s
apt to deceive himself; was given to look on the bright side, and to
imbue things with a tinge of _couleur de rose_; when, for less sanguine
eyes, the tinge would have shone out decidedly yellow. The time went on,
and his last account told of a "glorious nugget" he had picked up at the
diggings. "Almost as big as his head," a "fortune in itself," ran some
of the phrases in his letters; and his intention was to go down himself
to Melbourne and "realise the thousands" for it. His letter to Frederick
was especially full of this; and he strongly recommended his brother to
come out and pick up nuggets on his own score. Frederick Massingbird
appeared very much inclined to take the hint.

"Were I only sure it was all gospel, I'd go to-morrow," observed
Frederick Massingbird to Lionel Verner, one day that the discussion of
the contents of John's letter had been renewed, a month or two
subsequent to its arrival. "A year's luck, such as this, and a man might
come home a millionaire. I wish I knew whether to put entire faith in
it."

"Why should John deceive you?" asked Lionel.

"He'd not deceive me wilfully. He has no cause to deceive _me_. The
question is, is he deceived himself? Remember what grand schemes he
would now and then become wild upon here, saying and thinking he had
found the philosopher's stone. And how would they turn out? This may be
one of the same calibre. I wonder we did not hear again by the last
month's mail."

"There's a mail due now."

"I know there is," said Frederick. "Should it bring news to confirm
this, I shall go out to him."

"The worst is, those diggings appear to be all a lottery," remarked
Lionel. "Where one gets his pockets lined, another starves. Nay,
ten--fifty--more, for all we know, starve for the one lucky one. I
should not, myself, feel inclined to risk the journey to them."

"_You!_ It's not likely you would," was the reply of Frederick
Massingbird. "Everybody was not born heir to Verner's Pride."

Lionel laughed pleasantly. They were pacing the terrace in the sunshine
of a winter's afternoon, a crisp, cold, bright day in January. At that
moment Tynn came out of the house and approached them.

"My master is up, sir, and would like the paper read to him," said he,
addressing Frederick Massingbird.

"Oh, bother, I can't stop now," broke from that gentleman involuntarily.
"Tynn, you need not say that you found me here. I have an appointment,
and I must hasten to keep it."

Li