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uninitiated—was consequently passable even to a pedestrian. Now the way would be merely a wide track through a dense jungle, again it would open out and disclose a fire-blackened landscape, covered with unsightly stumps, with perhaps a rude slab hut in the midst of it.

Robert’s progress had been twice interrupted by morning greetings from neighbouring housewives, and fish being always an acceptable offering he reached the house somewhat more lightly burdened than when he had left the boat. Outside the fence was a team of bullocks in charge of a small native boy, whose striking likeness to Pine at once attested the ownership of the team. Pine himself was in the paddock with Geoffrey, looking at the land to be ploughed. Robert made his way to the door, where he found two persons seated on the doorstep, evidently waiting his arrival. The elder was a fair, blue-eyed girl, named Lena Andersen, while the other, a child of three or four years, Robert judged to be one of her numerous brothers and sisters. The girl was dressed in a flour-bag, from which the brand had not entirely faded, and this, so far as could be judged, was the whole of her costume.

‘Well, Lena,’ said Robert, ‘what’s the trouble?’

‘Please, Robert, mother says can you spare her some tea till father goes to the store?’

The request was not an isolated one, and the implied promise of return Robert knew to be problematical of fulfilment, but he said ‘Yes’ cheerfully and went for the tea.

‘And mother says,’ Lena went on quickly, ‘if you could spare her some soap she would do her