reflecting that her companion's moustachios would very well become a
villain in a novel.

Mr. Tombey looked at the star-spangled sky, on which the Southern Cross
hung low, and he looked at the phosphorescent sea; but from neither did
inspiration come. Inspiration is from within, and not from without. At
last, however, he made a gallant and a desperate effort.

"Miss Smithers," he said in a voice trembling with agitation.

"Yes, Mr. Tombey," answered Augusta, quietly; "what is it?"

"Miss Smithers," he went on--"Miss Augusta, I don't know what you
will think of me, but I must tell you, I can't keep it any longer, I
love you!"

Augusta fairly jumped. Mr. Tombey had been very, even markedly, polite,
and she, not being a fool, had seen that he admired her; but she had
never expected this, and the suddenness with which the shot was fired was
somewhat bewildering.

"Why, Mr. Tombey," she said in a surprised voice, "you have only known me
for a little more than a fortnight."

"I fell in love with you when I had only known you for an hour," he
answered with evident sincerity. "Please listen to me. I know I am not
worthy of you! But I do love you so very dearly, and I would make you a
good husband; indeed I would, I am well off; though, of course that is
nothing; and if you don't like New Zealand, I would give it up and go to
live in England. Do you think that you can take me? If you only knew how
dearly I love you, I am sure you would."

Augusta collected her wits as well as she could. The man evidently did
love her; there was no doubting the sincerity of his words, and she liked
him and he was a gentleman. If she married him there would be an end of
all her worries and troubles, and she could rest contentedly on his
strong arm. Woman, even gifted woman, is not made to fight the world with
her own hand, and the prospect had allurements. But while she thought,
Eustace Meeson's bonny face rose before her eyes, and, as it did so, a
faint feeling of repulsion to the man who was pleading with her took form
and colour in her breast. Eustace Meeson, of course, was nothing to her;
no word or sign of affection had passed between them; and the probability
was that she would never set her eyes upon him again. And yet that face
rose up between her and this man who was pleading at her side. Many
women, likely enough, have seen some such vision from the past and have
disregarded it, only to find too late that that which is thrust a