(How would it be, my dear Monsieur Dumas, if, in your next novel, he were to walk in, or run in, or hop in, or, say, come in on all-fours like a dog ?--anything for a change, you know.) And these masters of fiction are right--"Coming events do not cast their shadows before." If they did, how could it happen that Mary Hawker sat there in her verandah at Toonarbin singing so pleasantly over her work?
And why did her handsome, kindly face light up with such a radiant smile when she saw her son Charles come riding along under the shadow of the great trees only two days after Cecil Mayford had proposed to Alice, and had been refused?
He came out of the forest shadow with the westering sunlight upon his face, riding slowly.

She, as she looked, was proud to see what a fine seat he had on his horse, and how healthy and handsome he looked.
He rode round to the back of the house, and she went through to meet him.

There was a square court behind, round which the house, huts, and store formed a quadrangle, neat and bright, with white quartz gravel.
Bythe-bye, there was a prospecting party who sank two or three shafts in the flat before the house last year; and I saw about eighteen pennyweights of gold which they took out.

But it did not pay, and is abandoned.

(This in passing, A PROPOS of the quartz.) "Is Tom Troubridge come home, mother ?" said he, as he leaned out of the saddle to kiss her.
"Not yet, my boy," she said.