“I’m sure, Mr Hawden, you do me too much honour.  It quite exhilarates me to think that I meet with your approval in the smallest degree,” I replied with the utmost deference.  “You are so gentlemanly and nice that I was alarmed at first lest you might despise me altogether.”

“No fear.  You needn’t he afraid of me; I’m not a bad sort of fellow,” he replied with the greatest encouragement.

By his accent and innocent style I detected he was not a colonial, so I got him to relate his history.  He was an Englishman by birth, but had been to America, Spain, New Zealand, Tasmania, etc.; by his own make out had ever been a man of note, and had played Old Harry everywhere.

I allowed him to gabble away full tilt for an hour on this subject, unconscious that I had taken the measure of him, and was grinning broadly to myself.  Then I diverted him by inquiring how long since the wire fence on our right had been put up.  It bore evidence of recent erection, and had replaced an old cockatoo fence which I remembered in my childhood.

“Fine fence, is it not?  Eight wires, a top rail, and very stout posts.  Harry Beecham had that put up by contract this year.  Twelve miles of it.  It cost him a lot:  couldn’t get any very low tenders, the ground being so hard on account of the drought.  Those trees are Five-Bob Downs—­see, away over against the range.  But I suppose you know the places better than I do.”

We were now within an hour of our destination.  How familiar were many landmarks to me, although I had not seen them since I was eight years old.

A river ran on our right, occasionally a glimmer of its noisy waters visible through the shrubbery which profusely lined its banks.  The short evening was drawing to a close.  The white mists brought by the rain were crawling slowly down the hills, and settling in the hollows of the ranges on our left.  A V-shaped rift in them, known as Pheasant Gap, came into view.  Mr Hawden said it was well named, as it swarmed with lyrebirds.  Night was falling.  The skreel of a hundred curlews arose from the gullies—­how I love their lonely wail!—­and it was quite dark when we pulled up before the front gate of Caddagat.

A score of dogs rushed yelping to meet us, the front door was thrown open, lights and voices came streaming out.

I alighted from the buggy feeling rather nervous.  I was a pauper with a bad character.  How would my grandmother receive me?  Dear old soul, I had nothing to fear.  She folded me in a great warm-hearted hug, saying, “Dear me, child, your face is cold.  I’m glad you’ve come.  It has been a terrible day, but we’re glad to have the rain.  You must be frozen.  Get in to the fire, child, as fast as you can.  Get in to the fire, get in to the fire.  I hope you forgive me for not going to meet you.”  And there was my mother’s only sister, my tall graceful aunt, standing beside her, giving me a kiss and cordial hand-clasp, and saying, “Welcome, Sybylla.  We will be glad to have a young person to brighten up the old home once more.  I am sorry I was too unwell to meet you.  You must be frozen; come to the fire.”