Harry Oxenham, pipe in mouth, stood at the open garden gate. Mary stood on the step of the front door. Conscious of guilt, they greeted him with more than usual cordiality.

"And so you have really come, after all, my dear old boy," his sister cried, with her arms about his neck. "This is good of you! A piece of luck that I never expected!"

"Yes, I've come. Awfully glad to get into clean air, out of those stinking streets. How are the kids? Why didn't you let me come last night?"

"Oh, the kids are as right as possible. You won't know them, they have grown so. Of course they are in bed and asleep, or they would be pulling you down between them."

She was hoping the tiresome brats wouldn't begin to talk of Jenny the first thing in the morning, and he was anxiously peering over her shoulder.

"Why did you stop me yesterday, Polly?"

"Oh, for reasons—never mind now, as long as you are here. Come in and have some supper. You must be hungry and tired after your long journey. Did you bring me some fish? Oh, thanks. It will be a treat, after weeks of Murray cod."

He followed her across the hall into the dining-room, where half the table was spread with a tempting meal. He looked around; there was no one there. He looked at Mary, and he thought she blushed.

"Where is Miss Liddon?" he inquired coolly. "Has she gone to bed?"

This time Mary blushed unmistakably. She exchanged a faltering glance with her husband, who sidled out of the room; then she rallied her dignity, and quietly replied that Miss Liddon was not with her.

"She was here two days ago," said Tony darkly.

"How do you know that?"

"Never mind how I know it. Only I do, for a certainty."

"Not from me; I have told nobody. If she has been writing to you,"—Mrs. Oxenham, gentle woman that she was, flared up at the thought—"all I can say is that I am shockingly deceived in her."

"She never wrote to me in her life. But that's neither here nor there. The fact remains that she was in this house two days ago, and is out of it now. What have you done with her?"

There was an irritating abruptness in his tone and manner, and his sister threw up her head with a haughty gesture.

"I? Is she a child, that anybody should do anything with her? She has some relations living in the town, and has gone to stay with them."

"When did she go?"

"Oh, my dear Tony, you are too absurd! And I don't choose to be catechised in this fashion. Miss Liddon is nothing to you."

"That's all you know about it. When did she go, Mary?"

He looked hard at her, and she at him, and she held her breath for a moment, trying to grasp the situation.

"She went this morning."

"And knew that I was coming to-night?"

"How can I tell? I did not think it necessary to talk about it to her."

"You mean you kept it from her? And that you contrived that she should go to her relations—having put me off to give you time to do it—so as to have her out of my way. I know about those relations. They have snubbed and spurned her in her struggles, like the cads they are, and she can't endure them."

"They have been exceedingly attentive to her, and had asked her to visit them a dozen times. They proposed to-day themselves."

"I have it from her sister. And also that she was expecting to stay on here. It was in a letter, dated two days ago. I read it. Mary, it seems to me that you have behaved abominably. You simply turned her out."

"Tony, I will not allow you to talk to me like that. And just let me ask you one question:—Supposing I did, what in the world can it matter to you?"

"Well, I came up on purpose to see her, that's all."

"Oh! You are very complimentary to us. But you don't mean that, of course. You! A man in your position can't possibly have any concern with a girl in hers; at least, you have no business to have any."

"That's worthy of Maude, Polly. In fact, the very words she said to me yesterday."

"Maude? What does she know about it? Tony, you are talking riddles. I can't understand you in the least."

"Oh, Maude knows. So does my father. But he doesn't say those insulting things. He says I have made a wise choice—as I know I have—and has given us his consent and blessing in advance. Do you understand now?"

She understood, and was momentarily stunned. Not Lady Louisa, after all, but this little no-account tea-room girl! It was a heavy shock. She dropped into a chair, flung herself back in it, and ejaculated, "Well!"—adding with a long breath, "And she never gave me the least hint of it all this time!"

"She couldn't very well, seeing that she hasn't the faintest idea of such a thing herself—to the best of my knowledge."

"Then"—eagerly—"you have not spoken yet?"

"I am going to speak as soon as I can find her. And you are not going to prevent me, though you may think you are."

He poured out some whisky, and began to survey the dishes on the table. He was very angry, and consequently calm.

"Where's Harry?" he inquired. "I ordered the new buggy yesterday. I want to tell him about it. Harry, where are you?"

Harry came in, sheepish, but blustering, and was delighted to go into the buggy question without delay. They sat down to supper, and the men discussed business matters throughout the meal. Then Mr. Oxenham faint-heartedly proposed a smoke.

"No, thank you," said Anthony. "I'm off to bed. Same room, Mary?"

"Yes, dear." She followed him into the hall. "Aren't you going to say good-night to me, Tony?"

He kissed her coldly in silence.

"I did not know," she whispered. "It is so sudden—so unexpected. We will talk it over to-morrow, Tony."

"There's nothing to talk over," said he. And he marched off.

Mrs. Oxenham went to bed and cried. Then she thought deeply for a long time. Then she woke her husband up to talk to him.

"After all," she said, "it might have been worse. Some men, gentlemen of the highest class, marry barmaids and actresses—the vulgarest creatures. And Jenny isn't vulgar. However unsuitable she may be in other ways, personally she is a lady. That's one comfort. And—and it's very noble of him, don't you think?"

She got up early in the morning, and wrote to Jenny.

"Dear Child,—

"My brother came last night, and was in a great way to find you gone. Ask your aunt to be good enough to spare you again to us, for I want you to help me to entertain him. We are talking of a picnic to the ranges, and could not manage that without you. I am sending Dickson with the buggy. Come back with him, and your aunt can have you later.

"Your affectionate friend,
"Mary Oxenham."

This note was delivered at the bank at breakfast time, with the message that the man was waiting for an answer. Jenny took it to her room, read it, and penned the following reply with a violently shaking hand:—

"Dear Mrs. Oxenham,—

"Thank you very much for your kindness in wishing me to return to you, but I think I ought not to prolong my holiday further, now that I am quite strong again. I am sure they must be badly wanting me at home, and I have decided to go back to-morrow, with some friends of my aunt's who happen to be going down. I could not leave her to-day, as I have but just come, and the time is so short. I am very sorry you should have had the trouble of sending the buggy for nothing. Please accept my grateful thanks for all your kindness, which I shall never forget, and believe me,—

"Yours sincerely,
"Jenny Liddon."

Anthony at Wandooyamba was restless and surly. Mary had always been his ally in everything, and these devoted ones are the people we have no compunction about punishing severely when they do happen inadvertently to offend us. He would not forgive her for sending Jenny away.

"Can you lend me a horse, Harry?" was the first thing he said on coming down to breakfast—before he had even noticed the children, whom he had not seen for so long.

"A dozen, my dear fellow, if you want them," said Harry.

"Thank you. I only want one."

Mary leaned over the table and whispered to him, "Wait a little. She is coming back to-day."

"Have you sent for her?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows.

She nodded.

He shook his head. "She will know what she was turned out for, and she won't come back."

"She will—she will," said Mary, who devoutly hoped it. "Wait till Dickson returns, at any rate."

Dickson had a wife and family in the township, and when he found that he had not to drive the young lady to Wandooyamba, he concluded that he need not hurry home, but might take his ease in his own house, as he was accustomed to do on the day of rest; so he pocketed Jenny's letter until the evening. When he then delivered it—at past six o'clock—he was very much surprised and offended at being taken to task for presuming to exercise his own judgment in the matter. He little knew what the consequences had been to Mr. Churchill's temper and his mistress's peace of mind. Tony was a handful that day, and sincerely did Mary regret having tried to play Providence to him.

She went to church with her family—to her own little bush church which her own money maintained; the parson, ritual, and general affairs of which were wholly under her direction—hoping to find the lovers together on her return. In the afternoon they all walked for miles on the track of the expected buggy, and walked back again, casting wistful looks behind them. Then Dickson came leisurely ambling home—they saw him from the verandah sitting in solitary state—and Jenny's letter was delivered and the suspense ended.

Mary tore it open, read it with distress, almost with tears, and handed it to her brother. He perused it with a grim smile, put it into his pocket, and ordered a horse to be saddled immediately.

"What, at this hour?" she cried.

"I have wasted too many," he answered stiffly. "Good-night. You need not expect me back again."