuttered and gloomy all the winter, and from the tiny cottages under the hummocks across the lagoon, owned by people from Sale and Bairnsdale, who lived a camping existence from Christmas until Easter, with the breakers pounding almost at their back doors. These considered themselves part and parcel of the place, as indeed they were, and looked with something of disparagement at the folk from Melbourne and Sydney who filled the hotels, and who might never come again, and who, at the best, lived a luxurious and pampered life, and did not know the joys of a picnic existence, with no servants and no worries--every one working in the same way, and every one ready for every kind of fun, from big surf-bathing parties or moonlight swims in the lake, to rushing over the hummocks in a body to lend a hand with the hauling of a shoal of salmon brought in through the breakers. Then there were other visitors--blacks from the Lake Tyers Mission Station; principally lithe young men keen on taking part in the regatta, with a sprinkling of older men, and a few young women and boys. They moved here and there among the crowd on noiseless bare feet.

Never had the O'Connor family looked so resplendent. Nick, to begin with, was a majestic figure in his best suit, with a "boiled" shirt, and a tartan tie which appeared only on great occasions. Bertha and Polly were in fresh washing frocks, and the boys in suits of blue-striped galatea, very smart and summer-like. But 'Possum, in Aileen's Christmas gift of the dress that was like the inside of a shell, tall and slender, her face half-eager and half-shy, was an unfamiliar figure at whom many people turned to glance. Never before had 'Possum been to a regatta, and her inward excitement was almost as keen as Garth's. "The kids always went," she had told Aileen. "I didn't. The old dungarees didn't seem to fit in."

To-day no one "fitted in" better than 'Possum: and Nick O'Connor found himself casting glances of pride at his brood, while mothers from "up the lake" gazed upon the O'Connor tribe with blank amazement, and came to the conclusion that Nick must have found a gold-mine on the farm. "Not that the whole lot of them dresses ain't cheaper than my Albert's plush," said one matron, regarding her son's green sailor suit of that opulent material, with its lace collar. "But it ain't exactly that--on'y they look like toffs!"

They all lunched together at the buggies, in the shade of some gum trees--hurriedly, for the children wanted to see the steamers come in from Sale and Bairnsdale, with their big crowds of excursionists. The first far-off hoot came just as they had finished, and they hurried to the packed wharf. Across the lagoon, at the Entrance wharf, the steamer was discharging a throng of the people to whom regattas are nothing, but the open sea and the Ninety-Mile Beach everything--townsfolk, weary of the long summer, and longing for the sands and the clean breeze from the ocean. They pressed up the steps leading to the hummocks, a black swarm. Then the steamer came slowly across the little strip of water to Cuninghame, her decks still dark with people. She was gaily decked with flags, and on her bows could be seen girls in light summer frocks, like a fluttering garden. Faint at first, but gradually growing louder and louder, a band was playing a swinging waltz: the music chimed in with the plash of the water as the boat slackened speed and churned her way to the wharf. Impatient boys sprang ashore without waiting for the gangway to be lowered; then the great plank came down and the excursionists trooped across it, gay and chattering; some laden with rugs and luncheon-hampers, while others had prudently saved time by lunching on board during the long trip through the lakes--a plan fraught with danger, since people were crowded like sardines in a tin, and an unwary movement of a neighbour was apt to send tea-cups flying. But then no one ever minded such insignificant occurrences on a lake excursion. When you rise at six o'clock, drive some miles to a boat that starts at eight, with a five hours' water-journey each way, for the sake of three hours on the beach,--what is a spilt tea-cup?

The regatta went along merrily, after the manner of regattas: wildly interesting to those directly concerned, and of mild excitement to outsiders. There were yacht races, in which the boats departed into the horizon, and were promptly forgotten by the spectators; fishermen's boat-races, which drew a crowd at the finish; and skiff-races, which, being shorter, held the attention all the time, and evoked great cheering from the backers of the competitors. Tom entered for one of the latter combats, but was ignominiously defeated by a young fisherman and a black fellow from Lake Tyers, behind whom he paddled in meekly, much to Garth's disgust.

"I don't believe they played fair!" said the small boy gloomily.

"Don't you say that!" said his father sharply, and then relented at the amazed face.

"It doesn't do, old man," Tom continued. "When a fellow is beaten, he takes his gruel like a decent chap; and he doesn't abuse the other fellow. Do you imagine, too, that your old city-bred father had any chance against men who have been on the lakes all their lives?"

"Well, you used to be in the eight at Trinity College," said Garth sadly.

"When I was young. And pulling in a racing-shell isn't the same as in one of these tubs--as you will find out later on. Cheer up, old chap; there's a small boy's foot-race coming off, I hear."

There was, and Garth, being a long-legged person of great fleetness, won it: and was immediately stricken with remorse at having beaten little Joe, to whom he apologized for the year's seniority that gave him the victory. Joe was philosophic, and forgot races and defeat altogether when Garth suggested that they should adjourn to one of the stores and find out what sweets those emporiums stocked. They reappeared later with bulging cheeks and impeded utterance, and took up positions as spectators with renewed joy.

Two sides were playing water-polo--scrambling in ten feet of water for a gaily-painted bladder, which ducked and bobbed in the waves like a live thing. It was an exciting game, and caused helpless mirth among the spectators, when a confident player, racing with the ball for goal, found his leg grasped by an opponent who had dived below him, and was dragged, spluttering and furious, under the surface; or when the assailant, rising triumphant with the ball, felt another leap bodily upon him, so that they disappeared together, while the ball rocked gaily away. Luck and pluck counted almost equally in it, and the victory was apt to go to those who had swallowed least salt water. Then came a race for men mounted astride on barrels, who propelled them through the water with their hands and feet; which was easy enough when the movements were careful, but the excitement of the finish caused the riders to paddle frantically, whereupon their steeds rolled over promptly, and there were wild scenes of catching and remounting, while a boy, who had prudently gone slowly, paddled in alone as the winner--unnoticed by the other competitors, who continued to scramble and tussle for their slippery steeds, filling the air with the tumult of their remarks, while the spectators rocked with laughter. Finally it was brought home to them, through the gentle medium of a megaphone, that the race had been over for some time, when they dispersed, much crestfallen. The crowd, very happy, sought further diversion.

"You've got to go in for the umbrella race, 'Possum," said Tom.

"Not me!" said 'Possum firmly.

"You must," Tom rejoined. "I've borrowed the lightest little dinghy you ever saw for you, and the biggest umbrella. It belongs to old Pa Smith, and it's like a tent."

"I say!" ejaculated 'Possum, staring. Pa Smith was known to disapprove of borrowing or of lending. He was a dour old man, farming a good piece of land near the township; and no person in the district was less likely to do another a favour. Hence 'Possum's amazement.

"How ever did you manage it?" she gasped.

"Bless you, he never raised an objection," said Tom cheerfully. "Take Pa Smith the right way, and he'll eat out of your hand."

"You will have to race now, 'Possum," Aileen said, laughing. "Do!"

"I wouldn't win," said 'Possum, after the manner of bashful young ladies.

"I suppose you wouldn't, if any one beat you; but they mightn't," said Tom. "Here's Polly, longing to cox you. You can't refuse, 'Possum--it isn't decent, when I've risked all I have for you in getting that umbrella!"

"All right," said 'Possum, capitulating, while Garth uttered "Hooray!" "Thanks, awfully, Mr. Macleod. When does it start?"

"Pretty soon," Tom answered. "You might as well get into the dinghy and practise, as those girls are doing." He nodded towards some small boats out on the lake, in which fair maidens, apparently at the mercy of wind and tide, were endeavouring to use large umbrellas as sails, with varying success. Small boys in boats hovered near, cheering and jeering their efforts in a manner which filled the umbrella-maidens with embarrassment and wrath. Their threats of vengeance floated across to the onlookers.

'Possum established Polly at the tiller, and paddled away from the wharf. The dinghy was certainly light, and the umbrella, rolled and laid along a thwart, looked huge; but she found, on approaching the others, that they were just as well equipped; and Flossie Parker, who had a great reputation in this branch of sport, had a dinghy that was considerably lighter. 'Possum sighed, and hoped faintly that her umbrella was smaller.

She shipped her oars, and unfurled Pa Smith's property. It was a majestic umbrella, with an ivory crutch-handle that made it easy to hold, and lessened the chance of having it wrenched by a puff of wind from her grasp. Again, a spasm of wonder floated across her mind, that Pa Smith should ever have parted, even temporarily, with his well-loved possession. It was so unlike Pa Smith. However, it was merely another instance of Mr. Macleod's remarkable power of getting what he wanted; and 'Possum had ceased to wonder at that. So she said, "Now, look where you're goin', Polly, 'cause you can be quite sure that a lot of other people won't!" and spread her umbrella to catch the wind.

It was a fitful breeze, that occasionally sent them spinning along, and sometimes dropped altogether, leaving them to wallow on the water unaided. At such moments Polly's anguish was painful to behold.

"What'll we do if it does that in the race, 'Poss?" she wailed.

"Why, bless you, if it does, won't every one be in the same box?" 'Possum answered. But Polly looked unconvinced and anxious, and her brow only cleared when a fresh puff sent them gaily on.

There were only five competitors altogether. Two others arrived on the scene, but on comparing their heavy boats and small umbrellas with those of the other girls, they prudently withdrew, much to 'Possum's relief: the lagoon was not wide enough for a large number of starters. They dodged about here and there, occasionally colliding, and apologizing with much forced politeness, while under their breath they reviled their coxswains. Most of these latter were small girls chosen for their light weight rather than for their ability; but Flossie Parker's was of proved skill, and had steered her to victory in many a hard-fought contest. Flossie's umbrella was red, and of a mighty size. "Still, I'm blessed if I think it has the acreage of Pa Smith's!" thought 'Possum, comparing them.

A shout from the starter's boat brought them into line near the head of the lagoon.

"The finish is the line between those two boats ahead--near the far jetty," said the starter, who looked careworn. "Shut your umbrellas. When I fire the pistol, you open 'em and get along. Any one touching her oars is disqualified. First over the line wins. Bumping not allowed. Now then, are you all ready? Right-oh. Go!"

The pistol's sharp crack cut across the sudden silence. It was followed by five simultaneous snaps, as the umbrellas shot into the air and were unfurled. They spread wide to catch the breeze.

Nothing occurred. There was, at the moment, no breeze. The five competitors wriggled and jerked their sails, and held them at various angles to woo the difficult zephyr, but the zephyr obstinately remained away. The boats began to drift out of line. Loud cheers arose from the shore, with pleasant shouts of encouragement, under which the cheeks of the fair starters burned.

"Mighty funny, I don't think!" snapped Flossie Parker. "I suppose they fancy they're jolly clever. Blow the old wind!" a pious remark which was made on general principles, since, at the moment, there was no wind to blow.

"Push 'er, Flossie! Get out an' push, why don't yer?" The cheering words floated across from the wharf; and Flossie screamed an angry answer.

"I say, Poll, be ready," said 'Possum, in a low tone. "The breeze is coming." She had glanced over her shoulder, seeing a ruffle on the surface of the lake.

No one else saw it quite as quickly, and when the puff struck them it found some of the competitors not ready. Two boats promptly collided, and disentangled themselves with difficulty. It is not the easiest matter to guide a boat describing an erratic course in the water under a wobbly umbrella, especially when coxswains of tender years lose their heads; and the two boats in question lost much ground, and never quite made it up. The other three went away gallantly, 'Possum a length ahead. Miss Parker had been taken by surprise, but her natural instinct was quick, and she was speedily in pursuit. The third competitor, a stout girl with a green umbrella and a very light dinghy, kept level with her. Loud howls came from the shore, over which could be distinctly heard the shrill pipe of little Joe, who threw his head back and vociferated, "Go it, 'Poss!" without ceasing for an instant. Afterwards it was doubtful whether little Joe had seen all of the race, but it was quite certain that he had never ceased to yell!

The breeze died away, but with the strange perversity of summer breezes it gave a tiny last flicker which seemed especially for the benefit of Miss Parker. "It was that small she caught it all in her umbrella!" said Possum, afterwards. It took her ahead, while the two other leading boats were motionless; to the anguish of Polly, she floated slowly past them. The smile of the runner who sees victory flickered about her mouth. "When I get me nose in front, they don't often see more than me heels again," was her reflection.

Again the little wind ruffled the lake and quivered towards them. Polly, rigid, with her hand on the tiller, was as ready as 'Possum. The three boats slipped forward, coming nearer and nearer to the line across the water that marked the goal. There was a steady roar from the shore--cheers, laughter, and advice, mingled inextricably.

"'Possum's beat," said Nick O'Connor sadly. "Bother that Parker girl!"

The breeze dropped again to short puffs. 'Possum rose to her feet suddenly, holding the umbrella high over her tall head, at a cunning angle; and suddenly her boat shot forward. She was level with Flossie before the latter's boat began to move, then she drew ahead slowly, and inch by inch they crept on, while the howls from the shore grew more and more frantic. Miss Parker tried every trick of umbrella generalship that she knew, but she could not quite make up the distance. 'Possum's boat touched the line half a length ahead.

"Well, I'm blessed!" said Flossie sourly. "I don't know how you managed that!"

"No more do I," 'Possum answered. "Just luck. Now then, Polly, you behave yourself." For Polly, given wholly up to triumph, was threatening to turn somersaults in the stern.

"H'm," said Flossie, regarding the ecstatic Polly. "How old's she?"

"Seven," 'Possum answered.

"Oh!" Flossie shrugged her shoulders. "Mine's near twice as old, an' weighs twice as much."

"Pity she doesn't steer twice as well, isn't it?" remarked 'Possum composedly. Sourness to herself might be borne patiently, but when it touched Polly it was another matter. Polly, however, having no fine scruples, did not hesitate to fight her own battles.

"An' your dinghy only weighs half what ours does!" she shrilled. "Beat yer--smarty!"

"Be quiet, Polly!" 'Possum said sharply. She took the paddles and turned the boat towards the shore. Polly, utterly unabashed, glared angrily at Miss Parker as they drew away, but was reduced to a lamentable state of mind by the conduct of Flossie's coxswain, who put but her tongue at her with gestures of scorn and derision. Polly would gladly have retaliated in kind but for wholesome fear of her sister, who had been known to fall severely on such natural exhibitions of distaste for a foe. She endeavoured to content herself by tilting her nose in the air as far as Nature would permit; but it was an unsatisfying reprisal, and cast a gloom over her until they neared the shore and caught sight of little Joe's face of ecstasy.

"Knew you'd win, 'Poss! Knew you'd win!" he shouted, capering up and down. 'Possum looked sheepish.

"Behave, Joe, can't you?" she said.

"Good girl, 'Possum--we're proud to know you," Tom said, mooring the dinghy to a ring on the wharf. "Just give me that umbrella, will you?"

He took the umbrella and turned to pass through the crowd. But a new event was beginning, and he found it impossible to get through, for the wharf was already thronged, and fresh people were endeavouring to arrive at a point where they could see. Tom gave up the attempt, and turned to his party.

"Better stay where we are," he said. "It's the greasy pole: and the natural savagery of all good people is bringing every one to gloat over the sufferings of their fellow-men. Can you see, Aileen?"

"Beautifully, thanks," said Aileen cheerfully. "I'm glad we're not going to miss this."

"Your character's deteriorating," said Tom, with gloom. "Here, Garth, hop up on my shoulder." He swung the small boy up and turned to the edge of the wharf.

A long sapling had been lashed to the wharf, projecting out over the water. Its smooth surface shone from a liberal allowance of soft soap, and a small flag was thrust into a hole bored in its far end. As they watched, the first competitor appeared--a tall boy, in an old shirt and trousers. He started gingerly along the pole, and made excellent progress until he was half-way. Then his feet suddenly slid from under him, and he sat down abruptly, the pole quivering and bounding under his weight. He clawed wildly at the slippery surface. Then the water received him kindly.

He rose to the surface amid the shrieks of the delighted populace, and struck out for the steps, as the next competitor, a Melbourne schoolboy in a bathing-suit, appeared on the pole. Unfortunately, his career was even shorter. His first step was rash, his second even wilder: he slid for a moment, and then the end came quickly. Just below him the first lad was swimming. The Melbourne boy fell on him bodily, and they disappeared together in a whirlpool of spray. Those of the onlookers who had room at this point sat down on the wharf and held their aching sides.

The fun grew fast and furious as, one after another, valiant men and boys started along the pole, and, sooner or later, plunged, gasping and struggling, into, the depths. Some got as far as half-way, others succumbed in the first three steps, but all alike went down, and the various methods of their falling were sufficient to keep the spectators in roars of laughter. Finally a black boy achieved a meteoric progress, shuffling sideways along the pole so swiftly that it seemed he gave his feet no time to slip until almost at the very end, where the pole narrowed in what Tom termed an inhuman fashion. Then he shot into space: but, even in falling, he grasped the flag, and brought it proudly with him from the bottom of the lake.

"Oh, wasn't it lovely!" Garth gasped. His peals of laughter had rung out even above the joyful shouts all round him. "Oh, I wish they'd do it all over again!"

"Do you!" said a wet and greasy competitor, striding wrathfully past in search of his clothes. Then he met the dancing eyes and grinned in friendly fashion, and disappeared among the crowd.

Tom put his son down, and tucked the handle of Pa Smith's umbrella under his arm, holding it against his side.

"I'll see you presently," he said to Aileen. "Must go and return this." He moved away with the throng.

Where the goods store blocked part of the end of the wharf, a wrathful voice fell on his ear.

"If the Gov'n'ment 'ud give us a policeman or two in this township it 'ud be better for honest people! Thieves! the place is full of them!"

"Aw, I wouldn't say that, Mr. Smith," said the soothing voice of Nick O'Connor.

"You mightn't, but I would. An' so'd you, if you had your property lifted as soon as you turned your back!"

"Go on, now!" said Nick sympathetically. "You don't mean----"

"I mean there's a pack o' thieves here. Me good umbrella that I left in the trap----"

"It ain't gone, surely?"

"Yes it is. My word, if I could lay me hands on whoever took it! I've had that umbrella these fifteen years."

"Mighty good luck it didn't split with 'Possum," said Tom to himself. He grinned, flattening his body against the wall of the shed.

"You don't say!" Nick was murmuring. "I wouldn't have thought any one 'ud go stealin' an umbrella. But with all these blacks about, you never can tell."

"Me father used to shoot blacks for stealin'," boomed Mr. Smith. "I dunno why they'd object if you did that now. A pack of idle, useless, thievin'----"

"Well, you don't know for certain it was them," said Nick. "Look here, now--are you sure you didn't leave it at home?"

"Do you take me for a fool?" demanded the wrathful Mr. Smith.

"Not me. But the best of us is careless sometimes. Well, are you sure you hunted all over the trap?"

"It wasn't on the seat, where I left it. It wouldn't have walked underneath, would it?"

"You never can tell," Nick said wisely. His mild eye, travelling round, encountered Tom's, and, struck by something in his child-like expression, examined him yet further. The end of an ivory crutch-handle, tucked tightly under Tom's arm, caught and held his glance, and for a moment he looked unutterable things. Then he bestowed his attention anew upon Pa Smith, moving a little so as to interpose his person between him and Tom. He felt a grateful dig as Tom slipped past him.

"It's funny how almost any one'll make mistakes," he said. Out of the tail of his eye he beheld a tall figure hurrying down the street towards the tree where Pa Smith's buggy stood in a patch of shade. "Say we go an' look in your buggy again for that little parrysole of yours, Mr. Smith. Then, if it ain't there, we'll go on up to the hotel an' get a little something to console you."

On the way to the buggy they met Tom sauntering back, apparently at peace with all men. He grinned at Nick cheerfully as they passed--Nick's gentle voice acting as accompaniment to the loud wailing of the bereaved Mr. Smith. It changed to blank amazement as they, neared the buggy, where an ivory-handle lay conspicuously protruding from under the seat.

"Well, I'm hanged!" said Mr. Smith.

"Didn't I tell you the best of us makes mistakes?" murmured Nick.

"It was great luck winning that race," said 'Possum next day, "But the one thing I never will understand to me dying moment is how you managed to make old Pa Smith lend you that umbrella, Mr. Macleod. An' he never raised a single objection, you said?"

"Not one," Tom answered. He paused. "I wonder," he said reflectively, "if that might be because I never asked him!"

*CHAPTER XIX*

*THE ORDER OF RELEASE*

"Don't you think it's time Garth was home?"

Aileen Macleod was standing by the garden gate, shading her eyes as she looked across the paddocks. Her husband, who had come upon her unexpectedly, laughed a little.

"Oh, hen with one chick!" he said, "will you ever learn to let that boy out of your sight for an hour?"

"Indeed, I think I'm very good," Aileen defended herself. "I let him go all over the country, which you know very well, and climb enormous trees, and go swimming with the O'Connor boys, and use an axe, and do all sorts of things that would have filled us both with horror six months ago. And I take hold of myself with both hands and say, 'Aileen Macleod, you're not going to be nervous and make a poodle of your son!' But this is the first day he has ridden Roany to the township, Tom: and, you know, Roany isn't old Jane!"

"No, thank goodness!" said Tom with fervour. "But you needn't worry, really, dear: he manages Roany quite well, and the pony is perfectly safe. And you _are_ good, and so am I, because often I'm just as nervous about the blessed kid as you are--so there!" They smiled at each other. "Anyhow, here he comes. The little beggar's racing, too!"

Garth came into sight, sitting very straight, with his hands well down, and with Roany going at his best hand-gallop. He took the shortest cut across the paddock, which included a fair-sized log, over which the pony hopped gaily, while both parents gasped.

"I didn't know Garth could sit that!"

"Neither did I," said Tom, with a grin. "Oh, he's developing! I wonder what's making him hurry so."

"_I_ wonder where are his bundles," said the lady of the house, with some concern. "I provided him with two sugar-bags, and he was to bring bread and meat, and all sorts of oddments, and to come home slowly. Can anything be wrong?"

"He doesn't look as if there were," Tom said.

He did not. As he caught sight of the two who waited for him at the gate, he took off his hat and whirled it round his head with a mighty shout, digging his heels into Roany, who shot up the hill in response. They pulled up.

"What's your hurry, old son? And where are your bundles?"

"You don't know who's coming!" Garth cried, with dancing eyes.

"'Possum?"

"No! 'Possum can come any old day. This is a most awfully special visitor. Hurry up and guess!"

"The only person who would be that," said Tom slowly, "is old Metcalfe----"

Garth gave a little shout of joy.

"Good old Daddy! I knew you'd guess!"

"I say, it isn't really, Garth?"

"Yes, it is. He's coming out now, too."

"Now! But when did he come?"

"He came by last night's boat. He wrote, and sent you a telegram, too, but of course we haven't sent in for the mail for three days--I 'specs they're both in this bundle," said Garth, hauling a packet of letters from his pocket. "So when he got here and found no one to meet him he wouldn't come out last night, and he stayed at the hotel. I met him just starting out in a buggy." Garth gave an irrepressible chuckle. "He didn't know me from Adam. I rode up, and said, 'Hallo, doctor!' and he said, 'Who are you, young man?' and looked at me as if I was a wombat."

"What did you say?" asked his mother.

"I just laughed and laughed, it was so funny. And then he suddenly said, 'By Jove, it's Garth!' and he jumped out of the buggy and came and felt me all over, to see how fat I'd got. So I gave him all the bundles, and I raced on ahead to tell you. He'll be here in two jiffs."

"Then, this is where I hurry," said Aileen. "Thank goodness, I turned out the spare room two days ago! It must have been a brain-wave!"

"Come and we'll help," Tom said to Garth. "Let your pony go."

They flung themselves at what remained of the morning's housework with such good will that preparations for dinner were well established, and every room shining, when the hotel buggy drove up, and they all trooped to the gate.

"Well!" said Dr. Metcalfe, pausing on the veranda. "Let me look at you all."

He looked from one to the other, until Aileen complained that the look was becoming a stare. Perhaps it was upon her that it dwelt longest. Garth and his father had filled out and broadened beyond belief: they were deeply tanned and clear-eyed, and in each was a curious look of resoluteness that the doctor had never seen before. But the change in Aileen was deeper. The fragile, willowy girl of Toorak had gone: in her place was a woman with lines about her eyes, yet a new beauty in her face. A gracious woman, with perfect health on her brown cheek, and in her eyes perfect happiness. He looked at her hands: in the old days they had been like the inner petals of a rose, as soft and smooth, and delicately pink. Now they were still smooth and well-kept, but hard, and bronzed. She held them out to him with a quaint little gesture.

"You needn't look at my hands--I told you I was a working-woman!"

He took the slim hands in his, and bent over them.

"I find them extremely good hands," he said "And all of you make a tonic for tired eyes. I haven't seen three such visions of health for years, and the curious part of it is that though you're lone exiles you don't look unhappy!"

"I'm afraid we've given up the 'exile' stand-point," Tom said, laughing. "It was pathetic, of course; but it grew so ludicrously incorrect that we had to abandon it for the sake of our own self-respect. Come in, old man, and get your coat off."

"You must bring him to the kitchen when he's ready," Aileen declared. "If I don't cook the dinner there won't be any, and you needn't think I'm going to miss any of his visit!"

"We'll come and help cook," the doctor said.

He watched them, later--Aileen, with her sleeves rolled above her elbows, compounding pastry, while Tom prepared vegetables, and Garth scrubbed potatoes.

"Do you always manage this way?"

"Mercy, no!" said Tom. "She won't let us. She's proud, and haughty, and insists on doing everything herself, and she hunts us out into the paddocks to toil in the heat--doesn't she, Garth?"

"And then they come in, and bully me outrageously, and turn me out of my own kitchen!" said Aileen, laughing. "Isn't it a nice one, doctor?"

"It is," said the little doctor, looking round the white kitchen, with its gleaming tins and bright stove. "I never saw such a companionable place. Do you mind if I spend most of my time here?"

"Not a bit," said Aileen. "We do, ourselves." She peeped through the oven, door at tartlets that were becoming puffy and brown. "But you must see all the estate. Tom will take you after dinner."

"You must come, too," said Tom.

"If I can."

"H'm," said Tom reflectively. He nodded presently to Garth, and they slipped away.

"Just ride over to 'Possum," Tom said. "Tell her we've got a visitor, and ask her can we borrow her for a bit. Mother mustn't be too much tied for the few days the doctor can spare."

Garth nodded, and fled to the stable for his bridle; and thus it was that, just as dinner was over and Aileen was experiencing the momentary inward pang that comes before tackling clearing away and washing-up, 'Possum rode up.

"Got a free afternoon," she said, having greeted the stranger shyly. "There's not much doing on the farm just now. Thought I might do a few odd jobs."

She fell upon the remains of the meal and removed them to the kitchen, Aileen following, protesting.

"Now, look here, Missus," said 'Possum, "ain't you got a visitor?--I mean, _haven't_ you? And here am I with not enough to do to keep meself warm. Just you all go out an' show him the place, an' I'll clear up an' get tea."

"Oh, 'Possum, you are a dear!" said Aileen gratefully.

"Poof!" said 'Possum. "An' I'm comin' to-morrow, an' every day while he's here. Not often I get a chance to use that little stove!" She looked affectionately at the glass door of the oven, and then removed Aileen gently but firmly from the kitchen.

They wandered over the estate throughout the afternoon, pointing out to their visitor beauties of sheep and calves, whereat he was politely unappreciative, and beauties of fern gullies, and lake, and hillside, which made him as enthusiastic as the most exacting proprietor could desire. They showed him where the crops had been, and where the lucerne defied the approach of winter and still grew green and strong; and they quoted for him prices of cattle, and sheep, and pigs, of fowls, and eggs, and vegetables, until his brain reeled. They dragged him up the ladder into the loft, full of fragrant hay ready for the winter; they took him to the racks where golden maize-cobs were drying, and to the shed where sacks of peas stood. "Thrashed them myself, with a flail," said Tom proudly. They introduced him to the fat Berkshire piglings in the sty, and to the incubator which was to hatch enormous broods of chickens and make Aileen's fortune; they showed him sheds and stables, tool-room and garden implements, and crops of root vegetables and winter cabbage, until he gaped with awe. And at last they brought him into the front garden, where masses of bronze Japanese chrysanthemums blazed in the warm sunshine of late autumn; and on the veranda 'Possum had long chairs ready and a tea-table, brave with bright silver and china, with tea-cakes smoking in a hot dish over a spirit-lamp, and a copper kettle bubbling. The weary visitor sat down thankfully.

"Eh, but this is the most comfortable place I've seen for a long time!" he said. "The very look of this veranda would make a man hungry, Miss O'Connor!" At which 'Possum blushed hotly, and thanked Providence once more that the tea-cakes had turned out like feathers.

She rode away after leaving the supper-table ready. They watched her cantering across the paddock. To-day she rode a fiery young mare of her father's, sitting it as though she were part of the animal. It shied violently at a bunch of dead leaves, and the little doctor gasped, but apparently 'Possum had not noticed any movement. A clump of trees hid her.

"So that's the right-hand man?" the doctor said thoughtfully.

"That's the godsend," Tom answered.

"That's the dearest, best-hearted----" Words did not come easily to Aileen. But she looked after 'Possum with a smile.

"Well, I knew from your letters that she was an extraordinarily good farm-hand," said the doctor. "But you didn't prepare me for finding an uncommon nice girl as well."

"That's Aileen's doing," said Tom.

"Indeed it's not," Aileen said quickly. "I have only put on a little polish. But 'Possum is her own dear, honest self. She has taught me more than I could ever teach her; and not only work, but things that matter more." But she would not say what those things were.

Dr. Metcalfe came from Garth's bedroom that evening with a very contented face.

"Well?" said Tom and Aileen together.

"I've overhauled every inch of your son," said the doctor, sitting down. "And I would not have thought that eight months could make such a difference. There is absolutely no sign of the old delicacy. He's just a great, hardy young ruffian, and if you weren't growing into a bigger edition of the same thing yourself, Tom, I should advise you to be polite to him, in case he handled you roughly! Seriously, I'm enormously pleased. You must have had a hard time, but it has paid you well."

"Garth is the main thing, of course," Tom said. "But it has paid in other ways, too. Of course, we have had luck. We struck a wonderful season, and we had no trouble with drought or bush-fires, or anything else. We haven't made a fortune. But there's money in it--not enough to get excited over, but enough to make one feel easy about the future. What with the stock, the wool, the crops, and the fowl-yard and vegetable-garden, we've had a very decent season, haven't we, Aileen?"

"Yes," said Aileen solemnly. "I'm going to have a new hat!"

"You can have the best hat in Melbourne," said her husband.

"Thank you, but I won't bother," said she. "It's at Barke's, and it's three-and-elevenpence. I shall get it next time I drive in."

The doctor looked from one to another, his eyes very kindly.

"Well," he said, and paused; "I hunted you away from Melbourne, to make your boy into a strong fellow. And you've done it. I don't want to make rash promises or raise false hopes. But Garth has improved so wonderfully that I cannot see that there is any real reason for you to bury yourselves down here for ever. If you gave him, say, another year of Gippsland, I think you might with perfect safety take him back to Melbourne. You'd have to watch him, of course. But, with an occasional holiday in the country, he would get on quite well."

Tom looked at Aileen, and she at him.

"What do you say?" said each.

The doctor laughed.

"I'm going out to smoke a pipe," he said. "You can talk it over together. But it would be safe to come."

He went out.

"You'd like to go back, dear," Tom said. "You've been most awfully plucky, but I know it hasn't been easy. I'm glad it isn't a life-sentence for you. I was afraid it meant that."

"I don't think I'd be afraid," she said.

"You're never afraid of anything," said Tom.

"I am still afraid, and I always will be, whenever I turn out a pudding!" Aileen said quaintly. "There is always in me a lurking horror that it will be sodden in the middle! And I will be afraid of snakes until I die. But I have given up being afraid of the estate. I like it."

Something in her tone made him look at her steadily.

"You mean----?" he said.

"I wish I knew what you wanted," she said suddenly. "Are you keen to go back, Tom? You did like it all, you know--Melbourne, and races, and dinners, and golf, and theatres, and all the old life. You never would say you missed it, but I knew you did."

"I did: for a month," he said. "Then it just faded. I would have gone on missing it, I think, if you hadn't been so content. I don't know how you managed it. But it used to make a fellow ashamed of himself for feeling blue, with your happy face always about ... and to hear you singing."

She drew a long breath.

"Then--don't you want to go back? Ah, tell me, Tom!"

Tom Macleod laughed.

"I'll go back to-morrow, if you like," he said. "But otherwise--well, I think there are plenty of people in Melbourne without me."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she cried. "Tom, I don't want to go back!"

"Are you certain?" he asked. "It's a hard life for you, my girl."

"Indeed, it isn't. I'm alive, now--and I don't think I ever was in Melbourne. I thought I was happy there, and indeed I was. But this is different, somehow. One has so many interests. I feel part of the world now, not just a drone."

"Just raising chickens and vegetables?"

"Some one has to do it," she said. "And I didn't raise anything before--except one small boy, and even that job was nearly spoilt! Now I'm part of the world's work. Oh, I like it, Tom! You do, too, don't you?"

"My tastes have become altogether common," he said, laughing. "I'm enormously interested in the crops we've planned out for next season, and I'm going to put in Tasmanian potatoes that will make Cuninghame open its eyes! And I'm going to sow onions, and make an enormous fortune----"

"And I strawberries," Aileen said eagerly. "Think of the summer visitors, all eating them, and my bank-book swelling!"

"And there's money in those calves we bought at Metung," he said. "With that lucerne, and all the winter feed we've got, we'll have something worth looking at in the spring!"

They looked at each other, and laughed.

"So the end of it is, we say, 'Thank you very much, kind sir, but we don't want to go back from the land'--and we turn into old farmers," Aileen said. "Won't Garth rejoice!"

"And 'Possum?" Tom said.

"Oh--'Possum!" Her face grew very soft. "I told you I would always be afraid of some things, Tom. I should never have been brave enough to tell 'Possum I was going away!"

THE END.

_Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner, _Frome and London_

* * * * * * * *

*The Wonder Book*

*THE FAVOURITE PICTURE
ANNUAL FOR BOYS & GIRLS*

_Crown 4to Picture Boards, 5s. net. In handsome Cloth Gilt
Binding, 6s. net. Twelve Coloured Plates. 264 Pages.
Hundreds of Illustrations._

FROM the first issue of this famous Annual the constant aim has been to present for the delight and entertainment of the little ones THE BEST, AND ONLY THE BEST, in picture, verse, and story. The COLOURED PLATES are all dainty works of art. The full-page and other tinted drawings in the text number several hundreds, making the volume the most sumptuous gift book for children issued at a moderate price.

THE CHILDREN _WILL_ HAVE IT

The stories and verses--all by favourite writers--include fairy tales, incidents of home and school life, stories of birds and animals, adventures by land and sea, and quaint rhymes and jingles, and they have the rare merit of appealing to children of all ages and conditions.

All young folk agrees that there is

NO PRESENT FOR CHRISTMAS OR THE
BIRTHDAY TO EQUAL THE WONDER BOOK

WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, LONDON, E.C. 4.

* * * * *

*The Wonder Books*

_Each Crown 4to, Picture Boards, 6s. net. Twelve to
Sixteen Coloured Plates in each. 264 Pages.
Over 300 Illustrations._

These are not Annuals, but gift books appropriate to every season of the year and to every occasion--birthdays, prize-givings, Christmas, etc. They are constantly revised and brought up to date, and contain much that is of interest not only to young people but to their elders.

*The Wonder Book of Aircraft*

All about our wonderful Air Services "the most romantic fighting force in history." Tells also of the new age about to dawn when airships and aeroplanes will be as commonly used as railway trains and motor cars.

No single volume published since the beginning of aviation has contained such a wealth of illustrative material, coloured plates, drawings and photographs. A truly fascinating book.

*The Wonder Book of the Navy*

Describes the Navy "from within," and will be found of absorbing interest to all classes of the community, to the middle-aged citizen no less than to the boy or girl for whom it has been primarily prepared. The articles are all by leading naval experts and officers, and the pictures--of which there are over Three Hundred--present every phase of life afloat and ashore, in War and in Peace. The SIXTEEN COLOURED PLATES include several fine pictures of naval engagements during the War.

*The Wonder Book of Soldiers*

Now that the Army is practically the Nation, and there is scarcely a family some members of which are not serving with the Colours, this favourite volume is in greater demand than ever. By general consent it gives a better idea of life in the British Army, both in Peace and War, than any other book of its kind. The numerous pictures represent every side of Army life and all branches of the Service. The Defence Forces of the Empire are also described, and there are interesting accounts of the great Allied Armies, including that of the United States. The book is a veritable mine of entertainment and instruction, both for young people and their seniors.

*The Wonder Book of Ships*

This fascinating volume, descriptive of "life on the ocean wave," is now in its 8th Edition, and is popular in every part of the world where our sea-loving race is found. It tells in simple language all about the great liners and those less showy vessels of the Mercantile Marine whose services have proved to be of as vital importance to the Empire as those of the Royal Navy itself.

*The Wonder Book of Railways*

is a great favourite with all boys and girls who are "keen" on railways and even the more elderly "season" holder will find in it much that will amuse and interest. In addition to over 300 illustrations there are TWELVE COLOURED PLATES, representing some of the most famous of the world's trains. The interest is not confined to Great Britain, for there are also pictures and articles concerning railways in Australia, Canada, the United States, and elsewhere.

*The Wonder Book of Empire*

Recent events and pending developments alike render it of the utmost importance that we should know more of the lands under the Union Jack, of their peoples and resources, their wonders and attractions. Especially is it important that the children of all parts of the Empire should realise how glorious is their heritage.

*The Wonder Book of Children*

The War has taught us all the importance of knowing more of the ways of life and modes of thought of other peoples, especially of those gallant Allies who have stood by us in the fight for freedom. The articles, though brimful of information, are brightly written and as thrilling as any story, while the Illustrations are absolutely unique in their variety and interest, having been garnered from every quarter of the globe.

*The Wonder Book of Animals*

All children who love animals--are there any who do not?--hail this handsome volume with delight. Amusement and instruction are so interwoven that, while it can be truthfully said there is not a dull page in the book, it is equally true that there is not a useless one. The BOOK or ANIMALS is suited to children of all ages.

* * * * *

CHARMING STORIES BY

*Isabel M. Peacocke*

_Fully Illustrated. Crown 8vo. Presentation Edition, with
burnished edges, 5s. net. Also in cloth, 3s. 6d. net._

*Robin of the Round House*

*Patricia Pat*

*By HAROLD COPPING*

With Six Illustrations

ARGUS (Melbourne).--"Another pretty little love story from the pen of Isabel Maud Peacocke will be welcomed by those who enjoyed 'My Friend Phil' ... Miss Peacocke knows just how to make a pleasant sentimental story out of a situation like this, making it a background for her picture of a little girl, Pat, who is just as sweet and loving and natural a little girl as possible, very tender hearted, and yet full of fun, winning all hearts, and getting into scrapes with her friend, ten-year-old Laurie."

*My Friend Phil*

*By MARGARET W. TARRANT*

With Six Illustrations in Colour

QUEENSLAND TIMES.--"A really delicious book ... without doubt it is far and away the best book, since Ethel Turner took the reading world by storm with her 'Seven Little Australians.' ... There is no laying down this book when opened until the end is reached, be the reader young or old."

*Dicky, Knight Errant*

*By HAROLD COPPING*

With Six Illustrations.

MELBOURNE AGE.--"Miss Isabel Maud Peacocke is heartily to be congratulated on the tone and ability of her book 'Dicky, Knight Errant.' Every class of reader will find a fresh enjoyment in following the adventures of Miss Peacocke's lovable Boy Scout ... a story brimful of excitement and charm. Miss Peacocke must take her place among that small group of talented Australasian women who have already done so much."

* * * * *

*Charming Colour Books
for Children*

_Large Crown 8vo. Cloth Gilt. Handsome Binding Design with
Pictorial Wrapper and Endpapers. 6s. net._

Each with 48 COLOURED PLATES

*By MARGARET W. TARRANT*

*Nursery Rhymes*

Not since the days of Kate Greenaway have the old nursery favourites been so daintily presented. Little Jack Horner, Jack Sprat, Tom Tucker, Old King Cole and their illustrious company are all here. The type is large and well-arranged, and by means of the full Index of First Lines any rhyme can be found in a moment.

*Fairy Tales*

All the favourite Nursery Stories--old and yet ever new--Red Riding Hood, Cinderella, The Sleeping Beauty, Puss in Boots, The Three Bears, Jack the Giant-Killer, Beauty and the Beast, the redoubtable Bluebeard, and a host of others. The text has been carefully edited in such a way that the youngest child can understand and enjoy the stories.

*Alice's Adventures in Wonderland*

The edition of Lewis Carroll's masterpiece. Never has an artist so successfully conceived the characters from a child's point of view or given more happy expression to the sly humour and mock seriousness of the story. This dainty volume, with its wealth of coloured plates, is easily superior to editions published at three and four times the price.

*Stories from Hans Andersen*

A selection of the stories which most appeal to younger children, including such favourites as "The Ugly Duckling," "The Little Mermaid," "The Tinder Box," "The Emperor's New Clothes," "The Snow Queen," and others. The great Danish story-teller has a wonderful hold on the affections of young people, and this book is sure to please.

* * * * *

*Stories by Mary Grant Bruce*

_Large Crown 8vo. Fully Illustrated. Cloth Gilt. 3s. 6d. net_

New Volume

*DICK*

With 8 Illustrations by J. MACFARLANE.

*'POSSUM*