‘By lots of things,’ said Carry, rather mischievously; ‘by your having such a fresh complexion, and so many mosquito-bites,—they don’t bite us natives that way; and by your clothes, and your shirt-collar, and your boots, and your pack, or whatever it is—and by your being on foot.’ ‘What a long list, Carry! and the worst of it is, that if I was asked how I should know whether you are a native, as you call yourself, and not an English girl, I should not have half as many things to swear by.’ ‘And what would they be, sir?’ ‘Let me see. I think you are a little paler, for one thing—but that’s the heat, I suppose—and rather taller—and a little, only a very little slighter—and your hands are smaller; just let me look, for I can’t be sure; and, on the whole, rather prettier than most English girls are.’ ‘Oh, nonsense!’ interrupted Carry at this point, with a not wholly displeased expression. ‘I don’t believe half of it. I’m sure everybody says English girls have such lovely complexions and figures, and cut out us poor “currency lasses” altogether.’ ‘That’s not true, Carry, my dear,’ protested Mr. Neuchamp with warmth. ‘I can assure you that no one would think to look at you that you had lived all your life in a climate something like a greenhouse, with the door shut. It can’t be such a very had one after all, if it turns out such very nice specimens of——’ Here Miss Carry pretended to hear her mother calling, and discreetly departed. Ernest was too experienced a pedestrian to overwork himself, and blister his feet the first day, thereby converting the remaining portion of the journey into a penance; so finding himself in pleasant quarters, he determined to wait till the cool of the evening, and go on as far as the ancient and venerable town of Parramatta, which he was led to believe reared its double spires about eight miles farther on. After enjoying the home-baked bread, the well-cured bacon, the fresh butter, and another tankard, he occupied himself with observing the pictures, which in rather grand gilt frames adorned the room. They smacked of the good old days. There was ‘The Tally-ho Coach leaving the Post-office, Sydney.’ A true English four-insider, with a team of highly improbable grays, proceeding at an impossible pace, from a pillared edifice with an enormous clock. The celebrated racehorse ‘Jorrocks,’ as he appeared winning his forty-fifth race, the majority of the cheering crowd depicted as wearing cabbage-tree hats. There was also the terrific finish at the Five Dock Steeplechase between Fergus and Slasher, with a sketch of the astonishing struggle, when Traveller beat Chester for the Sydney Cup after the fifth heat, on the old Sandy Course. This turf triumph had occurred about forty-five years since.