Heaven knows there were others to think of first—and last—just then. Yet in a minute or two Arabella was thinking only of the wicked, the dishonest, the immoral Missy. Nothing was known of her at the farm from the day she left it. That was nearly eight months ago, and eight months was time enough, surely, to forget her in; but here, of all places, Arabella could never forget the woman who had saved her own woman's honour. Here it had happened. It was at the Cultivation corner that she had made the tryst that would infallibly have been her ruin; it was somewhere hereabouts that Missy had kept that tryst for her and saved her from ruin. She could never come this way without thinking only of Missy, and wondering whether she was alive, and where she was, and what doing. Therefore that which happened this evening was in reality less of a coincidence than it looked. The girl of whom she was thinking stood suddenly in Arabella's path. The recognition, however, was not so immediate. Missy was clad in garments that were the meanest rags compared even with those in which she had first appeared at the farm; also, she was thin to emaciation, and not a strand of her distinguishing red hair could be seen for the unsightly bonnet which was tightly fastened over her head and ears. Consider, further, the light, and you will have more patience than Missy had with the dumbfounded Arabella. “Don't you know me, 'Bella, or won't you know me?” Arabella did know her then, and her hands flew out to the other's and caught them tight. Then she doubted her knowledge—the hands were harder than her own. “Missy! No, I don't believe it is you. Where's your fringe? Why are you—like this? How can it be you? You never used to have hard hands!” Yet she held them tight. “Don't talk so loud,” said Missy, nervously; “there might be someone about. You know it's me. I wonder how you can bear to touch me!” “I can bear a bit more than that,” said Arabella warmly, and she flung her arms about the other, and reached up and kissed her lovingly upon the mouth, upon both cheeks. The cheeks were cold, and the back and shoulders were wet to the hands and wrists encircling them. “You're a good sort, 'Bella,” murmured Missy, not particularly touched, but in a grateful tone enough. “You always were. There, that'll do. Fancy you not even being choked off yet—and me like this!” “Fancy you being back again, Missy! That's the grand thing. I can hardly credit it even now. But you're terribly wet, poor dear! It's dreadful for you, Missy, it is indeed!” “Oh, that's nothing; it did rain pretty hard, but there'll be some more in a minute, so it would come to the same thing in any case.” “Then you have walked, and were caught in it on the road?” “Do I look as if I'd ridden? Yes, and it was a pretty long road——” “From Melbourne?—I should think it was.” Missy laughed.