or,
O cari fior,
Recate i miei sospiri,
Narrate i miei matiri,
Ditele o cari fior----"

Miss Bouverie ceased on the high note, as abruptly as string that snaps
beneath the bow, and revolved with the music-stool, to catch but her
echoes in the empty room. None had entered behind her back; there was
neither sound nor shadow in the deep veranda through the open door. But
for the startled girl at the open piano, Mrs. Clarkson's sanctum was
precisely as Mrs. Clarkson had left it an hour before; her own
photograph, in as many modes, beamed from the usual number of ornamental
frames; there was nothing whatever to confirm a wild suspicion of the
living lady's untimely return. And yet either guilty consciences, or an
ear as sensitive as it was true, had heard an unmistakable step outside.

Hilda Bouverie lived to look magnificent when she sang, her fine frame
drawn up to its last inch, her throat a pillar of pale coral, her mouth
the perfect round, her teeth a noble relic of barbarism; but sweeter she
never was than in these days, or at this moment of them, as she sat with
lips just parted and teeth just showing, in a simple summer frock of her
own unaided making. Her eyes, of the one deep Tasmanian blue, were still
open very wide, but no longer with the same apprehension; for a step
there was, but a step that jingled; nor did they recognize the
silhouette in top-boots which at length stood bowing on the threshold.

"Please finish it!" prayed a voice that Miss Bouverie liked in her turn;
but it was too much at ease for one entirely strange to her, and she
rose with little embarrassment and no hesitation at all.

"Indeed, no! I thought I had the station to myself."

"So you had--I have not seen a soul."

Miss Bouverie instantly perceived that honors were due from her.

"I am so sorry! You've come to see Mr. and Mrs. Clarkson?" she cried.
"Mrs. Clarkson has just left for Melbourne with her maid, and Mr.
Clarkson has gone mustering with all his men. But the Indian cook is
about somewhere. I'll find him, and he shall make some tea."

The visitor planted himself with much gallantry in the doorway; he was a
man still young, with a single eye-glass and a martial mustache, which
combined to give distinction to a somewhat swarthy countenance. At the
moment he had also an engaging smile.

"I didn't come to see either Mr. or Mrs. Clarkson," said he; "in fact, I
never heard their name before. I was passing the sta