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 found, and holding to his lips a wooden bowl, the like of which he had not seen for fifty years. Somehow, he did not seem to mind this woman’s ministrations—they were not at all like poor Mrs. Brown’s—and he obeyed her without irritation, and swallowed the draught of warm milk. It revived him.

“A bowl of coffee would have been better,” he heard her mutter as though to herself, and was able actually to smile.

“Seat yourself, ma mère,” he presently directed in his turn. “And tell me how it comes that you too are at Pakarae.”

It was very simple. The old woman, it appeared, was Joseph Métrailleur’s grandmother. Her husband had died, over there at Evremond, some months before, and she had found herself without kith or kin or any one to look after (“I, who am still so very strong, monsieur,”’ she said, in a tone of expostulation), excepting these unseen, far-away relations in New Zealand. After them, since she was one of those to whom all kin seem kind, her heart had longed; to them surely she might be of use in the new, rough country? So she had written to them, begging piteously that she might come out, and Joseph’s good, impulsive heart had been touched; he had assented, he had helped, she had arrived at Pakarae during the winter, while Philippe had been ill—and now here she was, poor soul! forbidden by both pride and sense of fairness, to beg for repatriation (“Only figure to yourself, monsieur, the expense! and whom, in addition, have I, there?”), and yet a most bewildered stranger in a most strange land, unbelievably homesick, and lonelier, alas! than ever. For Joseph, yes,