He talked—most of the time to me. “You ought to see the outback,” he said. He described the land. “Scrub and hills,” he said, “with the gum trees everywhere.”

“And kangaroos?” I asked.

“Surely. Kangaroos.”

“They have little babies in their pouches. I’ve seen pictures of them.”

“Little things about half an inch long when they’re born.”

He told us about Sydney with its wonderful harbor … all the little bays and inlets, the beautiful foliage and the brightly colored birds.

“And convicts,” I said.

“Yes … still them. But less than we used to have and there are many settlers there now who have come out to make something of the place and they’re doing it.”

Jonnie came up on the other side of me. Geoffrey was a little way ahead.

“Would you like to go, Jonnie?” I asked.

“Well … for a visit. I’d rather live here.”

“How do you know?” I demanded. “You’ve never been there. Ben will be able to tell us which is best because he’ll have been there and here. What do you think, Ben?”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

We were able to canter for a while. It was very exhilarating.

I was liking Ben more and more.

Ben was accepted into the household, and as no one seemed to find his presence an embarrassment, it wasn’t. This was largely due to Uncle Peter, who behaved as though it was the most natural thing in the world for the result of an early peccadillo to come home to roost. He carried everything before him, as I learned later he had once before when a scandal had threatened to wreck his career—and did so to a certain extent except that he would not allow it to go further, and as he behaved as though it did not exist, in time everyone began to do the same.

Uncle Peter seemed quite proud of Ben. I daresay he recognized in him another such as himself and I think he was rather pleased to discover he had a hitherto unheard-of grandson.

He discussed with my father what should be done with the boy. I heard my father talking about this afterwards with my mother.

“I must say,” said my father, “one thing about Peter, he does not shirk his responsibilities. He wants to do everything he can for the boy. He wants to send him to university for a year or so, as he said, to put a polish on him. He thinks he has talents.”

“I am sure he has,” replied my mother. “He certainly gives me the impression of being a chip off the old block.”

They became aware of my attention and changed the subject. Maddening! For myself I was enormously interested in Ben and wanted to hear more of him.

We all went to the Exhibition once more and this time Ben was one of the company. He managed to be near me often which gave me great pleasure; and he was quite knowledgeable about some of the exhibits.

I said to him: “Are you glad you came to England?”

He pressed my hand. “You bet,” he said.

“I’m glad too,” I answered.

“Oh, it was a good thing all right. My grandfather’s a great man, don’t you think?”

I said I did.

“I want to be like him.”

“You are,” I told him.

“In every way. I want to go into business. He’s talked to me a lot. First he wants me to go to learn to be more like an English gentleman. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I think you’re all right as you are.”

“He doesn’t think so. And he’s a very wise man.”

He grinned at me. There was satisfaction shining in his eyes. He was glad he had come.

I was sorry when it was time to go home. I hated saying goodbye to Ben.

“You’ll come here again soon,” he said. “Or I might come and see this wonderful Cador.”

“That would be lovely,” I replied.

He came to the station to see us on to the train and stood on the platform waving.

“You two did seem to take to each other,” commented my mother.

“He has a colorful personality,” added my father.

“What did you expect … Peter’s grandson and that unconventional life.”

“I wonder if he will come to see us.”

“He will,” I said. “He said he would.”

“People don’t always keep their word, dear.”

“But he meant it.”

“But people do mean things when they say them … and then they forget.”

I was sure he would not.

I thought about him for a long time afterwards, and then the memory began to fade.

A year passed. We had heard from Aunt Amaryllis at intervals. Peterkin and Frances had added another wing to their house of refuge; Jonnie and Geoffrey were away at school most of the time. Peter’s hopes for Matthew had been realized with the end of Little Johnny’s government and the beginning of Lord Derby’s ministry and their son-in-law had his post in the Cabinet. Peter’s grandson had changed quite a lot. “He is becoming more and more like one of us. He is really quite an English gentleman now … or almost. Peter is concerned about him. He thought he might like to go in for estate management, and he is going to ask you if you will have him at Cador for a time … say a month or two … just to see how he likes that kind of life. Peter thinks he might be rather suited to it.”

“Of course he may come and stay a while,” said my father. “I daresay it might be just the thing for him. He was brought up on what they call a property in Australia. No doubt he was born to the life.”

My mother said she would write to Amaryllis at once; and I felt excited at the prospect of seeing him.

A few days later I saw Grace Gilmore for the first time. I had taken my horse, Glory, down to the beach for I loved to gallop her over the sands at the edge of the water. It was very rarely that anyone came down there at that spot. The stretch of shore was only about half a mile from the harbor and it was part of Cador land, but there was no restriction about people’s using it.

I was surprised when I saw a young woman there. She was seated on an upturned boat close to the old boathouse which was never used nowadays and she was staring out to sea.

She looked startled when she heard me galloping towards her. I pulled up.

“Good afternoon,” I said.

She returned my greeting. She was quite young—just under eighteen, I decided. There was something about her which interested me. She looked serious, anxious, and when she saw me, a little alarmed.

I wondered who she was, and that natural curiosity, deplored by Mrs. Penlock, always got the better of me. She was a stranger and we rarely saw strangers here. Visitors were usually relations of the inhabitants and their presence was always a matter of gossip. I had heard nothing of this one.

“It’s a lovely day,” I went on. “Are you staying here?”

She replied: “I’m staying a few days at the Fisherman’s Rest.”

“Oh? Are you comfortable there?”

“Well … yes.”

I knew the Pennylegs had little to offer paying guests; there were so few of them. I believed there were only two rooms available and they were small and cramped. Most of the trade was provided by the local miners and fishermen.

“Are you staying long?”

“I’m unsure.”

She was not very communicative.

She said suddenly: “Do you live here?”

I nodded and pointed upwards to where Cador stood, on the top of the cliff.

“It’s magnificent,” she said.

I warmed to her as I always did to anyone who praised Cador.

“Is this your boathouse?” she asked.

“I suppose so. It is never used.”

She interested me, but then people always did … particularly strangers. I fancied I detected a certain tension in her. Then I told myself it was my imagination again.

I said goodbye and rode up the incline through the gorse and valerian and sea pinks to Cador.

I forgot all about her until next day when I saw her again.

I was with my mother in the garden. She had come through the courtyard and was standing there looking at us. She seemed very sad and pathetic.

My mother said: “Good afternoon. Do you want to see someone?”

“Are you the lady of the house?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I met your daughter.”

“That’s right,” I said. “On the sands by the old boathouse. Are you staying at the Fisherman’s Rest still?”

She nodded. “I was wondering if there was any work …”

“Work?” echoed my mother.

“I’d do anything,” she said with an air of desperation, which I could see touched my mother as it did me.

“Watson, the butler, engages staff,” said my mother. “You could see him.”

I imagined Watson. He would be condescending. What work could he give her? As far as I knew we did not need another servant and she did not look like a house- or parlormaid, or anything like that. She was good-looking in a severe sort of way. Not the kind who would attract Watson.

“I … I can sew,” she said.

My mother looked at me. I could see that the girl had aroused her sympathy as she had mine and we both wanted to do all we could to help her.

I read my mother’s thoughts. This might be a possibility. Clothes were bought on trips to London or even in Plymouth. There was one stylish dressmaker there. But I had often heard my mother say: “How I wish we had dear old Miss Semple here.” Miss Semple had had her room in the attics somewhere and up there was a big airy and light room which had been used as a sewing room. Miss Semple had worked there until she died three years ago.

At that moment the girl swayed a little; she would have fallen to the ground if my mother had not caught her.

“Poor soul, she has fainted,” said my mother. “Help me, Angelet. Get her head down. That will revive her.”

In a few seconds she had opened her eyes.

“Oh forgive me,” she said.

“My dear child,” began my mother, “we’re going to take you into the house. You need to rest a while.”

We took her into a room leading off the hall where people waited if they wanted to see my parents about anything.

“Ring and tell someone to bring me some brandy,” said my mother.

I did so.

The girl was sitting in a chair. She said: “I’m all right now. I’m sorry. It was foolish of me.”

“You’re not all right,” said my mother firmly. “You’re going to rest a while.”

A servant brought the brandy which the girl took half reluctantly. She seemed to recover a little.

She half rose to her feet but my mother gently pushed her back into the chair.

“Tell me,” she said. “Where have you come from? And why is a girl like you looking for work?”

She smiled ruefully. “It’s no use pretending, is it? I have to find work … quickly. I’m desperate. I have nowhere to go.”

“I thought you were staying at the Fisherman’s Rest,” I said.

“I have to leave tomorrow. I have no …”

“Why did you come here?” asked my mother.

“I knew there were one or two big houses in the neighborhood. I thought I might find work in one of them. So …”

“I see,” said my mother. “And where have you come from?”

“My home was in Barnton … in Devon. My father was the rector. He was much older than my mother and my parents were not young, either of them, when they married. I was the only child. I looked after my father and when my mother died … well, it was not easy. He was ill for some time and he had to retire. All his savings were used up. There were some debts and when everything was sold I had very little. I knew it wouldn’t last. I had to find something I could do. You see, I have never been trained for anything but I used to do a lot of sewing for people in the neighborhood and acquaintances. I’m really good at it …” she ended almost pleadingly.

My mother had made a decision. “You could see how you liked it here,” she said. “We had Miss Semple who worked for us for years. She died three years ago. We were all very fond of her and she has never been replaced. Her room has never been used and there is the sewing room next to it.”

Her face was illumined with joy. She said: “Do you really mean it …?”

“Of course,” replied my mother. “Now let us be practical. I’ll take you up to see the room right away.”

She had taken my mother’s hand; her eyes were closed. I thought she was going to burst into tears, but she did not.

My mother was faintly embarrassed by this show of gratitude. She said quickly: “I suppose you have some things which you will want to bring.”

“I have a few clothes at the Fisherman’s Rest. That’s all.”

“I’ll show you your room and then you can go to the inn and collect your things. You can settle in right away.”