Mr. Teesdale wrinkled his forehead, but said nothing. Evidently it was of the first importance that Missy should not keep her friends waiting. Of these people, however, she had already spoken so lightly that David was pleased to fancy her as not caring very much about them. He was pleased, not only because they took her to the theatre, but because he wanted no rival Australian friends for his old friend's child; the farm, if possible, must be her only home so long as she remained in the Colony. When, therefore, the girl herself confirmed his hopes the very next time she opened her mouth, the old man beamed with satisfaction. “These folks I'm staying with,” said Missy—“I'm not what you call dead nuts on 'em, as I said before.” “I'm glad to hear it,” chuckled David, “because we want you all to ourselves, my dear.” “So you think! Some day you'll be sorry you spoke.” “Nonsense, child. What makes you talk such rubbish? You've got to come and make your home with us until you're tired of us, as I've told you already. Where is it they live, these friends of yours?” “Where do they live?” repeated Missy. “Oh, in Kew.” “Ah—Kew.” The name was spoken in a queer, noticeable tone, as of philosophic reflection. Then the farmer smiled and went on driving in silence; they were progressing at a good speed now. But Missy had looked up anxiously. “What do you know about Kew?” said she. “Not much,” replied David, with a laugh; “only once upon a time I had a chance of buying it—and had the money too!” “You had the money to buy Kew?” “Yes, I had it. There was a man who took me on to a hill and showed me a hollow full of scrub and offered to get me the refusal of it for an old song. I had the money and all, as it happened, but I wasn't going to throw it away. The place looked a howling wilderness; but it is now the suburb of Kew.” “Think of that. Aren't you sorry you didn't buy it?” “Oh, it makes no difference.” “But you'd be so rich if you had!” “I should be a millionaire twice over,” said the farmer, complacently, as he removed his ruin of a top-hat to let in the breeze upon his venerable pate. Missy sat aghast at him. “It makes me sick to think of it,” she exclaimed. “I don't know what I couldn't do to you! If I'd been you I'd have cut my throat years ago. To think of the high old time you could have had!” “I never had that much desire for a high old time,” said Mr. Teesdale with gentle exaltation. “Haven't I, then, that's all!” cried his companion in considerable excitement. “It makes a poor girl feel bad to hear you go on like that.” “But you're not a poor girl.” Missy was silenced. “Yes, I am,” she said at last, with an air of resolution. It was not, however, until they were the better part of a mile nearer Melbourne. “You are what?” “A poor girl.” “Nonsense, my dear. I wonder what your father would say if he heard you talk like that.” “He's got nothing to do with it.” “Not when he's worth thousands, Missy?”