ers quickly caught his hat from his head, and an off-hand
greeting became a respectful salute.

At first the young man was awed by the presence of the grizzled
gentleman, and he struggled with his language to bring it up to the
classic level of the old meteorologist's speech. Before they had spoken
a dozen words John Osgood said to himself: "What a quaint team he and
the Maid of Honour would make! It's the same kind of thing in both, with
the difference of sex and circumstance." The nature of his visitor's
business pleased the old man, and infused his courtesy with warmth. Yes,
he would go to Wandenong with pleasure; the Government had communicated
with him about it; a substitute had been offered; he was quite willing
to take his first leave in four years; astronomy was a great subject, he
had a very good and obedient telescope of his own, though not nearly so
large as that at Wandenong; he would telegraph at once to Brisbane for
the substitute to be sent on the following day, and would be ready to
start in twenty-four hours. After visiting Wandenong he would go to
Brisbane for some scientific necessaries--and so on through smooth
parentheses of talk. Under all the bluntness of the Bush young Osgood
had a refinement which now found expression in an attempt to make
himself agreeable--not a difficult task, since, thanks to his father's
tastes and a year or two at college, he had a smattering of physical
science. He soon won his way to the old man's heart, and to his
laboratory, which had been developed through years of patience and
ingenious toil in this desolate spot.

Left alone that evening in Louis Bachelor's sitting-room, John Osgood's
eyes were caught by a portrait on the wall, the likeness of a beautiful
girl. Something about the face puzzled him. Where had he seen it? More
than a little of an artist, he began to reproduce the head on paper. He
put it in different poses; he added to it; he took away from it; he gave
it a child's face, preserving the one striking expression; he made it
that of a woman--of an elderly, grave woman. Why, what was this? Barbara
Golding! He would not spoil the development of the drama, of which he
now held the fluttering prologue, by any blunt treatment; he would
touch this and that nerve gently to see what past connection there was
between:

"These dim blown birds beneath an alien sky."

He mooned along in this fashion, a fashion in which his bushmen
friends would not have know