"On'y me, sir; on'y Sarah. Don't be afear'd. I ain't a larrikin. Help this 'ere box on my back like a good chummie."

"It's too heavy for your slight shoulders," quoth gallant Archie. "I don't mind carrying it a bit."

"What, a gent like you! Why, sir, you're greener than they make 'em round here!"

"I'm from England."

"Ho, ho! Well, that accounts for the milk. So'm I from Hengland. This way, chummie."

They hadn't far to go.

"My missus lives two story up, top of a ware'us, and I've been to the station for that 'ere box. She do take it out o' me for all the wage.

She do."

Archie carried the box up the steep stairs, and Sarah's mistress herself opened the door and held a candle. A thin, weary-looking body, with whom Sarah seemed to be on the best and most friendly terms.

"Brought my young man," said Sarah. "Ain't he a smartie? But, heigho!

_so_ green! _You_ never!"

"Come in a minute, sir, and rest you. Never mind this silly girl."

Archie did go in a minute; five, ten, ay fifteen, and by that time he had not only heard all this ex-policeman's wife's story, but taken a semi-attic belonging to her.

And he felt downright independent and happy when next day he took possession.

For now he would have time to really look round, and it was a relief to his mind that he would not be spending much money.

Archie could write home cheerfully now. He was sure that something would soon turn up, something he could accept, and which would not be derogatory to the son of a Northumbrian squire. More than one influential member of commercial society had promised "to communicate with him at the very earliest moment."

But, alas! weeks flew by, and weeks went into months, and no more signs of the something were apparent than he had seen on the second day of his arrival.

Archie was undoubtedly "a game un," as Sarah called him; but his heart began to feel very heavy indeed.

Living as cheaply as he could, his money would go done at last. What then? Write home for more? He shuddered to think of such a thing. If his first friend, Captain Vesey, had only turned up now, he would have gone and asked to be taken as a hand before the mast. But Captain Vesey did not.

A young man cannot be long in Sydney without getting into a set. Archie did, and who could blame him. They were not a rich set, nor a very fast set; but they had a morsel of a club-room of their own. They formed friendships, took strolls together, went occasionally to the play, and often had little "adventures" about town, the narratives of which, when retailed in the club, found ready listeners, and of course were stretched to the fullest extent of importance.

They really were not bad fellows, and would have done Archie a good turn if they could. But they could not. They laughed a deal at first at his English notions and ideas; but gradually Archie got over his greenness, and began to settle down to colonial life, and would have liked Sydney very much indeed if he had only had something to do.

The ex-policeman's wife was very kind to her lodger. So was Sarah; though she took too many freedoms of speech with him, which tended to lower his English squirearchical dignity very much. But, to do her justice, Sarah did not mean any harm.

Only once did Archie venture to ask about the ex-policeman. "What did he do?"

"Oh, he drinks!" said Sarah, as quietly as if drinking were a trade of some kind. Archie asked no more.

Rummaging in a box one day, Archie found his last letter of introduction. It had been given him by Uncle Ramsay.

"You'll find him a rough and right sort of a stick," his uncle had said.

"He _was_ my steward, now he is a wealthy man, and can knock down his cheque for many thousands."

Archie dressed in his best and walked right away that afternoon to find the address.

It was one of the very villas he had often pa.s.sed, in a beautiful place close by the water-side.

What would be his reception here?

This question was soon put at rest.

He rang the bell, and was ushered into a luxuriously-furnished room; a room that displayed more richness than taste.

A very beautiful girl--some thirteen years of age perhaps--got up from a grand piano, and stood before him.

Archie was somewhat taken aback, but bowed as composedly as he could.

"Surely," he thought, "_she_ cannot be the daughter of the rough and right sort of a stick who had been steward to his uncle. He had never seen so sweet a face, such dreamy blue eyes, or such wealth of hair before.

"Did you want to see papa? Sit down. I'll go and find him."

"Will you take this letter to him?" said Archie.

And the girl left, letter in hand.

Ten minutes after the "rough stick" entered, whistling "Sally come up."

"Hullo! hullo!" he cried, "so here we are."

There he was without doubt--a big, red, jolly face, like a full moon orient, a loose merino jacket, no waistcoat or necktie, but a cricketer's cap on the very back of his bushy head. He struck Archie a friendly slap on the back.

"Keep on yer cap," he shouted, "I was once a poor man myself."

Archie was too surprised and indignant to speak.

"Well, well, well," said Mr Winslow, "they do tell me wonders won't never cease. What a whirligig of a world it is. One day I'm cleanin' a gent's boots. Gent is a capting of a ship. Next day gent's nephew comes to me to beg for a job. Say, young man, what'll ye drink?"

"I didn't come to _drink_, Mr Winslow, neither did I come to _beg_."

"Whew-ew-ew," whistled the quondam steward, "here's pride; here's a touch o' the old country. Why, young un, I might have made you my under-gardener."

The girl at this moment entered the room. She had heard the last sentence.

"Papa!" she remonstrated. Then she glided out by the cas.e.m.e.nt window.

Burning blushes suffused Archie's cheeks as he hurried over the lawn soon after; angry tears were in his eyes. His hand was on the gate-latch when he felt a light touch on his arm. It was the girl.

"Don't be angry with poor papa," she said, almost beseechingly.

"No, no," Archie cried, hardly knowing what he did say. "What is your name?"