Four years had passed since Tom Chance had left Tasmania, and it was with a pleasurable quickening of pulse that he found himself back in the island and walking along the hilly road from the station towards Wallaroo. He had told no one he was coming, for he had planned once or twice before to pay a flying visit which pressure of work had made him obliged to defer, so this time he had determined to take his friends by surprise. His years of absence had been full of strenuous work, and he had travelled through many parts of the huge continent, up the Murray River, to New South Wales and Queensland, and wherever he had gone his strong personality and convincing earnestness had left behind a certain quickening of church life which in many cases proved permanent. And now he was conscious of brain fag, of a need for a holiday, and had made up his mind quite suddenly to take one, and it was natural that he should spend it with his sister and in revisiting some of his Tasmanian friends. The coach had not met the train by which he arrived, and he had left his baggage at the station and was walking the eight miles which separated the railway from Wallaroo.
 
And he commended himself for his decision as he strode leisurely along the zig-zag road which at every turn disclosed a wider and more beautiful view, and to his eyes, tired with the arid wastes through which he had lately travelled, the blue atmosphere and exquisite colouring of the island seemed little short of Paradise.
 
Indeed, in all his travels, Tasmania was the spot which had wound itself most closely round his heart. And from the land his mind passed on to the faces he was so soon to see again, Clarissa's joyous welcome, and that of his friends at the farm. Children's memories were short; he could scarcely hope that Eva would remember him, and of Jack he had heard not long since that he had developed from the delightful innocence and frankness of childhood, into a somewhat bumptious schoolboy, at least such was his sister's report.
 
"And Betty seems rather harassed with the care of him," she had said in her last letter. "She said the other day that she so wished he could have remained under your influence as he needs a man's hand, and his father is anxious that the boy should remain under her care until he is fourteen years old, when a sister of his will be returning for good from India and promises him a home."
 
It was this report that had made Tom decide to sail for Tasmania at once. If he could be of service to Betty in the absence of little Jack's father, he might turn his holiday to good account. Jack had been sent to the State school some six months ago, and the society of boys older than himself had probably gone to his head like wine, and made him lose his balance, in which case a little judicious snubbing might have good effect.
 
So thought Tom Chance as he breasted the last steep incline from the top of which he would catch his first glimpse of the township. Another mile and he would be at home, and very much at home he felt, as he walked through the straggling street, exchanging greetings with one and another who remembered him. Then came the turn into the familiar green lane, where so often two little friends had waited for him on a Saturday afternoon; but to-day no one was in sight, but just as he reached the gate of his sister's house a child with a bright face and a long plait of dark hair down her back, came running down the path whom Tom found it difficult to recognise as the curly-headed dumpling of five that he had left behind him. But no such great difference had the four years worked upon Tom himself, and Eva stood still for a moment, regarding him with startled wonder in her eyes; then as full recognition dawned upon her she came flying towards him with open arms.
 
"Mother, mother," she called back over her shoulder. "Here's Uncle Tom come to see us," and the next instant Eva's arms were round her uncle's neck.
 
And Clarissa, a younger, rosier, happier Clarissa, came hurrying up behind.
 
"But Tom, how naughty of you not to let us know you were coming," she said when the first greetings were over, "not to have given me the joy of anticipation and of preparation. Now you will have to take just what you can get. I've improved your prophet's chamber though, since you lived in it. I've added a little writing-table and an easy chair. Life has taken a different colour altogether since last you came."
 
And so she chatted on as she hurried on her preparations for tea, giving her brother no time for explanations.
 
"I hope you've come to stop a long, long time," she said at last.
 
"I've come to spend my holiday with you. I've not had one since I came to the colony, and suddenly felt in need of it."
 
"And that's six weeks and sometimes seven in the summer time," said Eva clapping her hands.
 
"I was quite flattered that you remembered me, Eva; you were such a tiny mite when I left, a round dumpling of a niece, and now you have grown into a little girl, with a pig-tail down your back."
 
"I couldn't forget," said Eva, "when mother talks of you every day and your likeness looks at me as I go to sleep. Why I say good-night to you, same as if you were there."
 
"I think I'll go over and see them at the farm," said Tom, when tea was ended. "I want to surprise them as I surprised you, and you can come with me, Eva, and see your chum."
 
Eva's head went down, and Tom fancied he saw tears on her long lashes. "I'll stay with mother, thank you. Jack isn't chummy any more. He doesn't want me now he has boys to play with."
 
"Oh, I expect he does," said Tom, consolingly, "but now he goes to school and has regular lessons he can't have so much time for play, nor should you have, by rights. I suppose Eva has lessons to learn as well as Jack?" turning to Clarissa.
 
"Oh, I don't let her go to the State school; there is a girls' school opened in the place by a rather nice Englishwoman, and Eva goes to her every morning and works at home in the afternoon, but it's out of school hours that she misses Jack. I don't know what has come over the boy. He says he has 'no use' for girls."
 
Tom laughed a little, but thought that Master Jack wanted bringing down a peg or two. However, he would go and see for himself.
 
It was getting dusk as he crossed the paddock, and no one seemed moving about the farm premises. He had half hoped that Jack might have been playing about somewhere, and that his first meeting with the boy might have been when he was alone. He let himself in gently by the garden gate and stood looking round him. Every window and door stood open, and in the verandah, lying back in a long wicker chair, was Betty. The attitude was such an unusual one that Tom divined at once that all was not well with her. There was weariness written on every line of the recumbent figure, not weariness of body only, but weariness of mind. And then Tom felt he had no right to watch her and went forward to speak to her.
 
"I'm a late visitor, Miss Treherne, but may I come in?"
 
Betty sprang to her feet with a glad cry of welcome.
 
"Isn't it odd? you were the very man I was wishing for. I wanted to talk to you about so many things, and now you are here. Father and mother have gone over to Wylmington to keep the Carltons' silver wedding day, and I don't expect them back until quite late."
 
"So that some of the things you want to say to me can be said here and now," said Tom, sinking down into a chair by her side. "But first, I must see my friend Jack. Shall I find the rogue round by the stables?"
 
"He's in bed," said Betty, shortly.
 
"So you keep him to early hours," said Tom. "I left Eva talking to her mother."
 
"He's in bed because he's naughty, and it's the only punishment I can inflict, and I should not be surprised any day if he refused to go, and what my next move would be does not yet appear. It's quite certain I can't beat him."
 
"But your father could. I'm no advocate for beating, but occasionally a boy in the puppy stage is better for it."
 
"Father is too old and too lenient. Besides, he's my responsibility," said Betty, with a little laugh that had tears behind it.
 
"You should send him home."
 
"I would if my brother-in-law had anyone there to mother him, although I should be sending half my heart with him."
 
"Well, depend upon it he's only passing through one of the rather tiresome stages of development, which every man-child experiences in a more or less degree."
 
"But which it needs a man's hand to guide him through."
 
"I'm not at all sure that a mother's or aunt's influence does not go further," said Tom consolingly, "but I shall be here for a few weeks now, and will do what I can. Besides, I'm so fond of the boy. I don't think little Jack the Englishman can have gone far astray. Does your present clergyman have much to say to him?"
 
"Mr. Curtis?" answered Betty. "He's quite a good man and a very hard worker, but he has no knack with children. He is shy of them, and the feeling is mutual."
 
"And does Jack ring the bell still?" Tom asked, with a little laugh.
 
"No, he got late one or two Sundays, and Mr. Curtis told him that if he could not be there in time he would rather ring it himself. The novelty and honour of the thing had worn off a little, and Jack would not go any more and I did not think it wise to force him."
 
"But he goes to church?"
 
"Oh yes, he goes with me, and to Sunday School also. He announced last Sunday that he was getting too old to go to Sunday School, but I promptly sat on him."
 
"To sum up the matter, Master Jack has grown a little too big for his boots.............