It was soon an established fact that the children spent most of their days together, an intimacy that at first was rather a trouble to Mrs. Kenyon, who felt that from mere force of circumstance she could make no adequate return for the kindness shown to her little girl at the farm. Her days were of necessity spent almost entirely from home, as her expectation of obtaining work was fully justified. For half the day, either morning or afternoon, Eva would go with her, but the other half was almost invariably spent with Jack, who was always lurking near the gate in readiness to carry off his playmate. It was in vain for Betty to assure her that this was a satisfactory arrangement for both parties, that before Eva's coming Jack's life had been a lonely one.  
"It's delightful for the children, but for your people it must be very often a terrible nuisance; I must think of some way of making things equal, or it cannot go on," said Mrs. Kenyon, not many weeks after her coming.
 
The opportunity presented itself on the first occasion when Betty brought a message from her mother, asking if Mrs. Kenyon could reserve the next week's work for them.
 
"Our sewing is all behindhand, and neither mother nor I have anything fit to put on, but if you will devise, fit, and cut out, and we all sit at work together, I think a week will see us through the worst of it."
 
"It just happens that I'm free next week, and I'll come gladly—as a friend, you understand; exchange is no robbery. Think of all you do for Eva," and Mrs. Kenyon's head lifted with the odd little gesture that Betty was beginning to interpret as a sign that her decision on any subject was final. Neither did Betty try at the present time to combat it.
 
But she was not pleased about it.
 
"She's too poor to afford to be so independent, mother," she said, when she went home.
 
"My dear, let her have her way. We can make it up to her in many forms, which she will not detect. Meanwhile one respects that passionate desire for independence."
 
"Do you? Carried too far I think it becomes almost a vice. It blocks real friendship. I should like to know Mrs. Kenyon's story. I'm sure she has one."
 
"When she wishes you to know it she will tell you," said Betty's mother placidly.
 
The children meanwhile did everything together, or to speak more accurately, whatever Jack did, Eva, his faithful satellite, tried to copy. Happiest of all was she when, tired with play, Jack would sit and tell her stories in which his father played ever a prominent part, and his title in these stories was always "Father Jack, the Giant Killer," a name which Eva received with bursts of laughter.
 
"I shan't tell you any more if you laugh like that," said Jack one day.
 
Eva stuffed the corner of her pinafore into her mouth to stay her unseemly merriment.
 
"But you don't say all that when you see him. You don't say 'Good morning, father Jack, the Giant Killer.'"
 
"O' course I don't," said Jack with displeased dignity, "but this is a story about the giants father fights. He really fights giants."
 
Eva's eyes rounded in alarm. "Does he k-kill them like your story says?"
 
"No, he catches 'em and makes 'em do what he wants. What do you think he's catching now?"
 
"Goannas," said Eva quickly, whose special terror were the large lizards called iguanas which occasionally invaded the garden, or that she and Jack found about the farm and which Jack drove away with adorable courage.
 
Jack gave a contemptuous laugh. "What silly things girls are! This is a true story I'm telling you. Father catches the air, at least he rides up in it in a thing called an airy-plane, and he makes the air help to carry him along."
 
It was neither a very lucid nor accurate description of his father's methods, but it filled his hearer with awe and wonder.
 
"Not really!"
 
"But yes," reiterated Jack, "and when I'm old enough, I'll ride in an airy-plane too. Come along; I've told you plenty of stories for to-day. Let's come and play airy-planes," so round and round the paddock scampered the children, with arms outspread like wings, arms which flapped occasionally as the speed became greater to the accompaniment of a whirring sound intended feebly to imitate the buzz of a motor bicycle.
 
"Faster, faster," cried Jack breathlessly. "Airy-planes flies at an awful rate," but Eva's fat legs were failing her and her arms fell to her side with a little gasp like the wheeze of exhausted bellows.
 
"Can't—run—no—more," she said, throwing herself on the grass, and Jack after one more triumphant circle threw himself by her side.
 
Leaning over the gate with his arms folded on the top was a man, who had stood there unperceived, watching the children's play with quiet amusement. Now as it came to an end he laughed aloud, a kindly genial laugh.
 
"That was really a fine exhibition," he said unlatching the gate and coming towards them, "and deserves a round of applause," and suiting the action to the word he clapped his hands together with all his might.
 
Jack sprang to his feet, surveying the stranger with frankly questioning eyes, but Eva, too exhausted to speak, sat where she was.
 
"Did you know what we were playing at? asked Jack.
 
"I must confess I heard you naming it. You were pretending to be aeroplanes, weren't you? but it was so excellent an imitation that I think I could have guessed. But isn't it rather a tiring game for a little girl like this?"
 
"I don't know; Eva likes to do what I do, don't you, Eva?"
 
Eva sat bolt upright and nodded.
 
"Your little sister, I expect, and a good deal younger than you?"
 
"Not sister; we're chums, that's all, but it's just as good. She's five, and I'm seven, but I'm big for my age, aren't I?"
 
The stranger laughed, and seating himself on the grass, drew Jack down beside him.
 
"Quite big; I thought you might be eight. Having told me this much I must hear a little more. I'm getting interested. May I hear your name?"
 
"Jack—Jack Stephens; but here they always call me Jack, the Englishman, 'cause father's a captain in the English Navy."
 
"Ah! I felt somehow that we should be friends. Shake hands, Jack, the Englishman, for I'm an Englishman, too. I've not been long in the colony," and Jack's small hand was almost lost in the palm of his new friend.
 
"And what does the little girl call herself? I think she has found breath enough to tell me."
 
Eva lifted a round face dimpled with smiles to the questioner. His deep resonant voice and kindly smile inspired confidence.
 
"Eva," she said.
 
"And the rest? You must be something besides Eva," but Eva stood staring at him, not quite understanding the form in which he had put his question. Jack gave her a little nudge. "Tell him, Eva, that your mother is Mrs. Kenyon."
 
A quick change passed over the face of the listener; the humour of it resolved itself into an earnest gravity.
 
"Kenyon!" he repeated quickly. "It's a name I know something of. Do father and mother live anywhere near here, Eva? I would rather like to go and see them, if I might."
 
"Haven't no father," said Eva, with a quick shake of the head. "Never had no father. Mother lives close by."
 
"Well, come along, Eva. Just take me to see mother. Perhaps she can tell me something of the Kenyon I am seeking. Are you called Eva after mother?"
 
Eva laughed and shook her head. "No; mother has a hard name to say. I can't always say it just right. Cla—Cla——"
 
"—rissa," said the strange man, supplying the missing syllables. "Is mother's Christian name Clarissa?"
 
Eva clapped her hands, jumping up and down with excitement.
 
"Oh, Jack, he's like the conjurer what tells you things he doesn't ought to know. Isn't it clever of him to find out mummy's name?" But Jack was intently watching the stranger's face, wondering greatly why it twitched as if he were in pain.
 
"P'raps he's got the toothache," was his solution of the difficulty, not knowing that heartache was the trouble.
 
"Take me to mummy," said the stranger again, holding out his hand.
 
"We've telled you both our names; you've not telled us yours."
 
"That will come later; for the present it's enough for you to know that I'm a bush brother."
 
The children exchanged bewildered glances; the explanation threw no light upon the stranger.
 
"We don't know what that means," said Jack, politely.
 
"That, too, I must tell you at some other time; but now I must get Eva to take me home—home to mummy, home to Clarissa Kenyon."
 
Greatly wondering, the trio moved towards the gate; but there Jack halted. Some instinct told him that just now he was not wanted, and much as he wished to know the end of this strange story, he determined to go home and wait till he saw Eva again.
 
He was a little piqued that his new acquaintance was apparently too much absorbed in his own thoughts to take any notice of his leaving, but Eva glanced back with a little nod.
 
"I'll be back directly dinner's over, Jack. Does you always walk as fast as this?" she went on, glancing up at her companion, whose long stride necessitated a quick trot on her part.
 
"When I'm in a hurry, Eva; and I'm in a hurry now," and then, dropping the little hot hand he held, he broke into a run, for coming down the lane towards them came Eva's mother, returning from a morning's work to dinner.
 
And then a strange thing happened, for Eva, who stood stock still with legs set rather far apart, saw mummy give a start backwards as if half frightened by something, then heard her break into a little cry, and the next moment she was caught into the stranger's arms and held tightly to his breast. She did not like such rough treatment! Eva was certain she did not like it, for mummy, who never cried, was sobbing with all her might, great big sobs as if she were angry or hurt. So Eva fled forward, anxious to defend, hammering with all the might of her young fists upon the assailant's legs.
 
"Let go, let go, you wicked, wicked man," she said. "Don't you see you are hurting my mummy and making her cry? Let go, I say," and the man did let go, smiling down at the child with eyes that were full of tears.
 
"You can ask mummy for yourself if I've hurt or made her glad," he said very gently.
 
"Hush, Eva, hush," said Mrs. Kenyon, taking her little daughter by the hand. "You don't understand that I'm crying because I'm glad—gladder than I've been for many a year, so glad that it makes me cry; and all because my brother, your Uncle Tom, has come to see me; and how he got here and how he has found me out remains yet to tell. Come in, come in, my Tom. Let us get into the shelter of the house and let me look at you and make quite sure that it is in very deed my brother Tom who talks to me. But your voice rings true, your dear, kind voice that I had thought never to hear again."
 
She struggled to the seat in the verandah and pulled him down beside, gazing into his face with hungry eyes. It was bliss enough to look at him after the long lapse of years, to hold his hand between her own, which would hardly cover one of his.
 
"You always had such big hands, Tom, such big, kind hands that seem to carry help and consolation in their very touch. Oh, how I've wanted you sometimes since—he died."
 
She did not name her husband, but Tom knew well enough she referred to the father little Eva could not remember.
 
"But you could have had me for the asking," he said gently.
 
"I know, I know, but pride would not let me. How could I appeal to you for help when father and Walter—that elder brother of mine—told me that in marrying George I made my final choice between them and him? And you were away, away in Canada, and George just about to return to the colony. We were madly in love, he and I, so I married him and came out with him. I don't say life was easy, Tom; I don't know whether I did right or wrong in marrying George, but I do know this—that from that day to this I never regretted it. He was the dearest and best of men, and we were devoted to each other. I own that when he got ill he suffered agonies of self-reproach in having allowed me to come out with him, but if I had life over again I should have chosen him before all living men. You see father had decided on another match. George, as he lay dying, tried to make me promise to go home, but I told him I never would do it, that I was strong enough and young enough to support myself and the child."
 
"Young enough, but scarcely strong enough, I take it," said Tom, slipping his arm round the slight frame.
 
She crept up closer to him. "I don't feel young," she said. "The buffeting of life has made me feel old and cold. If I could forgive father the part he played——"
 
"Ah, hush," said her brother, "surely you will forgive him, as God will forgive us all. Father died a few months ago."
 
Clarissa drew herself away, stiffening into stony silence, her hands folded in her lap. Dead! her father dead, and she not a moment since speaking angry, unforgiving words of one who had passed into the presence of the Great White Throne! It was forgiveness for herself that she craved for now, forgiveness for all the hard thoughts she had harboured against him since they parted in such hot anger, forgiveness that in her pride she had made no effort to break through the barrier of silence built up between them. Never a line had she either written to home or received from it since that hasty flight of between six and seven years ago.
 
Eva, feeling that matters had passed beyond her childish ken, had slipped away into the back garden, and was solacing her loneliness with a game with the new kitten that they had given her up at the farm, so the brother and sister were left alone. Tom understood something of the conflict that was passing in his sister's mind and wisely held his peace. He left her to the teaching of the still small voice which was making itself heard in her heart with gentle insistence.
 
"I suppose he never forgave me," she said at last.
 
"I did not hear him mention your name until his last illness. Then, when his mind wandered, your name was often on his lips, showing that you still held your place in his heart. He left you an annuity of ￡150 a year. Walter tried his level best to track you to tell you about it, but up to this time his search was quite unsuccessful. We wrote to the post-office authorities, but they did not help us; we gave your name to the leading firm of lawyers in Launceston and Hobart, we advertised in the local papers, but nothing came of any of our enquiries. Then I decided to come and work as a bush parson in the colonies for some years before settling down in an English parish, and I thought it not unlikely that I might find some clue to your whereabouts, and all in a moment I found you by the most unlikely means in the world. I stood watching two little children playing in a field near by, went in and made friends with them, and discovered in one of them my own little niece, who brought me straight home to mummy. Some people may call it a happy chance, but I prefer to regard it as a direct Providence."
 
"What made you come here at all?"
 
"The fact that your own parson broke down, as you know, quite suddenly, and was ordered away for rest; the bishop knew I was at work somewhere in this neighbourhood, and wrote to ask me if I could combine my peregrinations in the bush with Sunday services in this and the other churches connected with this parish until such time as he can find a locum. He is terribly short-handed at present. I'm very thankful to be able to give my services free of charge, for while the bulk of the property goes with the estate to Walter, my father has left me a sufficient income to make me independent of any stipend from the Church. If I take an English living at some future period it will be one with a simply nominal income that a man without private means could not accept. At present I find my nomadic life so absorbingly interesting that I have no immediate intention of returning home."
 
"And you will work near here? How wonderful and delightful! What a change one short half-hour has made in life's outlook. Poor father! Did he leave me that annuity out of pity, do you think? No, you need not be afraid that I shall refuse it. My pride is broken down. It seems a poor thing to have let it stand between him and me, and now—I can't even say I'm sorry."
 
"I forget the exact wording of the will, but I think it said 'lest she should come to want.'"
 
Clarissa flushed a little. "I have not wanted, but it's been a hard struggle, and if my health had failed"—her voice broke for a moment. "But now, with ￡150 a year at my back, the worst fear, the one that has kept me awake at nights sometimes, that the child would suffer, is entirely taken away. One can live the simple life out here, none despising you."
 
"And you think I shall be content to leave it at that?"
 
"You will have to be content," and his sister slipped her hand into his. "If I needed help at any time I know you will be glad to give it, but I chose my own life in marrying my George, and I'll abide by it. I've no wish to return to England, and what will keep me here in comfort would be grinding poverty at home."
 
"Walter will never consent to your remaining out here."
 
Clarissa smiled a little sadly. "He may protest a little, but in his inmost heart he'll not be sorry to leave things as they are. We shall get on quite nicely fifteen thousand miles apart."
 
A little head peeped round the corner, and a piteous voice made piteous appeal.
 
"Mummy, I'm not naughty. Mayn't I have my dinner, please? Bush brother can stay if he wants to."