he learned that his name was Brown, and that he had a father
other than the bluff squatter he had grown up with. And at thirteen he
was taken from the station-life he loved, and, after much travelling,
delivered by a station-hand into his father's care in Sydney.

Before he could form any idea as to what was about to happen to him, and
to this grey-bearded father of his, he was taken across the blue harbour
water, and thence by coach to the little township over the northern
hills.

They walked past the small weather-board school together, and few, if
any, words passed between them. For the man's thoughts were away down
the slope of many years, and the boy's were away in that flat country
"out back" where he had been brought up.

They were close to the great iron gates when the man broke the silence;
pointing beyond them he remarked--

"This is where your home will be in the future, John."

John considered the prospect thoughtfully and shook his head--

"I'd rather go home," he said. "Let me go home."

"No," said his father, "it can't be done. I ought to have fetched you
away sooner, only I shirked a duty. Open the little gate, I see the big
ones are padlocked. Push, it's stiff."

They walked up the long red drive, John's mind busy over the questions
he wished to ask his father and he began to lag behind considering them.

"This will be your home," repeated Mr. Brown quietly, "and it's a
marvellous thing how life has arranged itself. The turn of Fortune's
wheel, we may say. Walk quicker, John."

When they stood before the great front door, Mr. Brown became
retrospective again.

"We played here together," he said--, "down these very steps, along these
very paths. It is strange how life has fallen out--how my boy will
be----" He put out his hand and pulled the bell vigorously, then turned
his back to the house and surveyed the garden.

"Is it a school?" whispered John. But before his father could reply the
door had rolled back and a man-servant stood looking at them.

Mr. Brown walked in, put his hat on a table, motioned to John, and
opened a door at one side of the wide hall.

"It's me--Brown," he said as he entered the room. "I've brought the
boy."

John followed very quickly, being curious now. His father stood half-way
across the room, looking hesitating and apologetic.

A man of sixty or so, with a red, merry-looking face, and an
unmistakable sea-captain air, glanced up from a paper he was reading.