There was no explanation between them, there could be no sympathy; had he opened his heart to her he knew she would have denounced his love for Susan Merton as a damnable crime.  Once she invited his confidence.  “What ails you, John?” said the old woman.  “You had better tell me; you would feel easier, I’m thinking.”

But he turned it off a little fretfully, and she never returned to the charge.  But though there could be no direct sympathy, yet there was a soothing influence in this quaint old woman’s presence.  She moved quietly about, protecting his habits, not disturbing them; she seemed very thoughtful, too, and cast many a secret glance of inquiry and interest at him when he was not looking at her.

This had gone on some weeks when, one afternoon, Meadows, who had been silent as death for a full half hour, started from his chair and said with sudden resolution: 

“Mother, I must leave this part of the country for a while.”

“That is news, John.”

“Yes.  I shall go into the mining district for six months or a year, perhaps.”

“Well! go, John! you want a change.  I think you can’t do better than go.”

“I will, and no later than to-morrow.”

“That is sudden.”

“If I was to give myself time to think, I should never go at all.”

He went out briskly with the energy of this determination.

The same evening, about seven o’clock, as he sat reading by the fire, an unexpected visitor was announced—­Mr. Merton.

He came cordially in and scolded Meadows for never having been to see him.

“I know you are a busy man,” said the old farmer, “but you might have given us a look in coming home from market; it is only a mile out of the way, and you are pretty well mounted in a general way.”

Then the old man, a gossip, took up one of Meadows’ books.  “Australia! ah!” grunted Merton, and dropped it like a hot potato; he tried another, “Why, this is Australia, too; why, they are all Australia, as I am a living sinner.”  And he looked with a rueful curiosity into Meadows’ face.

Meadows colored, but soon recovered his external composure.

“I have friends there,” said he hastily, “who tell me there are capital investments in that country, and they say no more than the truth.”

“Do you think he will do any good out there?” asked the old man, lowering his voice.

“I can’t say,” answered Meadows dryly.

“Tell us something about that country, John,” said Merton; “and if you was to ask me to take a glass of your home-brewed ale I don’t think I should gainsay you.”

The ale was sent for, and over it Meadows, whose powers of acquisition extended to facts as well as money, and who was full of this new subject, poured the agricultural contents of a dozen volumes into Mr. Merton.

The old farmer sat open-mouthed, transfixed with interest, listening to his friend’s clear, intelligent and masterly descriptions of this wonderful land.  At last the clock struck nine; he started up in astonishment.