On making my first appearance before my lover, I looked quite the reverse of a heroine.  My lovely hair was not conveniently escaping from the comb at the right moment to catch him hard in the eye, neither was my thrillingly low sweet voice floating out on the scented air in a manner which went straight to his heart, like the girls I had read of.  On the contrary, I much resembled a female clown.  It was on a day towards the end of September, and I had been up the creek making a collection of ferns.  I had on a pair of men’s boots with which to walk in the water, and was garbed in a most dilapidated old dress, which I had borrowed from one of the servants for the purpose.  A pair of gloves made of basil, and a big hat, much torn in struggling through the undergrowth, completed my make-up.  My hair was most unbecomingly screwed up, the short ends sticking out like a hurrah’s nest.

It was late in the day when, returning from my ramble, I was met on the doorstep by aunt Helen.

“While you are in that trim, I wish you would pluck some lemons for me.  I’m sure there is no danger of you ruining your turn-out.  A sketch of you would make a good item for the Bulletin,” she said.

I went readily to do her bidding, and fetching a ladder with rungs about two feet six apart, placed it against a lemon-tree at the back of the house, and climbed up.

Holding a number of lemons in my skirt, I was making a most ungraceful descent, when I heard an unknown footstep approaching towards my back.

People came to Caddagat at all hours of the day, so I was not in the least disconcerted.  Only a tramp, an agent, or a hawker, I bet, I thought, as I reached my big boot down for another rung of the ladder without turning my head to see whom it might be.

A pair of strong brown hands encircled my waist, I was tossed up a foot or so and then deposited lightly on the ground, a masculine voice saying, “You’re a mighty well-shaped young filly—­’a waist rather small, but a quarter superb’.”

“How dare anyone speak to me like that,” I thought, as I faced about to see who was parodying Gordon.  There stood a man I had never before set eyes on, smiling mischievously at me.  He was a young man—­a very young man, a bushman tremendously tall and big and sunburnt, with an open pleasant face and chestnut moustache—­not at all an awe-inspiring fellow, in spite of his unusual, though well-proportioned and carried, height.  I knew it must be Harold Beecham, of Five-Bob Downs, as I had heard he stood six feet three and a half in his socks.

I hurriedly let down my dress, the lemons rolling in a dozen directions, and turned to flee, but that well-formed figure bounded before me with the agility of a cat and barred my way.

“Now, not a step do you go, my fine young blood, until you pick up every jolly lemon and put them away tidily, or I’ll tell the missus on you as sure as eggs.”