‘So, then, it is Aurora I need after all,’ he said in satirical soliloquy, ’and my soul has been playing the hypocrite these few weeks.  What a marvel of constancy is man!  Lucy is lost to me, and secretly the baffled heart sneaks back to the other love.’

Behind all this was a fretful longing for the past happiness to which the new country, the new conditions, Aurora Mike, and his own abounding vitality, had contributed.  He shunned the conditions, and was angry because the object eluded him.  Done, in his sick desire to know himself ceased to be truly himself.  Had he been content with the fact that he loved Aurora and needed her—­needed her love, her beauty, her fine joyousness and splendid vitality—­the rest would have been easy.

He had written from Ballarat to Mike Burton’s family in New South Wales, and at about this time there came a letter from a relative, asking his assistance in Melbourne to secure the money lying to Burton’s credit in the bank.  Jim went to Melbourne, and a quiet trip and the change improved him considerably.  When he returned again there was a letter from Mary Kyley, It was brief: 

’Dear Jimmy,

’We are at Tarrangower.  Joy is back with us, well and strong again, and as pretty as a picture; but the mischief is she doesn’t forget the boy who isn’t fit to kiss the boots she wears—­meaning your self, you scamp!  ’Tisn’t a far ride!  Maybe you’ll come one of these fine Sundays.

’Your middle-aged friend,

‘Mary Kyley.’

Jim spent nearly three days over that letter, and then determination came suddenly on top of much contrary argument.  He would go.  No sooner had he made up his mind than a consuming eagerness to see Aurora seized him.  All other considerations were lost.  He must go at once, take her in his arms, plead with her with all the fervour of his heart, compel her with every argument love could advance, beseech her with all the humility of the conquered to be his wife.

Now his love of Lucy appeared as a mere aberration.  His overwhelming eagerness for life, for new faces, scenes, sensations, had whirled him from the true path of his happiness.  Thank God, it was not too late!  Joy alone was his true mate, his true love, the real need of his being, and he had never loved her as now.  The passion came back upon him like a dammed torrent.  His impatience made his mate open his eyes in grave wonder.

‘I want to reach Tarrangower before noon to’ morrow, Harry,’ he said.  ‘Can it be done?’

’You could cover the distance in ’bout five hours on a decent horse.  But what’s struck you, ole man?’

’The idea that I’ve been playing the melancholy fool.  I’ve been questioning life, bargaining with it like a suspicious huckster —­suspecting, doubting, rejecting, instead of opening wide my arms and taking the good to me wherever it offered.’

‘I dunno what you’re drivin’ at, Jim; but if it means you’re goin’ to cheer up I’m all-fired glad to hear it.  You’ve been as miserable as a dingo in a springer since Eureka.’