"We just long and long for 'Greenways'."

"We talk in bed about the fun we used to have in the orchard till we nearly cry. Don't we, Eff?"

"Rather," said Effie, mournfully, "but now we'll be able to come, 'cause we'll all have whooping cough, too. Frank and Ted and Nellie all say they'd rather have it than stop away from 'Greenways' any longer."

Up through the ferns came the thin note of Miss Bibby's cooee.

"Coo-ee-ee," shouted Pauline instantly in return. Then looked a little troubled, for cooee was to be interpreted that all was well.

"At all events it's not our fault," she said resignedly.

A stout figure of vengeance was indeed coming along the path in the shape of Uncle Hugh.

Tiny Nellie Gowan who could never keep a secret ten minutes had suddenly revealed the horrifying fact that "Effie and Florence were going to run and run till they catched the whooping cough and all could go to Muffie's house again."

So Hugh had followed in their wake promptly enough, but then he was stout, while they were slim, and the race was consequently not to him.

He drove Paul and Lynn downwards with threats of dry bread and spring water for lunch. And he bore his nieces, who cheerfully exculpated their friends from blame, back to the tables at the foot of the first Fall, where Kate and the others were beginning to spread the lunch.

And here nothing in the shape of wrath and reproaches and argument could shake them from the position behind which they had entrenched themselves, namely that since the coughing would have to be done by themselves it mattered nothing to anybody if the affliction came upon them.

Kate unpacked the baskets with a melancholy air. It was useless, of course, to preserve an appearance of anger towards the offenders, but a bad quarter of an hour was undoubtedly in store for her with their mother.

Hugh was optimistic. He declared that the whooping cough microbe meeting the fresh air microbe on such a fighting ground as a mountain gully would be "laid out in one act."

He stretched himself along a seat and indulged in a smoke after his exertions, while Kate and Florence and Effie made all ready for lunch.

Dora and Beatrice had gone to sit in the "Lovers' Nook" and try to feel romantic. Kate had rejected their offers of assistance in her work.

"Why did you send away my little girls?" said Hugh lazily,—"I don't mean bad little girls like those," he looked at the shamelessly cheerful Florence and Effie, who were gathering ferns for the tables, "but my good little girls."

"Silly little things," said Kate, "they get on my nerves frightfully. I wanted to keep my faculties clear for my work."

"Ah," said Hugh, looking at his pipe, "they strike you that way, do they, K? They seem rather charming to me to-day. Perhaps apart—one cannot have both unfortunately—perhaps one at a time, K, they might seem to have more—er sense, eh?"

His hat was over his eyes, Kate could only see his mouth.

"Oh, my little me," said the woman's heart, "the boy is serious!"

She cut up a lettuce before she could trust herself to speak and even ate a few shreds in her agitation.

When she did speak her tone was motherly.

"Hughie," she said, "they are charming little girls,—for a summer day on the mountain. But we're in our autumn now, you and I, and for daily companionship I assure you you would get more satisfaction from Lynn or Muffie."

The hat was pushed an inch or two lower still.

"K—you're a good sort, of course, but—I get lonely sometimes, girl."

"Yes, yes, boy. God knows it's natural. But—not a pretty butterfly, Hugh. A woman nearer your own age, dear boy, some one to be a restful companion for you, able to appreciate your work, and fit in with your angles instead of your having to attempt to unmake yourself at your age and fit into hers."

"All right, don't disturb me, I'm going to sleep," said Hugh sulkily. What was the use of asking a woman's advice on any subject under the sun?

The escaped caddies brought down more hampers. In the strap of one of them were the morning letters, forgotten till now.

Hugh opened them irritably, while Kate meekly went on with her task of making a salad.

She was engaged in the critical operation of squeezing the juice from her sliced cucumber, by pressing the top plate heavily down on the bottom one, when the author gave so sudden and strong an exclamation that she dropped the whole concern.

"What Tommy rot is this?" he demanded of her angrily. "What lunatic trick have you played me now, Kate? Where's the last number of the Melbourne Review?"

She took the letter from his hand and read it. It was from the editor of the Review, a one time "chief" of Hugh's.

"I enclose you cheque for ten guineas as arranged," it said, "and, of course, now you're a celebrity, old man, I've had to print it and be thankful. But you wouldn't have had the cheek to send me a rotter of a story like that six years ago, and you know it. You want a change, that's what it is, old man, you're attempting too much. Take a run over to New Zealand, or go home. And if you've been turning out any more stories like this choice Hypocrites, take my advice and burn 'em before you blast your brand-new reputation."

"Where's the last Melbourne Review, I ask you?" roared Hugh. As if it were part of Kate's duty to bring files of the latest magazines with her to picnics!

She delved instantly into her memory to try to help him; another woman might have chosen the moment to sulk, offended at his tone.

"It came on Thursday," she said, "I remember tearing a page out to make a boat for Muffie—I meant to have torn an advertisement page, but found later it had part of a story of yours on it."

"What was the tale called?"

"The Hypocrites."

"And my signature to it?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Great heavens, girl, don't you see what your carelessness has done? You've sent that confounded woman's tale to the editor as my work!"

Kate was forced gently to remind him that he had enclosed the MS himself in an envelope and addressed it to a typist with instructions to forward to the Review.

Hugh sat down chapfallen. "What a fool I am!" he groaned. "The tale was unspeakable. It is enough to ruin any reputation. And Wilkie's not the man to retract either; he'll tell me the mistake's my own and I'll have to grin and bear the ignominy."

"And that poor girl," said Kate—"her story lost to her! No wonder I couldn't find her MS. I meant to have made you hunt for it to-day, but this picnic put it out of my head."

And now Hugh gave a sudden roar of laughter.

"By George, K," he said, "don't you see the shrieking humour of the situation? The woman thinks I've boned her precious story. That's why she has been treating me with such cold dignity. Oh, hold me up, hold me up, I feel ill!"

But soon his hilarity sobered. The situation also had a pathetic side. He remembered the quiet shining of the authoress's eyes when she gave him the unfortunate roll of MS. What must she be thinking of him?

"K," he said, "I'm going down at once to explain to Miss Bibby."

"But what will Dora and Beatrice say?" said Kate doubtfully.

"Oh, hang Dora and Beatrice," said their gallant host, "you'll have to make an excuse for me. Besides, Agnes Bibby is as much my guest as they are. I'll eat my chicken down there and my strawberries up here. You've sent everything down for them, haven't you."

"Everything," said K.

"Champagne?"

"Oh no—Miss Bibby does not touch such things, I know."

"Give me a bottle of champagne?"

Kate handed him one and he tucked it under his arm.

"Forgive my spleen, old girl," he said, his hand held out. "I fear there's a good deal of the unvarnished brute in me."

"Yes, you want a tamer, my boy," said Kate, squeezing his hand.

"Well," said Hugh, "I'll go and make my expiation. Again. I seem to be always doing it. I tell you what it is, K, if I injure that girl again I'll have to marry her."

He went swinging off at a comfortable jog-trot down the path, his bottle sticking out from beneath one arm.

A look of thoughtful surprise dawned in Kate's eyes.

"And upon my soul you might do worse," she said—"you might do worse."



CHAPTER XXIV

AT THE SECOND FALL

Miss Bibby had prepared a delightful meal for her charges from the generous hamper the caddies carried down to her. Slices of chicken lay in nests of finely shredded lettuce with a delicate cream dressing lightly poured on top. A mountain of ruddy strawberries formed a centrepiece,—delicious and novel cakes made side dishes, jellies quivered and reflected on their sides the foaming waterfall. While here, there and everywhere were scattered evidences of the high skill chocolate manufacturers are attaining to—hatchets, saws, garden rakes, dolls' tea-sets, animals of every description—all in the most delightful kind of chocolate.

The children buzzed round the tables like eager flies, but Miss Bibby would not have them begin until their host had paid the visit he had promised.

"But I may as well get mine over," she said, "and then I can help all of you. And it would be too depressing for you, wouldn't it, Paul, to see me eating what you think my poor meal while you revel in all these delicacies?" She got out her tiny basket and hastily emptied the contents of one of the packets on to a plate.

"Dear, darling Miss Bibby," implored Lynn, clinging suddenly to her, "do eat something nice, just to-day. Oh do, do throw your horrid basket away, and eat really truly food for once."

"I can't, darling—I really can't," said Miss Bibby, quite distressed at having to refuse such a lovingly-put plea; "some other day,—next time you have a picnic. But not to-day." She almost said "Not his food."

"Here he comes, here he comes," shrieked the children.

"Can I begin—can I have a lawberry?" cried Max, fairly dancing in his impatience.

Hugh came down wiping his hot face with his handkerchief. He took in the scene at a glance,—the eager children, waiting for him before they began, Miss Bibby seated at the adjacent slab table where she had piled the empty hampers, hastily eating a poor meal from a plate before her.

"Fall to, chickens," said Hugh, and the four children made a glad, mad dash for their seats and with glowing eyes "fell to."

Hugh went to the grey slab table.

"My dear Miss Bibby, am I always to be doing you an injury?" he said.

And at that instant there rolled away from Agnes Bibby's soul all the heaviness that had oppressed it, and the sun shone out.

Of course, of course there was some mistake,—he had never meant to take credit for her work!

"Oh," she gasped, "it was a mistake, of course. You—you sent them the wrong MS, that is all." Why had no lightning flash of this possibility come to her before in her darkness?

Hugh looked at her in speechless admiration.

Then he spoke, and slowly. "I think," he said, "you are without exception the most sensible woman I have ever met."

And now there ran into Agnes Bibby's face a flood of colour, quite as delicate and beautiful as that which sometimes stained the fresh young skins of Dora and Beatrice. She felt so guilty—she had thought—what had she not thought? She began to try to tell him she was not as sensible as he imagined, but he was so busy explaining to her how it all happened, and pressing the ten-guinea cheque upon her which he insisted her story had earned, that she simply was afforded no chance.

"But," she said, pushing back the cheque gently—"I can only accept four guineas of this—that is the most my story would have earned. The rest your name commanded!"

"Nonsense, nonsense," he said, "that Review always pays well, this is your own cheque, fairly earned; remember I have deprived you of all the glory of the story. For I know Wilkie too well to be able to hope that he will condescend to explain such a mistake in his columns."

So Miss Bibby, dazzled, tucked the bit of pink paper away in her little basket.

"And now," said Hugh, "will you just see if the children have enough to eat?"

"Oh dear, oh dear," said Miss Bibby, fluttering up, "I really had forgotten them for the moment. I—I hope they have not made themselves ill."

When she had obtained doubtful satisfaction on this point and turned her head again towards Hugh, she found him in the act of tossing all her packets of eatables one after the other over the edge of the rock where the water went plunging down to yet another fall.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" shouted Lynn, who had seen the act, "now she'll have to eat some of our lovely things."

"Have a lawberry, Miss Bibby, go on," Max enjoined, his little mouth full of the delicious fruits and red juice dripping down his tunic.

"I—I—" began Miss Bibby.

But Hugh calmly tucked her hand in his arm and led her to the children's table. "I am taking you into dinner, madam, and I insist that you eat everything I put before you."

And she did—or almost. Hugh let the children revel as they liked in the good things, and assured their anxious guardian that he had chosen the lunch expressly from the point of view of suitability for the delicate digestions of children. And he laid down the maxim that appetite was the safest guide in the world, and when it said "More" no one but a Bumble would say it nay.

He ate excellently himself; he uncorked the champagne, and insisted upon her joining him with it; the sparkling stuff filled all her veins with fire. She ate chicken and found that it was good—and very good. She ate of other delicacies with which he plied her plates and found all her system rejoiced. In very truth she had lately pushed her diet theory so far that she was in a state of semi-starvation. She laughed, she chatted gaily, she made as entertaining a companion for that little lunch at the foot of the Fall as a man need wish to have. Hugh stared at her in amaze once or twice; it was as if a white tightly-closed rosebud had suddenly blossomed into beautiful bloom.

"Happiness," said Hugh to himself, "that is all she needs, and the independence and responsibilities of a home of her own."

The merry lunch progressed; the talk fell upon the author's own books—and other books. Again Hugh was surprised—and delighted—at the lady's discrimination and genuine culture. It was difficult to realize that any one who wrote so atrociously could think and speak so well.

"It's like Kate's bicycle," he said to himself, "a single woman must break out somewhere. The probabilities are, if she had a home of her own, that she would never want to touch a pen again."

Round and round the subject hovered his thoughts; this gentle, quiet companion for the autumn of his life—the thought was singularly attractive—infinitely more so than the thought of Dora or Bee that had always possessed also an element of distraction alarming to a man of staid habits.

He looked at her with new eyes.

She saw the look and drooped and flushed beneath it.

Then down came Kate, panting and puffing, but quite genial.

"A nice way to treat your guests, Sir," she said, "do you know you have been away an hour? I don't know what Dora and Bee can think of you."

"By George," said Hugh, "I had forgotten their very existence!"

"Well," said Kate, sinking comfortably on a seat, "others have not been so forgetful. Two young men have arrived and have been helping us to eat up the picnic. I have forgotten their surnames, but the girls call them Charlie and Graham. Medical students, I find, who decided not to attend lectures, but to take a run up here for the day. Clears the brain, they told me. Heard at the hotel that their friends were at the Falls, so just ran down in the hope of stumbling across them. Stumbled across them in the 'Lovers' Nook.'"

"Ah," said Hugh, "and do the little girls seem pleased to see them?"

"Well," said Kate, "all I can say is one of them, Bee to be exact, has a ring on her finger that she did not start the day with. I discovered this by the painful efforts she made at lunch to hide it. And I expect by this time Dora's finger can keep Bee's company. They are plainly very masterful young men, and I fancy had determined that the mountain trip should settle their hearts as well as clear their brains."

"Ah," said Hugh, "I am delighted. I'll go up presently and drink their healths—if there's a bottle of champagne left. Any more news your end of the world?"

"Yes," said Kate, and calmly helped herself to some jelly, "Effie has developed whooping cough while you have been away."

"Oh, oh!" said Muffie, jumping with joy, "may we go up and play with them now?"

"Look here," said Hugh, "I protest. This is too staggering. I may not know as much of medicine as this Charlie and Graham you speak of, but I do know a germ's got to be incubated. There simply has not been time."

"Oh, yes," said Kate. "I have dragged it from Florence that they foregathered purposely some time ago with the laundress's little boy who has the same complaint, but since it did not seem to have communicated itself to them they made another trial to-day. Well, Edith will have to leave the hotel now and take a cottage for them."

The little Lomaxes were dancing with delight. Only Max was a little quiet. Teddie Gowan did everything a little better than he, Max, could do; it would be insupportable if Teddie were able soon to brag that he whooped louder than Max.

"Praps mine will get worser again," he said hopefully.

"See here," said Kate, "I must go back before much longer. Miss Bibby and I will pack up, Hugh, and you stay quietly at the tree ferns and mind the children."

"No," said Hugh gently, "you and the children pack up, K, and I will mind Miss Bibby."

A delicate wave of colour pulsed over the woman's face.

THE END.

Butler & Tanner The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.



WORKS BY ETHEL TURNER

(MRS. H. R. CURLEWIS)

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London: WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED.



Transcriber's notes: Inconsistent hyphenations (everyday/every-day, wastepaper/waste-paper, bathroom/bath-room) have been retained. On p39 Miss (Agnes) Bibby's rejected novel is listed as being written by "Katherine J. Howard Bibby". This is the only occurrence of "Katherine" in the text and has been left as printed. On p177 the punctuation preceding the quotation "How happy could I be with either" has been adjusted to clarify who is speaking.

THE END