“My dearest Helen,

“This is a begging letter, and I am writing another to your mother at the same time.  I am asking her to allow her grand-daughter to spend a few weeks with me, and I want you to use your influence in the matter.  Sarah has not been well lately, and is going to Melbourne for a change, and as I will be lonely while she is away Harold insists upon me having someone to keep me company—­you know how considerate the dear boy is.  I hardly like to ask you to spare your little girl to me.  It must be a great comfort to have her.  I could have got Miss Benson to stay with me, but Harold will not hear of her.  He says she is too slow, and would give us both the mopes.  But he says your little niece will keep us all alive.  Julius was telling me the other day that he could not part with her, as she makes ‘the old barracks’, as he always calls Caddagat, echo with fun and noise.  I am so looking forward to seeing her, as she is dear Lucy’s child.  Give her my love, etc., etc.”

and as a postscript the letter had—­“Harold will go up for Sybylla on Wednesday afternoon.  I do hope you will be able to spare her to me for a while.”

“Oh, auntie, how lovely!” I exclaimed.  “What are you laughing at?”

“For whom do you think Harry wants the companion?  It is nice to have an old auntie, as a blind, is it not?  Well, all is fair in love and war.  You have permission to use me in any way you like.”

I pretended to miss her meaning.

Grannie consented to Miss Beecham’s proposal, and ere the day arrived I had a trunk packed with some lovely new dresses, and was looking forward with great glee to my visit to Five-Bob Downs.

One o’clock on Wednesday afternoon arrived; two o’clock struck, and I was beginning to fear no one was coming for me, when, turning to look out the window for the eighteenth time, I saw the straight blunt nose of Harold Beecham passing.  Grannie was serving afternoon tea on the veranda.  I did not want any, so got ready while my escort was having his.

It was rather late when we bowled away at a tremendous pace in a red sulky, my portmanteau strapped on at the back, and a thoroughbred American trotter, which had taken prizes at Sydney shows, harnessed to the front.  We just whizzed!  It was splendid!  The stones and dust rose in a thick cloud from the whirling wheels and flying hoofs, and the posts of the wire fence on our left passed like magic as we went.  Mr Beecham allowed me to drive after a time while he sat ready to take the reins should an emergency arise.

It was sunset—­most majestic hour of the twenty-four—­when we drove up to the great white gates which opened into the avenue leading to the main homestead of Five-Bob Downs station—­beautiful far-reaching Five-Bob Downs!  Dreamy blue hills rose behind, and wide rich flats stretched before, through which the Yarrangung river, glazed with sunset, could be seen like a silver snake winding between