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tabby-cat upon a verandah-rail, for the salt westerly breeze, for the sound of the tapping of a man’s pipe against the bathroom window-sill and his soft whistling as he returned from town, for the arms that had held her and the lips that had caressed her, swept over her.

She rested her elbow upon the window-ledge of the lunging ’bus, and shielded her eyes with her hand as though to shut out the glare of the sunlight; but her shoulders were eloquent, and those who watched her knew that she wept. They wondered, and were silent.

The tyres whistled upon the concrete road. The driver dreamed contentedly in the warmth and monotony of the level miles.

****

Hastings.

The prosperous town set in the midst of fertile plains. Narrow streets which contrive to give an impression of breadth—streets laid out with uninteresting symmetry—clean streets. A town upon which the sun shines without let or hindrance; a town upon which there falls no shadow of the hills. An open-faced and open-handed town; the dreaded business rival of Napier. A town possessing, in common with the majority of New Zealand’s provincial towns, an appearance of transience due to the amount of timber used in its construction—a deceptive appearance. A town in whose parks the exile may commune with the ghost of England. A town which seems to breathe deeply and laugh.

As the ’bus slowed to a stop in Heretaunga Street, Grace remembered her errand and looked up in surprise as she realised that the journey was ended.

“At what time does the next ’bus leave for Napier?” she asked, as she alighted.

“Eleven o’clock, miss,” answered the driver, “from opposite the Post Office.”

“Thank you.”

Grace had become used to being addressed as