The roads were perfect, and the kindly twilight as they swept past the line plantations of Randwick, and adown the noble avenue which in the future will be one of the glories of Sydney, through the wide half-redeemed expanse of Moore Park, and so home by Woollahra, gave them every opportunity of lengthening their _tête-à-tête_, and yet arriving at Morahmee in time for dinner. It necessitated a hasty toilet on both sides, but at the last notes of the bell Antonia appeared, looking very fresh and animated after the expedition, and Ernest, whose appetite had not yet relapsed into metropolitan apathy, looked forward to dinner with feelings of almost youthful anticipation. ‘Well, what do you think of Bondi?’ asked the old gentleman. ‘I was nearly drowned there when I was a youngster swimming in the surf. In fact I _was_ drowned to all intents and purposes, except that I am here now. I was sucked back by the undertow time after time, till I was quite beaten. I had a few minutes’ awful struggle; then collapse and half a minute’s choke; then lovely music in my ears; and I left the world—as I thought—for good.’ ‘You dear old naughty boy of a father,’ said Antonia, with tears half gathering to her eye, ‘I am sure you were bathing unlawfully, like the boys in the story-book. But what restored you to life?’ ‘Well, a Maori, who happened to come up at the time in a fishing-boat. He could _swim_.’ ‘But I thought you said that you were swimming in the surf and did your best to fight through it?’ inquired Ernest. ‘Maoris and Kanakas can _swim_’, repeated the old man sarcastically. ’White men like you and me can only paddle. Anyhow, he dived and brought me up, and ten minutes after I was suffering the frightful torture, “coming to.” So, as perhaps you may have guessed, I did not die that time.’ ‘Oft in danger, yet alive, We are come to, fifty-five,’ quoted Ernest. ‘I daresay you have had all sorts of hairbreadth escapes, if you would only tell them to us.’ ‘Escapes! well, I have had a few,’ chuckled the old man. ‘Some day I must make Antonia write them out, and we’ll publish the _Surprising Adventures of Paul Frankston_. I wonder if I could put in some of my stories? Ha! ha! ha! How they would laugh.’ ‘I think your life would make a capital book,’ said Antonia, ‘and you could afford to leave the stories out.’ ‘Ha! well, I don’t know; some people might object; but I have seen some queer places and people, and had some very narrow squeaks. I was a ship boy in the _Lloyd_ when the Maoris took her at the Bay of Islands.’ ‘What did they do?’ asked Ernest. ‘Do? Only murdered every living soul except a little girl and myself! Old Parson Ramsden came down months after and ransomed us. He could go anywhere. That little girl is a grandmother now. I could show you such a splendid bit of tattooing just—Antonia, my dear, you needn’t be afraid.’ ‘Don’t be foolish, papa,’ said Antonia, blushing. ‘Mr. Neuchamp, he is only joking.’