"Fine fence, is it not? Eight wires, a top rail, and very stout posts.
Harry Beecham had that put up by contract this year. Twelve miles of it.
It cost him a lot: couldn't get any very low tenders, the ground being so
hard on account of the drought. Those trees are Five-Bob Downs--see, away
over against the range. But I suppose you know the places better than I
do."

We were now within an hour of our destination. How familiar were many
landmarks to me, although I had not seen them since I was eight years
old.

A river ran on our right, occasionally a glimmer of its noisy waters
visible through the shrubbery which profusely lined its banks. The short
evening was drawing to a close. The white mists brought by the rain were
crawling slowly down the hills, and settling in the hollows of the ranges
on our left. A V-shaped rift in them, known as Pheasant Gap, came into
view. Mr Hawden said it was well named, as it swarmed with lyrebirds.
Night was falling. The skreel of a hundred curlews arose from the
gullies--how I love their lonely wail!--and it was quite dark when we
pulled up before the front gate of Caddagat.

A score of dogs rushed yelping to meet us, the front door was thrown
open, lights and voices came streaming out.

I alighted from the buggy feeling rather nervous. I was a pauper with a
bad character. How would my grandmother receive me? Dear old soul, I had
nothing to fear. She folded me in a great warm-hearted hug, saying, "Dear
me, child, your face is cold. I'm glad you've come. It has been a
terrible day, but we're glad to have the rain. You must be frozen. Get in