nd the bush reclaiming its own again. It was a
haunted ride for me, because I had last ridden over this old road long
ago when I was young--going to see the city for the first time--and
because I was now on my way to attend the funeral of one of my father's
blood from whom t had parted in anger.

We slowly climbed, and almost as slowly descended, the steep siding of a
great hill called Aaron's Pass, and about a mile beyond the foot of the
hill I saw a spot I remembered passing on the last journey down, long
ago. Rising back from the road, and walled by heavy bush, was a square
clearing, and in the background I saw plainly, by the broad moonlight,
the stone foundations for a large house; from the front an avenue of
grown pines came down to the road.

"Why!" I exclaimed, turning to the driver, "was that house burnt down?"

"No," he said slowly. "That house was never built."

I stared at the place again and caught sight of a ghostly-looking light
between the lines of the foundations, which I presently made out to be a
light in a tent.

"There's someone camping there," I said.

"Yes," said the driver, "some old swaggy or `hatter.' I seen him comin'
down. I don't know nothing about that there place." (I hadn't "shouted"
for him yet.)

I thought and remembered. I remembered myself, as a boy, being sent
a coach journey along this road to visit some relatives in Sydney. We
passed this place, and the women in the coach began to talk of the fine
house that was going to be built there. The ground was being levelled
for the foundations, and young pines had been planted, with stakes
round them to protect them from the cattle. I remembered being mightily
interested in the place, for the women said that the house was to be
a two-storied one. I thought it would be a wonderful thing to see a
two-storied house there in the bush. The height of my ambition was to
live in a house with stairs in it. The women said that this house was
being built for young Brassington, the son of the biggest squatter then
in the district, who was going to marry the daughter of the next biggest
squatter. That was all I remember hearing the women say.

Three or four miles along the road was a public-house, with a post
office, general store, and blacksmith shop attached, as is usual in
such places--all that was left of the old pastoral and coaching town
of Ilford. I "shouted" for the driver at the shanty, but got nothing
further out of him concerning th