ossibility of a coincidence in point of time between a fit
of indigestion and a domestic misfortune. I am far from denying the
possibility of more remarkable coincidences than that. I have read in
books, novels by the very best French authors, how a man, not heard of
for twenty years, having, in point of fact, been absent during that
time in the interior of Africa, may appear at Paris at a given moment,
only in time to save a young lady from dishonour, and rescue a property
of ten million francs. But these great writers of fiction don't give us
any warning whatever. The door is thrown heavily open, and he stalks up
to the table where the will is lying, quite unexpectedly; stalks up
always, or else strides. (How would it be, my dear Monsieur Dumas, if,
in your next novel, he were to walk in, or run in, or hop in, or, say,
come in on all-fours like a dog?--anything for a change, you know.) And
these masters of fiction are right--"Coming events do not cast their
shadows before."

If they did, how could it happen that Mary Hawker sat there in her
verandah at Toonarbin singing so pleasantly over her work? And why did
her handsome, kindly face light up with such a radiant smile when she
saw her son Charles come riding along under the shadow of the great
trees only two days after Cecil Mayford had proposed to Alice, and had
been refused?

He came out of the forest shadow with the westering sunlight upon his
face, riding slowly. She, as she looked, was proud to see what a fine
seat he had on his horse, and how healthy and handsome he looked.

He rode round to the back of the house, and she went through to meet
him. There was a square court behind, round which the house, huts, and
store formed a quadrangle, neat and bright, with white quartz gravel.
Bythe-bye, there was a prospecting party who sank two or three shafts
in the flat before the house last year; and I saw about eighteen
pennyweights of gold which they took out. But it did not pay, and is
abandoned. (This in passing, A PROPOS of the quartz.)

"Is Tom Troubridge come home, mother?" said he, as he leaned out of the
saddle to kiss her.

"Not yet, my boy," she said. "I am all alone. I should have had a dull
week, but I knew you were enjoying yourself with your old friend at
Garoopna. A great party there, I believe?"

"I am glad to get home, mother," he said. "We were very jolly at first,
but latterly Sam Buckley and Cecil Mayford have been looking at one
another li