In direct contrast to the bright frosty day we have described in the last chapter, the reader must be introduced to the clear atmosphere, cloudless sky, and bright sunshine of a midsummer day at Melbourne--almost England's antipodes. The inhabitants are enjoying a long summer's day on this 29th of January, and the surrounding country is presenting a verdant aspect and leafy foliage something akin to England in July. Midsummer when we have Christmas. Cold and frosty weather while we enjoy June sunshine; picnics and evening strolls in the calm summer moonlight, while we are shivering by the fire, or preparing for a Christmas party; midnight while we have noon, and short summer nights when with us darkness sets in at four in the afternoon and continues until eight the next morning. Such are some of the contrasts which astronomers tell us are the consequences of the earth's varied movements on her own axis and round the sun. But in neither country are the inhabitants conscious of these differences, much less can they realise that we in England are walking feet to feet with our brethren and sisters in Australia. At Melbourne, indeed, with its broad streets, elegant shops, and noble buildings, there is too much that reminds one of England to allow of any consciousness of contrast. Cathedrals, churches, colleges, botanical gardens, and other proofs of refined civilisation mark the progress of Saxon energy and enterprise, which have already supplanted in large territories of our globe the original inhabitants. The English are carrying with them not only civilisation and refinement, but also the principles of that "knowledge of the Lord which shall cover the whole earth as the waters cover the sea." True, the seed so scattered is mixed with the tares which settlers in distant lands carry with them from Christian England to her shame. But, like the grain of mustard seed, Christianity will grow and flourish into a large tree wherever the seeds of the "kingdom of heaven" are sown, in spite of the tares. In a large drawing-room, luxuriously furnished, and lighted by noble windows overlooking a broad street more than a mile long, reclined a pale, delicate-looking lady, about thirty-four years of age. Her sofa had been drawn near the open window, and as she gazed upon the gaily attired passengers passing to and fro on the broad pavements, or making purchases in the shops, she sighed deeply. "What makes you sigh, mamma?" said a pretty little girl of nine years, who sat reading in a low chair by her mother's side. "If I sighed, darling," she replied, "it was because this place reminds me of England, and I could almost fancy myself in that broad street in London that you have heard me speak of, Mabel."