was JUST Emma ... and she was so pretty and
so good"--and Polly cried anew.

Mahony rose before dawn to catch the coach. Together with a packet of
sandwiches, Polly brought him a small black mantle.

"For Sarah, with my dear love. You see, Richard, I know she always
wears coloured dresses. And she will feel so much happier if she has
SOMETHING black to put on." Little Polly's voice was deep with
persuasion. Richard was none too well pleased, she could see, at having
to unlock his bag again; she feared too, that, after the letter of the
day before, his opinion of Sarah had gone down to zero.

Mahony secured a corner seat; and so, though his knees interlocked with
those of his VIS-A-VIS, only one of the eight inside passengers was
jammed against him. The coach started; and the long, dull hours of the
journey began to wear away. Nothing broke the monotony but speculations
whether the driver--a noted tippler--would be drunk before Melbourne
was reached and capsize them; and the drawling voice of a Yankee
prospector, who told lying tales about his exploits in California in
'48 until, having talked his hearers to sleep, he dropped off himself.
Then, Mahony fell to reflecting on what lay before him. He didn't like
the job. He was not one of your born good Samaritans: he relished
intruding as little as being intruded on. Besides, morally to sustain,
to forbear with, a fellow-creature in misfortune, seemed to him as
difficult and thankless a task as any required of one. Infinite tact
was essential, and a skin thick enough to stand snubs and rebuffs. But
here he smiled. "Or my little wife's inability to recognise them!"

House and garden had lost their air of well-groomed smartness: the gate
stood ajar, the gravel was unraked, the verandah-flooring black with
footmarks. With all the blinds still down, the windows looked like so
many dead eyes. Mahony's first knock brought no response; at his
second, the door was opened by Sarah Turnham herself. But a very
different Sarah this, from the elegant and sprightly young person who
had graced his wedding. Her chignon was loose, her dress dishevelled.
On recognising Mahony, she uttered a cry and fell on his neck--he had
to disengage her arms by force and speak severely to her, declaring
that he would go away again, if she carried out her intention of
swooning.

At last he got her round so far that she could tell her tale, which she
did with a hysterical overstatement. She had, it se