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The train gradually descended towards the lowlands of the coast, and evening found the travellers slowly running along the last terrace of the ranges just as a showery sunset burned over the little new village where they were to stay for the night. Spring here was no longer the wild mountain spirit, flying over the ravines on a burst of sunshine, or dancing on the peaks to the skirl of an Antarctic snow-flurry, but the gentle mother of the fields, keeping house in wood and valley, and binding up the desolation of the newly-cleared forest with daisied turf and ever-deepening grasses. Familiar breaths of sweetness blew from the clover-bedded plains far below, and all the leaves in the valley were honeycombed with sunset, as Clare and Alice stepped out into the little wooden shed which represented the railway station of Linden. Clare was very hungry and in good spirits, and had even forgotten to take her usual dose of aconite at four o’clock, so much had the scenery excited her. She was very forgiving to the newness of the civilization around, and looked forward to the national dish of chops and tea (which might be expected to form their evening meal) with considerable anxiety.

The little wooden inn where they stopped for the night was homely and comfortable, though