was just the kind of man to call for coddling, apart from the fact that he was a widower—­had been married for as long as five weeks altogether—­with his heart in his wife’s grave, and with that pathetic adjunct, a baby.  When he would consent to recognise the world of affairs again, and the claims of youth and manhood against it, he found—­but of course there is no need to specify all the things he found.

One was a batch of invitations awaiting each arrival of his ship in port—­first two, then four, then half-a-dozen women’s notes, begging him to come to as many hospitable houses for change and rest, and to “bring the baby”.  He could not bring the baby, for reasons which he did not honestly present, as a rule, but which he reluctantly disclosed to Alice Urquhart one night at Five Creeks.  Alice had written one of the six notes (they were six because it was Christmas time), for she was the sister of Jim Urquhart, who was the friend of an ex-squatter down on his luck through droughts, and reduced to balancing ledgers in a Melbourne office, who was the friend of one of those doctors of Williamstown whose skill had brought Guthrie Carey to life after he had been drowned.  Jim, having made the acquaintance of the latter, took his sister to inspect the ship, and to have tea in the mate’s cabin; hence the return visit, which the captain, who loved his chief officer, stretched a point to sanction.

There were at Five Creeks station, besides Jim, a Mrs Urquhart and several children; but Alice, the eldest of the family, was the general manager of her household, ever struggling with her brother, who maintained it, to lift it and herself out of the ruts in which her father had left it stuck.  She was close on thirty, sad to say, and there were three girls below her; and nothing happened from year to year, and she was weary of the monotony.  “Do come and see us,” she wrote to Guthrie Carey—­one of the finest-looking men she had ever known, not excepting the splendid Claud Dalzell—­“do come and see us, and bring the baby.  Country air will do it good, and the house is full of nurses for it.”

He went himself, out of friendship for Jim, and after dinner sat in the verandah with Alice, and explained why he had not brought the baby.  Jim had then gone off to doctor a sick horse, and Mrs Urquhart was putting children to bed.

“I believe,” Alice rallied him, “that you thought it infra dig.”

He protested earnestly that she was wrong.  No, it was not that—­not that.

Ignorant of the details of the tragedy of his life, she scented a mystery about the child.  Was it, perhaps, not right in its head, she wondered—­or afflicted with a hare lip?

“Son or daughter?” she ventured cautiously.  “A boy,” said Guthrie Carey, still with that unfatherly air of discontent.  “Sometimes I wish it was a girl.  She could look after me by-and-by; I could have her trained to be my housekeeper, and sew my buttons on—­that sort of thing, you know.”