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ern veranda towards the whare. This was an old three-roomed cottage set higher up the slope among the trees; and from the schoolroom, which was in the front of the building, one looked down upon stockyard, stables, and garage; and then across the paddocks to the woolshed, the sheep yards, and all the buildings clustered there. There had been heavy rain in the night, but now the sunshine was brilliant and clear, and larks were singing high up in the blue. Already the paddocks and the tennis court looked more freshly green, and the flowers washed and shining. Down by the woolshed cattle were moving in the sunshine, dogs barked, and there was the crack of a stockwhip from a galloping horseman as one beast broke away from the mob.

“That’s Rodney drafting cattle,” said Biddy, looking down. “He’s the best rider on the coast.”

“What about Dad?” demanded Jo, fiercely.

“Rodney’s better than Dad—Dad says so himself. He’s got better hands.”

“Pooh! Dad’s the best rider in New Zealand—the best in the world.”

Another heated argument arose. Ann restored peace by dragging a red herring across the scent.

“Where does that other door lead to?”

“That? Oh, that’s Gerald’s room. He doesn’t live here, you know. But he leaves his clothes and things there, so as he can change for polo practice.”

Biddy’s brows were drawn down in a scowl.

“I love Gerald,” announced Jo.

“You say that because he gives you chocolates.”

“No, I’d love him just the same if he didn’t give me nothing.”

“I hate him.”