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limp, and dusty, cared not a pin whether he spoke or not.

Mrs. Holmes, cigarette in hand, rose from among the cushions of her deck-chair as Ann mounted the veranda steps. The sun would soon be dropping behind the hills to the left of the homestead, but it was still hot; and across the paddocks, a group of small buildings near the red-painted woolshed and the sheep yards was vividly outlined in the mellowing light. Each big forest tree in the patch of native bush on the bank of the river behind the shed showed up distinct and clear; and beyond, through a gap in the hills, one saw a triangle of sapphire blue—the sea. The low bungalow-like homestead was set on a slope. The flower garden fell in terraces below it—with long shadows of shrubs and trees now slanting across the sun-dried turf of the tennis court.

Ann’s first impression of Vera Holmes was of a haggard, handsome woman with queer dark eyes. “She has a thwarted look,” was the comment that sprang into Ann’s mind, though she couldn’t quite explain to herself what she meant by that.

“Hope you didn’t mind coming in the buggy,” said Mrs. Holmes in a husky drawl, waving the smoke of her cigarette from between them. “I had a bad head, and didn’t feel up to driving the car, and my husband’s out at the back of the run. Frightfully warm for this time of year, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” said Ann. “I’ve only been in New Zealand a week.”

“This is like summer. We’re wanting rain badly.”

A man in riding kit was stretched out lazily in a