e. It is a very different affair to ours.
It would be honestly called a mansion in any country.

This is the sort of house _we_ intend to have, we say, as we walk up to
it. And this is the kind of garden we will have round it, too. O'Gaygun
sniffs at the flowers with pretended disrespect, and mutters something
about "taters" being more useful and to the purpose. But even he is a
little quelled by the surroundings, and we hear no more of his barbaric
philosophy for a time.

Still, mark this, there is an air about the place that makes it
different from so many old-country habitations. You do not feel that you
may look but mustn't touch. You are not reminded that everything is for
show, and not for use. There is no primness in the garden. There is an
honest degree of orderly disorder, and an absence of formality. You do
not feel as if you ought not to walk on the grass for fear of hurting
it. There is no artificiality apparent; no empty pretences whatsoever.

The house partakes of the same characteristic. It looks homely, and as
if it was meant to be lived in. As we reach the verandah we notice a
saddle or two carelessly slung over the rail; we see a hammock hung in
one corner; and some clothes drying on lines in another. A couple of
colley dogs come barking to meet us from their kennels on a shady side;
and various other slight details betoken that we are still in the
unsophisticated bush.

We tramp heavily along the verandah, a formidable gang of uncouth
barbarians. Old Colonial, at our head, gives a gentle coo-ee to intimate
our arrival. Then out pops our hostess from somewhere. A merry,
bright-eyed little woman is she, such as it does one's heart good to
behold. She comes forward, with two of her children beside her, not a
whit dismayed at the invasion. She gives us a hearty welcome, shaking
hands religiously all along our lengthy line.

This is one of those women who always make you feel gratified and
contented with yourself and all the world, after you have shaken hands
with or spoken to her. "Magnetic," some people call it. She is every
one's sister, and you feel an instinctive affection for her, of that
sober and yet warm kind which may be termed loyalty. She is queen in the
Kaipara; and all of us think it the greatest pleasure in life to obey
her behests.

Chatting gaily, our hostess leads us through an open French window into
the drawing-room, and we follow her, with a pleased and yet bashful
sense of expe