A tiny incident, however, which happened when Missy had been some five or six weeks at the farm, told her more than Arabella had done, directly or indirectly, in any of their conversations. The girls were in the room with Mr. Teesdale, who was looking on the chimney-piece for a lost letter, when he exclaimed suddenly: “What's got that meerschaum pipe, Arabella?” “Which one was that, father?” was the only answer, in a suspiciously innocent voice. “The one I picked up by our slip-rails the night I took Missy back to Melbourne. It belonged to yon man I told you I met on the road. I was saving it in case I ever set eyes on him again.” “Oh, that one!” cried Arabella; then, after a pause, she added, with a nonchalance which Missy for one admired: “I gave it back to him the other day.” “To whom?” “Why, the man that lost it!” “You gave it back—to the man that lost it?” cried David, in the greatest surprise, while Missy became buried in the Argus of that morning. “Dear me, where have you seen him, honey?” “In the township.” “In the township, eh? Now what sort of a man was it that you saw in the township? Tell me what he was like.” “Like? Oh, he had—let's see—he had very dark eyes; oh, yes, and a dark moustache and all; and he was very—well, rather handsome, I thought him.” “Ay, that's near enough,” said Mr. Teesdale, greatly puzzled; “quite near enough to satisfy me that he's the same man; but how in the world did you know that he was? That's what I can't make out!” “Why, he told me himself, to be sure!” “Ay, but how came he to speak to you at all? That's what I want to know.” “Then I'm sure I can't tell you,” said Arabella, with a toss of her head, not badly done. “I suppose he saw where I came from, and I dare say he'd been leaning again' our slip-rails that night he lost his pipe. Anyhow, he asked me whether I'd found one, and I said you had, and he described the one he'd lost, and I knew that must be it. So I came back and got it for him. That was all.” Mr. Teesdale seemed just a little put out. “I wonder you didn't say anything about it at the time, my dear,” said he, in mild remonstrance. “Me? Why, I never thought any more of it,” the young woman said, with a slightly superfluous laugh. “I—you see that was the first and last I'd seen of him,” added Arabella, as if to end the discussion; but her father had not finished his say. “I'm glad it was the last, however—I am glad of that!” he exclaimed with unusual energy. “Why? Because, my dear, little as I saw of him, I didn't like the cut of that man's jib. No,” said Mr. Teesdale, letting his eyes travel through the window to the river-timber, and shaking his head decidedly, as he sat down in his accustomed seat; “no, I didn't like it at all; and very sorry I should have been to think a man of that stamp was coming here after our Mary Jane!” And Missy said never a word; but neither word, look nor tone had escaped her.