Deep, then, was her gratitude to dear good Mrs. Cavely for stepping in to mediate between her father and Mr. Tinman.  And well might she be amazed to hear the origin of their recent dispute.

“It was,” Mrs. Cavely said, “that Gippsland.”

Annette cried:  “What?”

“That Gippsland of yours, my dear.  Your father will praise Gippsland whenever my Martin asks him to admire the beauties of our neighbourhood.  Many a time has Martin come home to me complaining of it.  We have no doubt on earth that Gippsland is a very fine place; but my brother has his idea’s of dignity, you must know, and I only wish he had been more used to contradiction, you may believe me.  He is a lamb by nature.  And, as he says, ‘Why underrate one’s own country?’ He cannot bear to hear boasting.  Well!  I put it to you, dear Annette, is he so unimportant a person?  He asks to be respected, and especially by his dearest friend.  From that to blows!  It’s the way with men.  They begin about trifles, they drink, they quarrel, and one does what he is sorry for, and one says more than he means.  All my Martin desires is to shake your dear father’s hand, forgive and forget.  To win your esteem, darling Annette, he would humble himself in the dust.  Will you not help me to bring these two dear old friends together once more?  It is unreasonable of your dear papa to go on boasting of Gippsland if he is so fond of England, now is it not?  My brother is the offended party in the eye of the law.  That is quite certain.  Do you suppose he dreams of taking advantage of it?  He is waiting at home to be told he may call on your father.  Rank, dignity, wounded feelings, is nothing to him in comparison with friendship.”

Annette thought of the blow which had felled him, and spoke the truth of her heart in saying, “He is very generous.”

“You understand him.”  Mrs. Cavely pressed her hand.  “We will both go to your dear father.  He may,” she added, not without a gleam of feminine archness, “praise Gippsland above the Himalayas to me.  What my Martin so much objected to was, the speaking of Gippsland at all when there was mention of our Lake scenery.  As for me, I know how men love to boast of things nobody else has seen.”

The two ladies went in company to Van Diemen, who allowed himself to be melted.  He was reserved nevertheless.  His reception of Mr. Tinman displeased his daughter.  Annette attached the blackest importance to a blow of the fist.  In her mind it blazed fiendlike, and the man who forgave it rose a step or two on the sublime.  Especially did he do so considering that he had it in his power to dismiss her father and herself from bright beaming England before she had looked on all the cathedrals and churches, the sea-shores and spots named in printed poetry, to say nothing of the nobility.

“Papa, you were not so kind to Mr. Tinman as I could have hoped,” said Annette.

“Mart Tinman has me at his mercy, and he’ll make me know it,” her father returned gloomily.  “He may let me off with the Commander-in-chief.  He’ll blast my reputation some day, though.  I shall be hanging my head in society, through him.”