me
lots about you that I was dying to hear, but he never said a word, only
that you were all well. He went travelling some weeks ago. I missed him
at first because he used to be so kind to me; but now I don't, because Mr
Creyton, whom Harry left to manage Five-Bob, comes just as often as Harry
used to, and is lots funnier. He brings me something nice every time.
Uncle Jay-Jay teases me about him.

Happy butterfly-natured Gertie! I envied her. With Gertie's letter came
also one from grannie, with further mention of Harold Beecham.

We don't know what to make of Harold Beecham. He was always such a steady
fellow, and hated to go away from home even for a short time, but now he
has taken an idea to rush away to America, and is not coming home till he
has gone over the world. He is not going to see anything, because by
cablegrams his aunts got he is one place today and hundreds of miles away
tomorrow. It is some craze he has suddenly taken. I was asking Augusta if
there was ever any lunacy in the family, and she says not that she knows
of. It was a very unwise act to leave full management to Creyton and
Benson in the face of such a drought. One warning and marvellous escape
such as he has had ought to be enough for a man with any sense. I told
him he'd be poor again if he didn't take care, but he said he didn't mind
if all his property was blown into atoms, as it had done him more harm
than good, whatever he means by talking that way. Insanity is the only
reason I can see for his conduct. I thought he had his eye on Gertie, but
I questioned her, and it appears he has never said anything to her. I
wonder what was his motive for going to Possum Gully that time?

Travel was indeed an unexpected development on the part of Harold
Beecham. He had such a marked aversion to anything of that sort, and
never went even to Sydney or Melbourne for more than a few days at a
stretch, and that on business or at a time of stock shows.

There were many conjectures re the motive of his visit to Possum Gully,
but I held my peace.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

A Tale that is told and a Day that is done

There are others toiling and straining
'Neath burdens graver than mine;
They are weary, yet uncomplaining,--
I know it, yet I repine:
I know it, how time will ravage,
How time will level, and yet
I long with a longing savage,
I regret with a fierce regret.

A. L. GORDON.
Possum Gully, 25th March, 1899

Christmas, onl