A gold or silver field of decent rank and reputation must always compare favourably in its amusements with a town. In the wide range of his experiences, in war and peace, on land and water, British or foreign, the roving miner may challenge comparison with all sorts and conditions of men. Thus, he is never at a loss for a character to represent, a costume in which to disguise, or to heighten his personal attractions. The same rule applies to the women of the family, who have followed his wanderings, sharing in his privations or triumphs, as the case may be. Bearing with exemplary patience the inevitable hardships, they are none the less eager to recoup themselves when legitimate opportunities arise for amusement.

When Messrs. Bruce, Blount, and other magnates arrived on the scene, they were accommodated with seats on the daÏs, where they sat proudly in full public view, reflecting how sharply contrasted was the scene before them with any possible gathering on the site of the “Comstock Claim”—“of four men’s ground”—little more than a year ago! The great hall, seventy feet in length, by thirty in width, was brilliantly lighted, draped with flags of all nations, above which, surmounting the daÏs, the Union Jack reigned supreme. Upon the satin-like Huon pine floor strolled a motley crowd. Pirates and princes, peasants and brigands, ballerinas and matadors, mingled with dairy maids and broom girls, flower sellers and fishwives (whose “caller herrin’” had the smack of the well-remembered cry), while dowagers and duchesses, grisettes, tricoteuses, shepherds and sundowners, jostled here and there, in the dance, with a Red Indian, a cow-boy, or even an aboriginal in his blanket.

“The distinguished visitors,” so described in the morning’s Clarion, paid due respect to their municipal and other entertainers. They stood high in the estimation of their partners, whose looks and enthusiasm for the dance they would have been indeed hypercritical to have criticised. Charlie Herbert and Jack Clarke, the latter having got rid of his unfortunate lameness, were habited as a bushranger and a stock-rider, respectively. They remained till supper was over, during which exceedingly festive refection, Mr. Blount’s health, as a fearless explorer, was enthusiastically toasted, while Mr. Tregonwell was referred to as a world-renowned mining captain, and the father of the field. Charlie Herbert was eulogised as a worthy son of the soil, who, like Mr. Dereker—the speaker must say “Dick” Dereker (cheers)—was an honour to his native land, and like him, destined to make a name in the great world. Here every one rose, and cheered to the echo. The speeches in requital of this courtesy were brief but pointed; and long before the conclusion of the function, Messrs. Bruce and Blount quietly departed and soon after sunrise were on the way back to Hobart, accompanied by Charlie Herbert and Clarke, who deemed themselves to have a just claim to exceptional recreation after their pioneer experiences. Moreover, they explained that they could afford to enjoy themselves with a clear conscience, while Mr. Tregonwell remained on guard—a man never known to sleep on his post. So these young men chartered a four-in-hand drag, a few miles out of Hobart, and having borrowed a coach-horn, entered that city with all proper pomp and circumstance. When Charlie Herbert proceeded to “swing his reefing leaders,” and pull up at the General Post-Office, quite a crowd had assembled, eager to gaze on, and to welcome the prospectors of the wondrous Comstock mine.

After depositing themselves and their belongings at the Tasmanian Club, the junior shareholders stated with decision that, having had a fair allowance of hard work and hard living, they were now going to enjoy themselves; also to make some return for the hospitality they had enjoyed in former years. As pleasant detrimentals, though suspiciously regarded by cautious matrons, they had always, on the whole, been popular, their want of capital being overlooked in favour of their engaging manners and family connections. Now, as original shareholders in the great mining property of the day, they were princes, paladins, long-lost brothers; in fact, most desirable and distinguished. Everybody, from the Supreme Court judges downward, called on and made much of them. Without them no party was complete. At the polo meets they were conspicuous; they rode splendidly, every one said, as indeed they did, but not having been able to keep ponies in former years, this was their first opportunity of exhibiting that accomplishment in public.

Of course, they were not long in letting people know that they wanted to give their friends, and more particularly the ladies of Hobart, some kind of entertainment; the question now being of what pattern and dimensions it should consist. To this end grave consultations were held; of balls and parties there had been nearly enough—the young people were, strange to say, beginning to be tired of dancing.

Laura Claremont talked of going home to Hollywood soon. If not earlier, certainly next week. Mr. Bruce was becoming impatient; he began to think about mustering those polled Angus bullocks in the river paddocks for the Melbourne market, when a chance remark by Mrs. Blount settled the matter, and decided the character of the entertainment.

“How would it be to have a picnic party to the Hermitage?” she inquired, with an air of much innocence and simplicity. “There is a lovely road by Brown’s River, and such a view! No one is at the Bungalow now but a caretaker. There is one fine large room, and a grand verandah looking out to sea. The eatables, etc., could be arranged early in the day, and if we were a little late coming home, the nights are so lovely. We can have all the men-of-war people, and just in time, too; I heard they were to be off to the islands soon.”

“Magnificent!” cried out Charlie Herbert and Jack Clarke in one breath. “Mrs. Blount, you have saved our lives. Jack and I were getting quite low-spirited and suicidal. We could think of nothing worth while. Balls are played out. The races at Elwick were about the last excitement. A picnic on a vast and comprehensive scale is the very thing. Miss Maguire, when does the Admiral give the order for Nukuheva?”

Sheila blushed, and seemed taken aback, but rallying, answered, “‘The captain bold does not confide in any foremast hand, Matilda!’ Isn’t that in one of the Bab Ballads?”

“Oh! I thought Vernon Harcourt might have told you,” said Charlie. “You and he seemed so confidential the other evening.”

“Suppose you ask him yourself, Mr. Herbert? But, at any rate, it won’t be till the week after next.” Here everybody laughed, and the girl, seeing that she had “given herself away,” looked confused.

“Tell him not to be rude, Sheila. What business is it of his? Say you won’t go to his picnic, and then it will be a dismal failure.” Mrs. Blount stood alongside her protÉgÉe and looked threateningly at Master Charlie, who pretended to be shocked at his faux pas, and went down on one knee to Sheila to implore forgiveness.

“I’ve a great mind to box your ears, Mr. Herbert!” she said, as her face lighted up with a smile of genuine mirth, “but I suppose I must forgive you this time. Now, what about this picnic? that’s the real question, and where is it to be?”

“I vote for the Hermitage,” said Imogen. “Don’t you, Hilda? I drove you there one day with ‘Matchless.’”

“A lovely spot,” said Mrs. Bruce; “only I was afraid the mare would jump over the cliff once. The road is lovely; I feel sure all the world will come. We must have half-a-dozen four-in-hands—Imogen and I will be chaperons. I suppose you young men can forage up two more?”

“Miss Claremont!” suggested Jack Clarke. “She is so nice.”

“Quite agree with you,” said Imogen; “but she is not married yet. Suppose you ask Mrs. Wendover, of the ChÂlet, she is so kind, and, at the same time, capable of keeping order, which is necessary, Mr. Herbert, isn’t it?”

“Now, don’t be severe, Mrs. Blount! All you young married women get so dreadfully proper, and talk alarmingly about your husbands. I’ll find security for good behaviour.”

“Only my fun,” said Imogen. “But I’m afraid you’ve hurt Sheila’s feelings. Has she forgiven you?”

“Oh! Mrs. Blount, don’t tease him any more,” cried Sheila. “He looks really sorry. It was all my fault, for taking his chaff seriously.”

“What do you think of Lady Wood?” said Mrs. Bruce, “from West Australia?”

“The very one,” cried out all the council. “She has a habit of authority, as the wife of the Premier of the Golden West Colony—(“and, though this is a silver mine, ‘Shivoo,’ the relationship is obvious,” this interpolation was Mr. Jack Clarke’s). Those who are in favour, hold up your hands! Against it, nobody. The resolution is carried.”

“Now for ways and means,” said Charles Herbert. “First of all, the four-in-hand drags—there mustn’t be fewer than half-a-dozen, with power to add to their number; the men, too, must be able to drive. Claude Clinton and I will see to that. Of course we make him an honorary member of the committee of management. The affair wouldn’t be complete without him.”

“Of course not. (Chorus) ‘For he’s etc. etc.’”

“Isn’t it rather early for a song?” queried Mrs. Bruce.

“Not at all, when two such voices as yours and Mrs. Blount’s are available, and this is such a grand room to sing in. Music after breakfast—when you’ve nothing to do afterwards, is simply delicious.”

“Well, only one verse—Sheila and I will join in,” said Mrs. Bruce. “If Edward comes in, he’ll think we’re going out of our minds.”

The tribute to Mr. Clinton’s merits having been rendered with feeling, Sheila’s fresh voice holding a good position, the council went on to strict business.

“The drags first,” said Mr. Herbert, “the affair must be started properly—now, who are there? There’s Gerald Branksome from W.A., he can drive, I know—he won the tandem race at the Polo Gymkhana, and the Victoria Cross race at Hurlingham last year. He can be guaranteed. There’s Jim Allanson just down from Sydney, a well-known whip, I’ve seen him drive to Randwick from the Union Club. The Quorn Hall drag with its four greys will take some beating. I wired to Dick Dereker, he’ll turn up. Jack, are you good for the brake, with that off leg of yours? It’s a responsible position.”

“Count me in,” said that gentleman, who had been to San Francisco; “Joe Bowman will help with the brake business.”

“That’s good enough,” said Herbert, “Joe will keep an eye on you going down hill. I’ll have one, if I have to wire to Melbourne for a team, that makes the half-dozen, doesn’t it? I daresay there’ll be another or two by and by. Buggies, tandem carts, and private carriages may be left to their own discretion, or that of their owners—there’ll be no lack of them, I daresay.”

Once the great event was decided upon, neither difficulties nor delays were considered worthy of notice. The date was fixed: the invitations were sent out next morning. The social status of the entertainment being exceptional, no one dreamed of refusing. Rumours of the scale of magnificence upon which it was to be carried out commenced to circulate—for one of the conditions of unparalleled advantage in such affairs, an unrestricted bank balance, was in this case notorious.

Money being no object to these youthful Monte Christos, they were able to indulge, therefore, all the fancies of generous dispositions, with excited imaginations. No expense was spared; no thoughtful kindness omitted. A large proportion of the hackney carriages and other livery stable vehicles were secured. As at a contested election, they plied from the General Post-Office to the Hermitage, with free transit for all holders of invitation cards. The arrangements were complete and successful, beyond all previous holiday experiences, and when Charlie Herbert took the lead with an impressive team, and the belle of Hobart on the box seat of his drag, life, it may be confidently stated, had few richer moments, or more dazzling triumphs in store for him.

If he did not quote “let Fate do her worst,” there could be no doubt that he felt, deep down in his heart, the delicious, ever new, ever fresh sentiment of the poet.

Next in order came Edward Bruce, with Sheila on the box beside him, wild with joy and the excitement of such a position, of which, except in a dream fairy tale, she had never realised the possibility. Imogen, beside her, had insisted on relinquishing the place of honour. “No, Sheila, my dear! My fortune is told, your turn has yet to come, and you have all our best wishes, you know.”

“You are too good, Miss Imogen, Mrs. Blount, I mean! Really I don’t know what I am saying.”

“Well, you’re looking your best to-day, Sheila! Your dress couldn’t be better, and this lovely day has sent all the roses to your cheeks. Why, you might pass for a Tasmanian girl, really—and we know what that means.”

“Now, you girls!” said Edward Bruce, in accents of veiled command, “keep your eyes about you, going down this hill. It’s trying with a heavy load, and I’ve heard of accidents. Imogen, put your foot on the brake that side, and give me the least bit of help. Now, we’re on the level again. Isn’t that view of the sea lovely?”

Reginald Vernon Harcourt, R.N., Flag Lieutenant of H.M.S. Orlando, was understood to be of that opinion, as he leaned forward from his seat in the body of the coach, immediately behind the two young women aforesaid, and remarked as much. This was not the only statement he made before the procession pulled up at the Sandy Bay Hotel, at the base of the hill immediately below the Hermitage. And it did not go unnoted, that, being favourably situated for talking to Sheila over her right shoulder, he made prompt use of the position, as a naval strategist of experience, while Imogen and Jack Clarke similarly situated, did not appear to be quite so eager for conversation.

The enumeration of the drags and traps following would resemble that of the Greek ships at the siege of Troy. It will be sufficient to say that Mr. Dereker’s grey team was held to be the best, as to matching and style; Dick Dereker, the most finished exponent of the coaching science—worthy of the great annual pageant in Hyde Park. There were a few dissentients, who thought the Quorn Hall team and drag faultless. But the opposition votes were too powerful. He was “Dick Dereker,” therefore unapproachable in love, war, sport, and every other form of manly excellence. There was nothing more to be said. His name settled the matter.

As it happened, nothing could possibly have been more deliciously perfect than the weather. Warm, without oppressive heat or sultry feeling, the faint sea breeze, the murmuring lazy surge-roll, completed the magic spell, which invited to sensuous enjoyment, the happy possessors of unworn youth—in which class, the greater proportion of the guests were fortunately included.

The day, the season, the environment and attendant circumstances being propitious, so was the gathering, which was beyond all precedent successful. All the four-in-hands had turned up; there was such a crowd at the General Post-Office, that traffic was temporarily impeded. But that did not matter in Hobart, as it certainly would have done in Melbourne or Sydney—where indignation would have been aroused. The Tasmanian population is kindly and forbearing, especially to the stranger within their gates, through whom, in the season, it must be admitted, their revenues are substantially benefited. So, as the four-in-hands passed in single file down Davey Street, cheers rent the air, and hearty popular enthusiasm was evoked. The hill below the Hermitage was long and steep, so it was arranged that the drags and carriages were to be left at the hotel, where adequate accommodation had been provided, as well for the horses, as for the grooms and drivers to them appertaining. The walk up hill was neither long nor unduly fatiguing; providing also for reasonable deviations into the forest paths, whence more extended views might be enjoyed, or confidential communications exchanged. This arrangement seemed to suit the majority of the guests, who might, without loss of time, have been seen scattered over the sides and summit of the forest hill. At the sound of the great Chinese gong, a fragment of loot from the Summer Palace at Pekin, in the half-forgotten Chinese war, a strong converging force prepared to invest the Hermitage. Here were seen tables on trestles in the principal room, laden with all the good things which a very active, well-paid caterer had been able to collect. Haunches of venison, barons of beef, saddles of mutton, turkeys of great size and amplitude, wild fowl of all descriptions, lake trout, fresh salmon (frozen), grouse and pheasant, from the same miraculous arrangement, rendered the choice of viands difficult, and the taste of the most fastidious “gourmet,” easy to satisfy. With the popping of the first champagne corks, the conversation began to strike the note of cheerfulness proper to the occasion, after which the “crescendo” was maintained at an uninterruptedly joyous, even vivacious level.

Speeches were sternly deprecated; an immediate adjournment to the beach was proposed and promptly carried out. The shining sands invited to every kind of game and dance suitable to an open air revel. Sets of lancers were formed; games such as “twos and threes,” “oranges and lemons,” “hide and seek,” found enthusiastic supporters, while those pairs who had anything particular to say to each other found quiet paths and shady nooks in the forest fringe, which lay so conveniently close to the beaches and headlands.

There was, apparently, no lack of mutual entertainment, or necessity for the givers of the feast to invent fresh frolics, for, just as the low sun gave warning, and the last game of “rounders” came to an end—in which, by the way, Sheila, who was as active as a mountain colt, had particularly distinguished herself—the recall bugle was sounded. A late afternoon tea was served, and a descent made to the lower level, where the drags, carriages, buggies and dog-carts stood, with horses harnessed up, ready to start. Among these last-mentioned vehicles was one, a dog-cart, which was originally intended to accommodate more than one pair. The driver regretted his inability to take up a third person for want of room. It subsequently came out that, being a youth of foresight, he had removed the back seat before leaving Hobart, holding the ancient averment, “two’s company, three’s none,” still to be in force and acceptation. However, after the inevitable amount of bustle and occasional contention of ostlers, all the teams were duly mustered and loaded up in the same order as before.

There were, of course, certain reconstructions, among which it was noted that Mrs. Blount had relinquished her seat next to Miss Maguire, in favour of the Flag-Lieutenant of the Orlando, alleging preference for the higher seat behind, as by this removal she commanded a more extensive view of the glorious landscape, spread out by sea and shore, below and around. Sheila and Lieutenant Harcourt did not appear to be so deeply interested in scenery—at least, on this occasion—as they kept their heads down mostly, and spoke, though uninterruptedly, in rather a low tone during the homeward drive.

On one occasion, however, they looked up suddenly as a fresh young voice commenced the opening verse of a well-known song, and before the magical couplet of “The ship is trim and ready, and the jolly days are done,” was well over, the whole of the occupants of the drag, as well as those of the one immediately behind, joined in with tremendous enthusiasm, until, when the comprehensive statement that “They all love Jack” was reached, the very sea-gulls on the beach were startled, and flapped away with faint cries of remonstrance. Then, for one moment, the Flag-Lieutenant and Sheila looked into one another’s eyes, and read there something not wholly subversive of the sentiment.

The moon had risen, illumining the broad estuary, over which, in shimmering gleams, lustrous lines of fairy pathways stretched to the silvery mist of the horizon; star-fretted patches of lambent flame traversed the wavelets, which ever and anon raised a glittering spray upward, while from time to time the low but distinct rhythmic roll of the surges fell on the ear. Higher and higher rose the moon in the dark blue, cloudless sky—the surroundings were distinctly favourable to those avowals which the moon has, from time immemorial, had under her immediate favour and protection. If some of the merry maidens of the day’s festa listened to vows more ardent than are born of the prosaic duties of every-day life, what wonder? Next morning there was great excitement at the clubs, and among all the inner circles of Hobart society. Two engagements were “given out,” one being that of Lieutenant Vernon Harcourt, of the Orlando, to Miss Sheila Maguire, of Tumut Park, New South Wales, and the other of Mr. Charles Herbert, and a young lady to whom he had long been attached, though circumstances had hitherto delayed his declaration. Suspicions had been aroused as to Mr. Jack Clarke and another fair maid, but nothing was as yet “known for a fact.” Of course, little was done on the day following this stupendous entertainment. Everybody was too tired, or declared themselves to be so. The members of the Polo Club got up a scratch match, however, just to “shake off the effects of a late sitting at whist.”

A few ladies rode out to this affair, the ground being situated picturesquely on the bank of the broad Derwent. Among these Dianas was Sheila, riding a handsome thoroughbred, and escorted by Mr. Bruce, also exceptionally well mounted. Mr. Harcourt was observed to join them from time to time, when his “quarter” was up at polo. He was the show player of the fleet; always in a foremost position at the gymkhana. In this particular match, Sheila was observed to take great interest, turning pale, indeed, on one occasion when he was knocked off his horse in a violent passage at arms.

His opponent was adjudged to have been in the wrong, and well scolded by the captain of his side; the game went on, and Sheila recovered her roses—her spirits also, sufficiently to join in the cheering when Lieutenant Harcourt’s side won the match by a goal and two behinds.

Both of the engagements met with general approbation. The Tasmanian young lady and her lover belonged to (so to speak) “county” families, known from childhood to all the squirearchy of the island—always general favourites. So everybody congratulated sincerely and wished them luck. The over-sea couple were, of course, strangers, and under other circumstances, local jealousy might have been aroused by a girl from another colony carrying off a handsome naval officer, always a prize in colonial cities. But Sheila’s simple, kindly, unaffected manner had commended her to even the severe critics of her own sex, the more sensible members excusing his invidious preference among so many good-looking, well-turned-out damsels, something after this fashion:

“You see, he’s only a lieutenant; it may be years before he gets a ship. He couldn’t afford to marry yet, without money. They say she has tons of it, and she is certainly very good-looking, and nice in her manner. So Mr. Harcourt hasn’t done himself so badly.” One person was slightly dissatisfied. That was his captain. “He is my sailing-master, and a very good one, too,” he said, in an ill-used tone of voice. “He’ll always be thinking of her now, and counting the days till he can leave the service. Suppose the ship runs on a rock, I get my promotion stopped, and all because of this confounded girl.” Different point of view!

As for Sheila and her lieutenant, they were perfectly, genuinely, unmistakably happy. They were both young, she just twenty, he not quite arrived at thirty. He was a rising man in his profession, and Sheila’s money, which was, very properly, to be settled upon herself, would allow them to live most comfortably while he was on shore; besides aiding—as money always does, directly or indirectly—in his promotion. So the immediate prospect was bright. Sheila declared that she had always loved sailors since that eventful ball, where she had joined in the dance on equal terms with the nobility of Britain. What a fortunate girl she was, to have such friends; and how much more fortunate she had become since!

This memorable picnic, often referred to in after years, was considered to be virtually, if not officially declared, the closing event of the season. The fleet was to sail in a week or ten days for “the islands,” a comprehensive term for a general look round the lands and seas of the South Pacific, in the interests of British subjects. They would be back in Sydney in three or four months, at the end of which time—a terrifically long and wearisome period Sheila thought—she and her sailor were to be married. The Admiral’s ship and officers would then return to England, after a month’s stay in Hobart and Sydney—the time of his commission having expired—and another Admiral, with another flag-lieutenant, would replace them. Sheila would also go to England, but not in the Orlando, modern regulations having put a stop to that pleasing privilege. But she could take passage in a P. and O. steamer, leaving about the same time, and be in England ready to receive him in a pretty house of their own—their very own—where they would be as happy as princes—happier indeed than some! After the departure of the fleet, a certain calmness—not exactly a dullness, but bordering on something of that nature—began to settle upon the Isle of Rest and Recreation. The Queenslanders, the New South Wales division, the Victorians, South Australians, and New Zealanders were taking their passages. Edward Bruce began to get more and more fidgety—he was certain that he was wanted at the station; really, if his wife and Imogen could not make up their minds to leave, he must go home and leave them to follow.

Matters were in this unsettled state, when suddenly in the cable column appeared the startling announcement, “The Earl of Fontenaye died suddenly yesterday, at Lutterworth, soon after hearing the news of his eldest son’s death at Malta from an accident at polo. The title and estates devolve upon the younger son, the Honourable Robert Valentine Blount, at present in Australia.”

This news, it may well be imagined, was received with mingled feelings by the people most nearly concerned. The Earl had been in failing health for years past; but as a confirmed invalid, had not aroused apprehension of a sudden termination to his succession of ailments. Blount and his father had been on excellent terms; their only serious disagreement had been on the subject of the younger son’s unreasonable wandering—as the old man termed it—to far countries and among strange people. He had not gone the length of prohibition, however, and his last letter had assured the errant cadet of his father’s satisfaction at his marriage, and of his anxiety to welcome the bride to the home of their race. Now all this was over. Blount would never behold the kind face lighting up with the joy of recognition, or have the pride of presenting Imogen in all her grace and beauty to the head of his ancient house. His brother Falkland too, who used to laugh at his pilgrimages, as he called them, and ask to be shown his staff and scrip, with the last news of the Unholy Land, as he persisted in naming Australia. What good chums they were, and had always been! His brother had never married; in that respect only withstanding his father’s admonitions, but promising an early compliance. Now, of course, in default of a baby heir Blount was Lord Fontenaye, the inheritor of one of the oldest historic titles and estates of the realm—a position to which he had never dreamed of succeeding; the thought of which, if it had ever crossed his mind, was dismissed as equivalent in probability to the proverbial “ChÂteau en Espagne.” Perhaps his most powerful consolation, independently of the change involved in becoming an English nobleman, with historical titles and a seat in the House of Lords, was the contemplation of Imogen as Lady Fontenaye.

To her, the feeling at first was painful rather than otherwise. She sympathised too deeply in all her husband’s mental conditions, not to share his grief for the sudden loss of a father and brother to whom he had been warmly attached. He would never be able to tell that father now how deeply he regretted the careless disregard of his feelings and opinions. Nor could he share with his brother, in the old home, those sports to which both had been so attached since boyhood’s day. The pride of proving that in a far land, and among men of his own blood, he had been able to carve out a fortune for himself, and to acquire an income, far from inconsiderable even in that land of great fortunes: even this satisfaction was now denied him. Imogen too, dreading always an inevitable separation from her sister, felt now that their absences must necessarily be greater, more lengthened, until at last a correspondence by letter at intervals would be all that was left to them of the happy old days in which they had so delighted.

Why could not Fate indeed have left them where they were, provided with a good Australian fortune, which they could have spent, and enjoyed among their own people, where Valentine would have, in time, become an Australian country gentleman, bought a place on the Upper Sturt, and lived like a king, going of course to Hobart in the summer, and running down to Melbourne now and then? Why indeed should they have this greatness thrust upon them?

So when Imogen was called upon by various friends, ostensibly to inquire, but really to see “how she took it,” and whether she showed any foreshadowing of the dignities, and calmness of exalted rank, they were surprised to see from red eyes, and other signs, that the young woman upon whom all these choice gifts had been showered had evidently been having what is known in feminine circles, as “a good cry,” and was far from being uplifted by the rank and fame to which she had been promoted.

This state of matters was considered to be so unwise, unnatural, and in a sense ungrateful, to the Giver of all good gifts, that they set themselves to rate her for the improper state of depression into which she had allowed herself to fall. She was enjoined to think of her duty to society, her rank, her position among the aristocracy of the proudest nobility in the world. Of course it was natural for her husband to be grieved at the death of his father and his brother. But time would soften that sorrow, and as she had never seen them, it would not be expected of her to go into deep mourning or to wear it very long. In the face of these, and other practical considerations, Imogen felt that there would be a flavour of affectation in the appearance of settled grief, and allowed her friends to think that they had succeeded in clearing away shadows. But she confided to Mrs. Bruce, in the confidence of the retiring hour, that Val and she would always look back to their quiet days at Marondah, and their holiday, lotus-eating season in Hobart, as part of the real luxuries and enjoyments of their past life.

“However, you will have to come and see me at Fontenaye!—how strangely it sounds—with Edward and the dear children, and we must get Mr. Tregonwell to make something happen to the Tasmanian Comstock, so that we will come out like a shot. But, oh! my dear old Australia! how I shall grieve at parting with you for ever!”

Then the sisters kissed, and wept in each other’s arms, and were comforted—so women are soothed in time of trial. On the next morning Imogen appeared at breakfast with an unruffled countenance, talking soberly to her husband and brother-in-law about the wonderful change in their future lives, and their departure by the next mail steamer.

This, of course, was imperative. The situation became urgent. Mr. Bruce agreed to remain until the P. and O. Rome, R.M.S. came for her load of so many thousand cases of Tasmanian apples, and with incidental passengers steamed away for Albany, Colombo, Aden, Cairo, and the East—that gorgeous, shadowy name of wonder and romance. Then would the Australian family return to their quiet home by the rippling, winding waters of the Sturt, and the English division return to become an integral portion of the rank and fashion, the “might, majesty and dominion” of the world-wide Empire which has stood so many assaults, and which still unfurls to every wind of Heaven the “flag that’s braved a thousand years, the battle and the breeze.”

It came to pass during one of the necessary conversations relative to the voyage, that Lord Fontenaye said to her ladyship, “Does anything occur to you, relative to Sheila Maguire, my dear Imogen?”

“Indeed, I have been thinking about her a great deal, lately,” said the youthful countess. “She can’t be married until Lieutenant Harcourt and the fleet return from the Islands. Till then, she will have to stay in Hobart.”

“Won’t that be a little awkward for her? She has no friends, that is to say, intimate friends, over here—though, of course, we could get her efficient chaperonage—eh?”

“I know what you are thinking of, Val! It would be the very thing—and oh! how kind of you.”

“What am I thinking of, and why am I so kind—have I married a thought reader, my dear Imogen?”

“Why, of course, you are intending to ask her to go home with us, and to be married from Fontenaye. It is a splendid idea. It would be unspeakably nice for her, and she would be such a help and comfort to me, on our travels.”

“The very thing! Do you think she will like the idea?”

“Like it? She will be charmed. He will come to England with the men of the Orlando, who are to be replaced, and they can be married as soon as she can get her trousseau together. We shall go to England much about the same time as the Admiral, so that Mr. Harcourt will be on full pay the whole time. I dare say it will be two or three months before he gets another ship. Poor dear Sheila, she never dreamed of being married from a castle, any more than I did of living in one after I was married.”

“Or that I should give her away, as I suppose I shall have to do,” rejoined her husband. “‘Giving agreeable girls away,’” he hummed—“I shall feel like the Lord Chancellor in Iolanthe.”

When this deep-laid plot was unfolded to Sheila, she entered into the spirit of it with enthusiasm, expressing the deepest gratitude, as with tears in her eyes, she thanked her tried friends for their thoughtful kindness. “I was rather down about being left alone here,” she confessed. “It was all very well when I belonged to your party, but being here by myself till the fleet returned, and fancying all sorts of things in Mr. Harcourt’s absence, was different.”

“The advantage is not altogether on your side, Sheila. You will be company for me when my husband is away. We’re both Australians, you see, and there are many things in common between us; old bush memories and adventures, that an English friend, however nice she was, wouldn’t understand. Really I feel quite cheered up, now I know you’re coming with us.”

“And what do I feel?” cried Sheila—“but I won’t describe it.” Her colour deepened, and her dark grey eyes glowed, as she stood up and looked at her benefactress with passionate emotion in every line of her expressive face. “Yes! I feel that I could die for you”—she clasped Imogen’s hand as she spoke, and kissing it again and again, rushed from the room.

“Her Irish blood came out there,” said Blount; “how handsome the girl has grown, and what a figure she has! She’ll rather astonish our untravelled friends in England. You’re quite right, though, as to her being a comfort to you in foreign parts, and you can talk about the Upper Sturt, and dear old Marondah together, when you feel low-spirited.”

“Dear Marondah!” said Imogen, softly; “I wonder when we shall see the old river again, and the willows, dipping their branches into its clear waters.”

“Oh! you mustn’t let yourself run down, that way. Bruce will be home next summer, if bullocks keep up and the price of wool. Think how they’ll enjoy coming to stay with us, and what shooting and hunting he and I can have together. Sheila can hunt too. I’ll smoke a cigar in the garden, and you’d better go to bed, my dear.”

But little more remains to be told concerning the fortunes of Imogen and her husband, now Lord and Lady Fontenaye. They decided on a month’s sojourn in Cairo, where they revelled in the mild climate, and the daily marvels and miraculous sights and sounds—the enchanted Arabian Nights’ surroundings, the veiled women, the Arab horses, the balconies, almost touching across the narrow streets. The old-world presentment of the East was inexpressibly fascinating to Imogen and Sheila, seen for the first time.

They “did” Egypt more or less thoroughly, as they planned not to reach England before April—Imogen declaring that “the cold winds of March” would lay her in an early grave. So they went up the Nile as far as PhilÆ, filling their minds with such glories and marvels as might suffice for the mental digestion of a lifetime. They rode and explored to their hearts’ content, “Royal Thebes, Egyptian treasure-house of boundless wealth, that boasts her hundred gates”; Luxor, with its labyrinth of courts, and superb colonnades; Karnak, that darkens the horizon with a world of portals, pyramids, and palaces.

“Perhaps we may never see these wonders again,” said Imogen. “But I shall revel in their memories as long as I live. What do you say, Sheila?”

“I feel as if I was just born,” said the excited damsel, “and was just opening my eyes on a new world. Awakening in Heaven, if it’s not wrong to say so, must be something like this.”

“What a charming way of getting over the winter,” said Imogen. “One sees so much of the world in the process, besides meeting people of mark and distinction. Val tells me we may have a fortnight in Paris, for hats and dresses, before arriving in dear old England some time in April, which is a lovely month, if the spring is early. And this year they say it is.”

“‘Oh! to be in England, now that April’s here’,” quoted Lord Fontenaye, who now joined the party; “we shall be comfortably settled in Fontenaye, I hope, before the ‘merry month of May,’ when I shall have the honour of showing you two ‘Cornstalks’ what a London season is like.”

“Oh! and shall we able to ride in the Park?” quoth Sheila, with great eagerness. “I do so long to see the wonderful English horses that one hears so much about—the Four-in-hand and Coaching Clubs too! What a sight it must be! I must have a horse worth looking at, price no object—new saddle, and habit too. Oh! what fun it will be! And you’ll give Mrs. Bl—I mean, her ladyship—a horse too, won’t you?”

“You’re a true Australian, Sheila,” said he. “I believe you all care more about horses, than anything else in the world. Now that the ‘Comstock’ is so encouraging in the way of dividends, I believe it will run to a hundred-and-fifty-guinea hackney or two—with a new landau, a brougham, and other suitable equipages.”

These rose-coloured anticipations were duly realised. A wire was sent from Paris, and the “wandering heir” was duly received and welcomed in the halls of his ancestors. The time-honoured feasting of tenants and “fÊting” of the whole countryside was transacted—a comprehensive programme having been arranged by the land steward, a man of great experience and organising faculty. The younger son of the house, it was explained, had always been the more popular one. And now that he had “come to his own,” as the people said, their joy was unbounded. Everything was done on a most liberal scale. Correspondents came down “special” from the great London dailies, by whom full and particular descriptions were sent through all Britain and her colonies, as well as to the ends of the earth generally.

The beauty and gracious demeanour of Lady Fontenaye, and her friend Miss Sheila Maguire, an Australian heiress of fabulous wealth, were descanted upon and set forth in glowing colours. Archives were ransacked for the ancestors of all the Marmions, from the days of Flodden and those earlier times when Robert de Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye in Normandy, followed the Conqueror to England, and after Hastings obtained a grant of the castle and town of Tamworth, and also the manor of Scrivelbaye, in Lincolnshire. Harry Blount, Marmion’s attendant squire, was, according to the custom of the day, a cadet of the house, and being knighted with FitzEustace for gallantry at Flodden, attained to wealth and distinction; eventually through marriage with one of the co-heiresses of the house of Marmion, extinct in default of male heirs, became possessed of the title and estates. Hence, Robert Valentine Blount, the present Lord Fontenaye, has duly succeeded to the ancient tower and town, amid appropriate festivities and rejoicings. We are not aware that his Lordship presented a gold “chain of twelve mark weight” to the pursuivants, or the gentlemen of the press, but that the hospitality was thoughtful, delicate, and unbounded in liberality, no one honoured by its exercise will deny; while the beauty and gracious demeanour of the Lady of the Castle, so efficiently supported in her duties by her friend, the handsome Australian heiress, Miss Maguire of Tumut Park, lent additional lustre to the entertainment.

There for a while we may leave them, in the enjoyment of youth, health, and historic rank. If such gifts do not confer unclouded happiness, it must be admitted that but few of the elements of which it is supposed to be compounded were wanting.

Some delay in Sheila’s marriage, however, took place. The Orlando, after having been ordered to China, to the dismay of the captain, and at least two of the senior officers, who had private reasons for not desiring to explore the Flowery Land, either in peace or war, was as suddenly recalled, and the cruiser Candace ordered to take her place. The Orlando was paid off, and the Royal Alfred, with a new crew and officers put into commission, and despatched to the Australian station at short notice. A telegram from Fontenaye caused Commander Harcourt, R.N., to betake himself to that vicinity at once. He had been promoted to the rank of Commander for a dashing exploit in bringing off a boat’s crew at Guadalcanar, in the teeth of tremendous odds, and a shower of poisoned arrows. There was no need for delay now—Sheila had her trousseau ready weeks before, and the Lieutenant—I beg his pardon, the Captain—didn’t require much time to make his preparations.

So there was another entertainment at Fontenaye, of comparative splendour and more true kindness and genuine friendship. All the neighbouring gentry were bidden to the feast, as well as the brother officers of the bridegroom. Lord Fontenaye gave away the bride, and made a feeling speech at the breakfast. When Commander Harcourt, R.N., and his lovely bride—for Sheila, in a “confection” from Paris, looked beautiful exceedingly—walked down the aisle of the old Abbey church, a girl of the period said “it put her in mind of Lord Marmion and Lady Clare, only that Marmion was a soldier, and not a sailor, and (now that she remembered) he turned out badly, didn’t marry Clare after all, was killed, indeed, at Flodden, and ought to have married poor Clare, who did not do so badly, nor Lord Wilton either, after recovering his lands, his lady-love, and his position in society.”

After this momentous function, Lord Fontenaye one fine morning looked up from the Times, which, after the fashion of secure husbands, he read during breakfast, with a sudden exclamation that caused Imogen to inquire what it was about.

“The death of Mrs. Delamere, poor thing! That will make a difference.”

“Difference to whom?” inquired Imogen. “Oh! I see—now, those two can get married. Have you heard from them since they went to West Australia? Yes, I know, you showed me her letter.”

“I heard of them later on, from a man I knew, that the Colonel had bought into the ‘Golden Hoof,’ or some such name, and was likely to make a big rise out of it, as he expressed it. What a turn of the wheel it would be, wouldn’t it? He was ‘dry-blowing’ after they got to West Australia.”

“What in the world’s that?”

“A primitive way of extracting gold from auriferous earth, partly by sifting it, and then by blowing away the lighter dust particles, when the gold, if there is any, remains behind. Then, their tent caught fire one day, when she was away for an hour marketing (fancy Adeline buying soap and candles at a digging!), and everything they had in the world was burned, except what ‘they stood up in,’ as my informant phrased it.”

“But you will send them something, poor things! How I pity them. Oh! how stupid I am! You did—I know you.”

“Yes! and she sent it back—a decent cheque too.”

“Quite right—they couldn’t take it from you—you of all men. What did you do then?”

“I ‘worked it,’ as ‘Tumbarumba Dick’ would say. He was one of the partners in the Lady Julia claim. I sent Dick the cheque; told him to get the diggers round about to form a relief committee, and to let them subscribe their share, then spread mine out in small amounts among the genuine ones. They couldn’t refuse the honest miners’ and their wives’ assistance. No people are so generous in cases of accident or distress. Thus my money ‘got there just the same,’ and helped to give the forlorn ones a fresh start.”

“Quite another romance—I suppose you have a slight tendresse in that direction still?”

“Not more than a man always has for a woman he has once loved, however badly she treated him; and that is a very mild, strictly rational sentiment; but you ought to have.”

“Why, I should like to know?”

“Because, of course, when she broke my heart, and sent me out into the world drifting purposeless, I fell across one Imogen Carrisforth, who towed the derelict into port—made prize of him, indeed, for ever and ever.”

“Well, I suppose she did shape our destiny, as you say—without the least intending it; and now I suspect she’ll shape the Colonel’s for good and all. They will be remarried quietly, live in the south of France, and the gay world will hear no more of them.”

Fontenaye was always reasonably gay and truly hospitable; to the Australian division notably. Not unduly splendid, but comfortably and reasonably fine, on occasion. The nearest pack of hounds always met there on the first day of the season, when sometimes Lady Fontenaye, sometimes Mrs. Vernon Harcourt, appeared, superbly mounted and among the front rankers, after the throw off. Sheila was a frequent guest in her husband’s necessary absences at sea. Imogen was a little slow to accustom herself to be addressed and referred to as “your ladyship” and “her ladyship” at every turn, but took to it by degrees.

“Now, what became of Kate Lawless and her brother Dick?” asks an eager youthful patron of this veracious romance (not by any means wholly untrue, dear reader, though a little mixed up).

“And the roan pony mare ‘Wallaby’ that carried Kate ninety miles in a day to warn the police about Trevenna,” screams a still younger student. “You mustn’t leave her out.”

As might be expected, my dear boys, they came to a sad end. Dick and his sister disappeared after the fight at “the Ghost Camp.” They were rumoured to have been seen on the Georgina River, in the Gulf country. There were warrants out for both, yet they had not been arrested. But one day, word came to the police station at Monaro, that near a grave, at a deserted hut between Omeo and the Running Creek, something was wrong. The Sergeant, taking one trooper who drove a light waggonette, rode to the spot. “This is where Mrs. Trevenna’s child was buried, the little chap that was drowned,” said the trooper, “under that swamp oak. I was stationed here then and went over. She was wild, poor thing! I wonder if that’s her lying across the grave.”

It was even so. A haggard woman, poorly dressed, showing signs of privation and far travel, lay face downward on the little mound. “Lift her up, Jackson!” said the Sergeant; “poor thing! I’d hardly have known her. She came here to shoot herself, look about for the revolver. Just on the temple, what a small hole it made! Shot the mare too! best thing for both of ’em, I expect. So that’s the end of Kate Lawless! Who’d have thought it, when that flash crowd was at Ballarat! Handsome girl she was then, full of life and spirits too!”

“She never did no good after the boy was drowned,” said the trooper.

“No! nor before, either. But it wasn’t all her fault. Let’s lift her into the trap. She don’t weigh much. There’ll be the inquest, and she’ll have Christian burial. They can’t prevent that in this country. And she’s suffered enough to make a dozen women shoot themselves, or men either.”

So the dead woman came into the little township, and after the coroner’s jury had brought in their verdict that the deceased had died by her own hand, but that there was no evidence to show her state of mind at the time, poor Kate Trevenna (or Lawless) was buried among more or less respectable people.

There was a slight difference of opinion as to the identification of the woman’s corpse, but none whatever as to that of the mare, among the horse-loving bystanders around the grave, which was several times visited during the following days. “That’s old Wallaby, safe enough,” deposed one grizzled stockrider. “Reg’lar mountain mare, skip over them rocks like a billy-goat; couldn’t throw her down no ways. Ain’t she dog-poor, too? Kate and she’s had hard times lately. What say, boys, s’pose we bury her? the ground’s middlin’ soft, and if she don’t ought to be buried decent, no one does.”

The idea caught on, and a pick and spade contingent driving out next day, a grave was dug and a stone put up, on which was roughly chiselled—