Wally put down the letter, after folding it slowly. Norah, who had read it again over his shoulder, put out her hand for it and tucked it into the pocket of her coat. Neither spoke for awhile. Ireland had faded away: they saw only a long low house with a garden blazing with roses—a kitchen, spotless and shining, where an old woman laboured mightily with the pen. She was a fat old woman, plain and unromantic and very practical; but the thought of her brought home-sickness sharply to the boy and girl sitting on the green slope of Irish turf. “She’s an old brick,” said Wally, presently. “By Jove, Nor, won’t it be jolly to go back when all this show is over! It makes one feel sort of jumpy to think of driving up to Billabong again!” “’M,” assented Norah, lucidly. Speech was a little difficult just then. Presently she laughed. “Australian mail-days are lovely, but they always hurt a bit, too. Never mind, we’ll all go home together some day, and Billabong will go quite mad, and it will be worth having been away. What do we do this morning, Mr. Second-Lieutenant Meadows?” “Well, I don’t know,” Wally answered. “I think you’d better choose your own amusement, Miss Linton-of-Billabong, and I’ll fall in with it meekly. Jim and your father have shut themselves up with piles of business letters and stock reports and things like that, and can’t come out before lunch.” “Bother the old business!” said Norah, inelegantly, wrinkling her nose, as was her way in deep thought. “Wally, why shouldn’t we try Lough Anoor?” “That’s rather an idea—especially as Patsy’s engaged to-day, and can’t act as boatman. We could paddle round and try Lough Anoor by ourselves. It won’t do Lough Nacurra any harm to have a rest.” “No; we’ve fished it pretty steadily lately,” Norah agreed. “It would be rather fun to try a new place. I’d like to take Timsy, if you don’t mind, Wally. He’s such a jolly little chap, and it would be a tremendous treat for him.” “Good idea!” agreed Wally. “Great man, Timsy; he’ll take charge of us and run the whole show, and be entirely happy. Will you find him, Nor, while I get the rods and basket?” Timsy was never difficult to find, when the seekers were the Australians. He was digging his bare brown toes into the gravel by the front door when Norah and Wally emerged from the garden. “Are you busy to-day, Timsy?” asked Norah, gravely. One of the things that Timsy liked about these people from the other side of the world was that they always treated him as an equal in age and sense, and did not “talk down” to him. He had bitter memories of an English visitor who had addressed him as “Little boy,” and of an elderly lady who had patted him on the head, and called him “dear.” His blood still boiled when he thought of it. “I am not,” he replied. “I’m after catching all the chickens me mother wants,—and ’twas themselves give me a fine hunt. Chickens do be always knowing when they’re wanted to be kilt.”