firm-set for her years, but the child was revealed when it broke into smiles—and Norah was rarely grave. No human power had yet been discovered to keep in order the brown curls. Their distressed owner tied them back firmly with a wide ribbon each morning; but the ribbon generally was missing early in the day, and might be replaced with anything that came handy—possibly a fragment of red tape from the office, or a bit of a New Zealand flax leaf, or haply even a scrap of green hide. Anything, said Norah, decidedly, was better than your hair all over your face. For the rest, a nondescript nose, somewhat freckled, and a square chin, completed a face no one would have dreamed of calling pretty. In his own mind her father referred to it as something better. But then there was tremendous friendship between the master of Billabong and his small daughter.

The stock-whip cracked again, nearer home this time; and Norah crammed the blue silk sock hastily into a little work-bag, and raced away over the lawn, her slim black legs making great time across the buffalo grass. Beside her tore the collie and Puck, each a vision of embodied delight. They flashed round the corner of the house, scattered the gravel on the path leading to the back, and came out into the yard as a big black horse pulled up at the gate, and the tall man on his back swung himself lightly to the ground. From some unseen region a black boy appeared silently and led the horse away. Norah, her father, and the dogs arrived at the gate simultaneously.

"I thought you were never coming, Daddy," said the mistress of Billabong, incoherently. "Did you have a good trip?—and how did Monarch go?—and did you buy the cattle?—and have you had any dinner?" She punctuated each query with a hug, and paused only for lack of breath.

"Steady!" said David Linton, laughing. "I'm not a ready reckoner! I've bought the bullocks, and Monarch went quite remarkably well, and yes, I've had dinner, thank you. And how have you been getting on, Norah?"

"Oh, all right," said his daughter. "It was pretty slow, of course—it always is when you go away, Daddy. I worked, and pottered round with Brownie, and went out for rides. And oh, Dad! ever so many letters—and Jim's coming home next week!" She executed an irrepressible pirouette. "And he's got the cup for the best average at the sports—best all-around athlete that means, doesn't it? Isn't it lovely?"

"That's splendid!" Mr. Linton said, looking as pleased as his daughter. "And any school prizes?"

"He didn't mention," Norah answered. "I don't suppose so, bless him! But there's one thing pretty sickening—the boys can't come with him. Wally may come later, but Harry has to go to Tasmania with his father—isn't it unreasonable?"

"I'm sorry he can't come, but on the whole I've a fellow feeling for the father," said Jim's parent. "A man wants to see something of his son occasionally, I suppose. And any news from Mrs. Stephenson?"

"She's better," Norah answered, her face growing graver. "Dick wrote. And there's a letter for you from Mrs. Stephenson, too. She says she's brighter, and the sea-voyage was evidently the thing for her, 'cause she's more like herself than at any time since—since my dear old Hermit died." Norah's voice shook a little. "They expect to be in Wellington all the summer, and perhaps longer."

"It was certainly a good prescription, that voyage." Mr. Linton said. "I don't think she would have been long in following her husband—poor old chap!—if they had remained here. But one misses them, Norah."

"Horrid," said Norah, with emphasis. "I miss her all the time—and it's quite rum, Dad, but I do believe I miss lessons. Over five weeks since I had any! Are you going to get me another tutor?"

"We'll see," said her father. They were in the big dining-room by this time, and he was turning over the pile of letters that had come during his three days' absence from the station. "Any chance of tea, Norah?"

"Well, rather!" said Norah. "You read your letters, and I'll go and tell Sarah. And Brownie'll be wanting to see you. I won't be long, Daddy." She vanished.

A few minutes later Mr. Linton looked up from a letter that had put a crease into his brow. A firm, flat step sounded in the hall, and Mrs. Brown came in—cook and housekeeper to the homestead, the guide, philosopher and friend of everyone, and the special protector of the little motherless girl about whom David Linton's life centred. "Brownie" was not a person lightly to be reckoned with, and her master was wont to turn to her whenever any question arose affecting Norah. He greeted her warmly now.

"We're all glad to welkim you back, sirr," said Brownie. "As for that blessed child, she's not like the same 'uman bein' when you're off the place. Passed me jus' now in the passige, goin' full bat, an' turned 'ead over 'eels, she did—I didn't need to be told you'd got 'ome!" She hesitated: "You heard from Mrs. Stephenson, sir?"

"Yes," said Mr. Linton, glancing at the letter in his hand. "As I thought—she confirms our opinion. I'm afraid there's no help for it."

"I knew she would," said Mrs. Brown, heavily, a shadow falling onto her broad, pleasant face. "Oh, I know there's no 'elp, sir—it has to be. But—but—" She put her apron to her eyes.

"We're really very lucky, I suppose," Mr. Linton said, in tones distinctly unappreciative, at the moment, of any luck. "Mrs. Stephenson has been a second mother to Norah, these two years—between you and her I can't see that the child needed anything; and with Dick as tutor she has made remarkable progress. Personally, I'd have let the arrangement go on indefinitely. Now that they've had to leave us, however—" He paused, folding up the letter slowly.

"She couldn't stay 'ere, poor lady," Mrs. Brown said; "'tain't in reason she'd be able to after the old gentleman's death, with the place full of memories an' all. An', of course, she'd want Mr. Dick along with her. Anyway, the precious lamb's getting a big girl to be taught only by a young gentleman—" and Brownie pursed up her lips, looking such a model of all the proprieties that Mr. Linton smiled involuntarily.

"She's all right," he said shortly. "Of course, her aunt has been at me for ever so long to send her to school."

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, Mrs. Geoffrey don't know everythink," said Mrs. Brown, bridling. "Her not havin' any daughters of 'er own, 'ow can it be expected that she'd understand? An' town ladies can't never compre'end country children, any'ow. Our little maid's jus' grown up like a bush flower, an' all the better she is for it."

"But the time comes for change, Brownie, old friend," said Mr. Linton.

"Yes," said Mrs. Brown, "it do. But what the station'll do is more'n I can see just at present—an' as for you, sir—an' let alone me—" Her comfortable, fat voice died away, and the apron was at her eyes again. "What'll Billabong be, with its little girl at school?"

"At—WHERE?" asked Norah.

She had come in with the tea-tray in her hands—a little flushed from the fire, and her brown face alight with all the hundred-and-one things she had yet to tell Daddy. On the threshold she paused, struck motionless by that amazing speech. She looked a little helplessly from one face to the other; and the two who loved her felt the same helplessness as they looked back. It was not an easy thing to pass sentence of exile from Billabong on Norah.

"I—" said her father. "You see, dear—Dick having gone—you know, your aunt—" He stopped, his tongue tied by the look in Norah's eyes.

Brownie slipped into the breach.

"You're so big now, dearie," she said, "so, big—and—and—" With this lucid effort at enlightenment she put her apron fairly over her head and turned away to the open window.

But Norah's eyes were on her father. Just for a moment the sick sense of bewilderment and despair seemed to crush her altogether. She had realized her sentence in a flash—that the home that meant all the