eed of it run in his blood.

Worse still was the prospect of parting from relatives and friends. The
tears came at this, freely. John's children!--who would watch over them
when she was gone? How could she, from so far away, keep the promise
she had made to poor Jinny on her death-bed? She would have to give up
the baby of which she had grown so fond--give it back into Zara's
unmotherly hands. And never again of a Saturday would she fetch poor
little long-legged Trotty from school. She must say good-bye to one and
to all--to John, and Zara, and Jerry--and would know no more, at close
quarters, how they fared. When Jerry married there would be no one to
see to it that he chose the right girl. Then Ned and Polly--poor souls,
poor souls! What with the rapid increase of their family and Ned's
unsteadiness--he could not keep any job long because of it--they only
just contrived to make ends meet. How they would do it when she was not
there to lend a helping hand, she could not imagine. And outside her
brothers and sisters there was good Mrs. Devine. Mary had engaged to
guide her friend's tottery steps on the slippery path of Melbourne
society, did Mr. Devine enter the ministry. And poor little Agnes with
her terrible weakness... and Amelia and her sickly babes ... and Tilly,
dear, good, warm-hearted Tilly! Never again would the pair of them
enjoy one of their jolly laughs; or cook for a picnic; or drive out to
a mushroom hunt. No, the children would grow up anyhow; her brothers
forget her in carving out their own lives; her friends find other
friends.

For some time, however, she kept her own counsel. But when she had
tried by hook and by crook to bring Richard to reason, and failed; when
she saw that he was actually beginning, on the quiet, to make ready for
departure, and that the day was coming on which every one would have to
know: then she threw off her reserve. She was spending the afternoon
with Tilly. They sat on the verandah together, John's child,
black-eyed, fat, self-willed, playing, after the manner of two short
years, at their feet. At the news that was broken to her Tilly began by
laughing immoderately, believing that Mary was "taking a rise out of
her." But having studied her friend's face she let her work fall,
slowly opened mouth and eyes, and was at first unequal to uttering a
word.

Thereafter she bombarded Mary with questions.

"Wants to leave Ballarat? To go home to England?" she echoed, with an
emp