though impatient of further restraint. Already the
passing to and fro between the steamer and the jetty had about ceased.

"Violet--Violet! Oh, where can she be?" cried the old lady, in a
perfect agony of mind.

Ah, she might have gone back to the cabin. She would go and see.
Turning, she was hastening to carry out that idea when again the brazen
clang of the bell, this time startling in its peremptory note, caused
her to stop short.

"Now, marm--if you're not going with us it's time to leave," said a
gruff voice at her side. "Quick, please, she's a-moving already," and
half thrusting, half lifting the bewildered old lady, the burly
quartermaster transferred her to the gangway plank, which no sooner had
she crossed than it was withdrawn.

The great steamer slid gently from her moorings, a crowd following her
to the end of the jetty, hooraying violently, waving handkerchiefs,
bawling out parting fragments of chaff and snatches of songs, and amid
all this champagne-bred enthusiasm, its blaring clamour drowning the
real grief of the sorrowing few, the propeller of the good ship
_Siberian_ throbbed faster and faster, as she swung steadily into her
course _en route_ for the Old Country.

Left there upon the jetty, hardly knowing whether she stood on her head
or not, poor old Mrs Aldridge was quite overcome. What had become of
Violet? Could any harm have happened to the girl? Could she have
fallen overboard unseen? No, that could hardly be. They must have
missed each other in the crowd and confusion. That was it. Still the
thought that she had not taken a last and more affectionate farewell
filled the good old lady with profound regret. Well, standing there
would not mend matters. She must get home.

And as she turned to leave the jetty, the warning notes of the shore
bell on board the New Zealand steamer came floating across the bay.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Through the creaming surges of Table Bay the _Rangatira_ is speeding on
her southward course. The loom of the mountainous coast has faded into
night, and now the dark velvety vault above is ablaze with mysterious
stars, crowding the zenith, hanging literally in patches of sheeny gold
rather than twinkling with the feeble and scattered glimmer of more
chilly latitudes. There is a damp, sensuous richness in the atmosphere,
just tempered by the keen whiff of the salt sea.

The prow of the mighty vess