“Where are you off to?” inquired grannie, as I rushed through the house.

I explained.

“What horse are you going to take?”

“Old Tadpole.  He’s the only one available.”

“Well, you be careful and don’t push him too quickly up that pinch by Flea Creek, or he might drop dead with you.  He’s so fat and old.”

“All right,” I replied, snatching a bridle and running up the orchard, where old Tadpole had been left in case of emergency.  I clapped a side-saddle on his back, a hat on my head, jumped on just as I was, and galloped for my life in the direction of Bimbalong, seven miles distant.  I eased my horse a little going up Flea Creek pinch, but with this delay reached my destination in half an hour, and sent the men galloping in the direction of the fire.  I lingered for afternoon tea, and returned at my leisure.

It was sundown when I got in sight of Caddagat.  Knowing the men would not be home for some time, I rode across the paddock to yard the cows.  I drove them home and penned the calves, unsaddled my horse and returned him to the orchard, then stood upon the hillside and enjoyed the scene.  It had been a fearfully hot day, with a blasting, drought-breathed wind; but the wind had dropped to sleep with the sunlight, and now the air had cooled.  Blue smoke wreathed hill and hollow like a beauteous veil.  I had traversed drought-baked land that afternoon, but in the immediate vicinity of Caddagat house there was no evidence of an unkind season.  Irrigation had draped the place with beauty, and I stood ankle-deep in clover.  Oh, how I loved the old irregularly built house, with here and there a patch of its low iron roof peeping out of a mass of greenery, flowers, and fruit—­the place where I was born—­home!  Save for the murmur of the creek, the evening was wrapped in silence—­sweet-breathed, balmy-browed, summer quietude.  I stretched out my hand and stained my fingers, next my lips and teeth, with the sweet dark fruit of a mulberry-tree beside me.  The shadows deepened; I picked up my saddle, and, carrying it housewards, put it in its place in the harness-room among the fig- and apricot-trees—­laden to breaking point with ripe and ripening fruit.  The two servant girls had departed on their Christmas holiday that morning, so grannie and auntie were the only members of the family at home.  I could not see or hear them anywhere, so, presuming they were out walking, I washed my hands, lit a lamp, and sat down to my tea, where it had been left for me on the dining-table.  I remembered—­wonderful aberration from my usual thoughtlessness—­that the book I had left in the hammock had a beautiful cover which the dew would spoil, so I left my tea to bring it in.  Two little white squares struck my eye in the gathering dusk.  I picked them up also, and, bringing them to the light, opened the one addressed to me, and read: