Auckland once more! The traveller, though now a confirmed roamer, was, for obvious reasons, by no means grieved to find himself again in the haunts of civilized man. He had been interested, instructed, illuminated, as he told himself, by this sojourn in woodlands wild. Face to face with Nature, untrammelled by art, he had seen her children in peace, in love and friendship. He was now, as all things portended, about to obtain a closer knowledge of them in war--a rare and privileged experience, unknown to the ordinary individual. How grateful should he be for the opportunity! His first care was to possess himself of his letters and papers. There were not many of the former, still fewer of the latter. The county paper gave the usual information, as to poachers fined or imprisoned, a boy sent to gaol for stealing turnips. The hunting season had been fortunate. More visitors than usual. The riding of Mr. Lexington, son of the new owner of Massinger Court, had been much admired. That gentleman had exhibited judgment as well as nerve and horsemanship in (as they were informed) his first season's hunting in England. His shooting, too, was exceptional, and a brilliant career was predicted for him with the North Herefordshire hounds. A few epistles came from club friends and relatives. They were of the sort written more or less as a duty to the expatriated Briton, but which rarely survive the second year. The writers seemed much in doubt as to his _locale_, and uncertain whether New Zealand was one of the South Sea Islands or part of Australia. They all wished him good luck, and foretold future prosperity as a farmer, which was the only successful occupation out there (they were told) except digging for gold, which was agreed to be uncertain, if not dangerous. They concluded with a strong wish that he would come back a quasi-millionaire before he became a confirmed backwoodsman. And he was on no account to marry a "colonial" girl, when there were so many charming, _educated_ damsels at home. This last from a lady cousin, who had with difficulty restrained herself from imparting the last South African news, as being apposite to his situation and circumstances. These despatches were put down with an impatient exclamation, after which he sat gazing from the window of his hotel, which afforded a fine view of the harbour. Then he took up a letter in a hardly feminine hand, which he had placed somewhat apart, as a _bonne bouche_ for the latter end of the collection. This turned out to be from his candid and free-spoken friend, Mrs. Merivale, _née_ Branksome--a matter which he had probably divined as soon as he glanced at the rounded characters and decided expression of the handwriting. Opening it with an air of pleasurable expectation, and observing with satisfaction a couple of well-filled sheets, he read as follows:-- "MY DEAR SIR ROLAND,