ms, and kissing the pouting lips till they smiled again.

This scene was enacted in a tiny summer-house of trellis-work,
completely covered with hanging greenery, which stood in one of those
pretty gardens that are still to be found in the suburb of Brixton. The
summer-house appeared to be designed expressly for its two occupants. It
held only two seats and was of dimensions just sufficiently confined to
prevent them from being too far apart. Through the opening could be seen
the full stretch of the carefully-tended garden, backed by a comfortable
house with a verandah running round it. On the lawn, a couple of dogs
were lying lazily; hanging in the verandah was an aviary and the noisy
twittering of its occupants reached the ears of the two in the
summer-house. Their eyes dwelt lovingly on the scene before them, with a
sense of rest, for happiness and contentment seemed to be in the air.

An elderly man in shirt-sleeves was busily engaged in pruning some fruit
trees. As he paused in his work to wipe his perspiring brow he formed a
picture of contentment in complete harmony with the scene of which he
was a part. This was Oliver Whyte, the owner of the house and garden,
which he had christened, in true Australian fashion, "The Mia-Mia." He
was a man of about sixty, short and thick-set in appearance with a
tendency to corpulence. His character was written in his fine open face,
clean-shaven save for a ring of white hair that set his honest
countenance in an oval frame; was felt as one listened to the tones of
his rough, good-natured voice. He was joined by an elderly woman, who
despite her grey hair and heavy build, was as active as many a younger
maid. Her voice had a genuine and pleasant ring in it and her face
always wore a cheerful, contented smile. She was beloved by all who came
in contact with her, for she was the embodiment of the word motherly.
The dogs rose and stretched themselves and lazily rubbed their noses
against her skirt, as she passed from one flower bed to another,
snipping a dead leaf here and picking a faded blossom there. This was
Mrs. Whyte or, as Oliver fondly calls her, "the missus."

Forty years before, Oliver Whyte, a young man in his prime, set out with
two companions for the sunny shores of Australia. He had served his time
as a carpenter, and his employers had cause to regret the loss of a fine
workman when Whyte became fired with the ambition of travel at the time
when the glorious accounts