‘It is well to have a faithful retainer at times,’ said Mr. Neuchamp thoughtfully. ‘It carries a mutual benefit, often lost sight of in these days of selfish realism. ‘How shall we manage with the cattle without him?’ queried Mr. Banks. ‘I must take the two black boys,’ said Mr. Neuchamp, ‘and you must do the best you can on the run by yourself; for business renders it absolutely necessary that I should visit Sydney.’ ‘I daresay I’ll manage, somehow,’ said Mr. Banks. ‘I must get Tottie Freeman to help me, if I’m hard pushed. She’s the smartest hand with cattle of the lot.’ ‘I do not think that arrangement would quite answer,’ quoth Mr. Neuchamp gravely. * * * * * Within a fortnight after this conversation Mr. Neuchamp and his sable retainers might have been observed making the usual stages with a most satisfactory drove of fat cattle in front of them. They were not, perhaps, equal to the first lot he recollected despatching from Rainbar; but ‘cattle were cattle’ now, in the language of the butchers. There were plenty more coming on, and it was not thought advisable to wait longer for the ultimate ‘topping up’ of the beeves. They were good enough. The demand was prodigious; and purchasers did not make half the critical objections that were used in the old days, when cattle were not half the price. In the appointed time the important draft reached Sydney, and before Mr. Neuchamp could look round, it seemed to him, they were snapped up at eight-pounds-ten a head, no allusions made to ‘rough cattle,’ or ‘very plain on the back,’ ‘old cows,‘ ‘light weights,’ or any of the usual strong depreciations customary on former occasions. No; a new era seemed to have set in. All was right as long as the count was accurate. So satisfactory was the settling that Mr. Neuchamp at once wrote to Charley Banks to muster and send down another draft, even if he _had_ to put Tottie Freeman in charge of Rainbar while he was on the road. Then came the immediate rush to the office of Frankston and Co., and a meeting with old Paul, that made up for much of enforced privation and protracted self-denial. ‘My dear boy! most glad to see you, at last; thought that we should never see your face again. Knew you couldn’t come before the rain did. Can’t leave the ship until tide serves and the wind’s fair. But _now_ the voyage is over, first mate’s in charge of the ship, and the skipper can put on his long-shore toggery and cruise for a spell. Of course you’re on your way out to dine with us?’ Ernest mentioned that, presuming upon old acquaintance, such had been his intention. ‘Antonia will be ever so glad to see you; but she must tell you all the news herself. You will find your cousin at Morahmee. She and Antonia are wonderful friends—that is——’