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there was also among the younger branches an attempt to advertise a special make of oatmeal from Tokomairiro.

‘How is Mr. Andersen getting on?’ he asked cheerfully, lifting one blue-eyed, tow-headed urchin of doubtful sex on to the rail beside him.

Mrs. Andersen shrugged her shoulders. ‘I haven’t seen him for the best part of a month—(Run away, kids, and don’t bother)—I shouldn’t care if I never saw him again,’ she added, frowning.

There seemed no ready-made convention for a remark of this nature, and Geoffrey looked smilingly at the child.

‘I suppose that shocks you,’ the woman said bitterly. ‘One thing, I don’t often have the chance of saying what I think.’

‘I’m sorry it’s like that,’ Geoffrey said, forced into saying something. ‘You must have a hard time feeding and—looking after all these children.’ He was going to say clothing, but, remembering the scantiness of their wardrobe, checked himself in time. ‘If there is anything I or Robert could do to help you, I'm sure we should be very glad.’

Mrs. Andersen shook her head. ‘What could you do?’ she asked. And indeed Geoffrey was conscious as he spoke of the inadequacy of any assistance in his power to render. Short of the reformation, or in the alternative the death of her drunken husband, there seemed no help for her.

This contact with the troubles of another had turned his thoughts from the too intense brooding on the difficulties that beset himself, and he went on his way in a more reasonable frame of mind.