rong tone of disapprobation. "'Wasting sweetness on the desert air'
is nothing to it; this is positive desecration!"

Eleanor let the opinion pass, and eat the pineapple which he gave her
with an apparently unimpaired relish.

"You don't know what sort of a place it is!" he insisted.

"I cannot know, I suppose, without going."

"Suppose you stay here," said Mr. Esthwaite; "and we'll send for
anybody in the world you please! to make you comfortable. Seriously, we
want good people in this colony; we have got a supply of all other
sorts, but those are in a deficient minority."

"In that case, I think everybody that stays here is bound to supply
one."

"See here--who is that gentleman that is so fortunate as to be
expecting you? what is his name?"

"Mr. Esthwaite! for shame!" said his wife. "I think you are a very
presuming cousin."

Mr. Esthwaite knew quite well that he was, but he smiled to himself
with satisfaction to see the answer his question had called up into
Eleanor's cheeks. The rich dye of crimson was pretty to behold; her
words were delayed long enough to mark either difficulty of speaking or
displeasure at the necessity for it. Mr. Esthwaite did not care which
it was. At last Eleanor answered, with calm distinctness though without
facing him.

"Do you not know the name?"

"I--I believe Mrs. Caxton must have mentioned it in one of her letters.
She ought, and I think she did."

An impatient throb of displeasure passed through Eleanor's veins. It
did not appear. She said composedly, "The name is Rhys--it is a Welsh
name--spelled R, h, y, s."

"Hm! I remember. What sort of a man is he?"

Eleanor looked up, fairly startled with the audacity of her host; and
only replied gravely, "I am unable to say."

Mr. Esthwaite at least had a sense of humour in him; for he smiled, and
his lips kept pertinaciously unsteady for some time, even while he went
on talking.

"I mean--is he a man calculated for savage, or for civilized life?"

"I hope so," said Eleanor wilfully.

"Mr. Esthwaite! you astonish me!" said his wife.

Mr. Esthwaite seemed however highly amused. "Do you know what savage
life is?" he said to Eleanor. "It is not what you think. It is not a
garden of roses, with a pineapple tucked away behind every bush. Now if
you would come here--here is a grand opening. Here is every sort of
work wanting you--and Mr. Rhys--whatever the line of his talents may
be. We'll build him a church, and we'll go a