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 Eliz.—Good for evil! you shall be called a good girl, and so you certainly are, Janet, for seeing to that bread. Really, I had no idea....the time has gone so fast....

Janet.—I sent Andy to find you, but the little scamp soon trotted back; Hine always fascinates the children. That reminds me—I forgot to tell you that that ancient Maori Princess arrived just as I had got the bread in, and is now squatting in the kitchen, telling the children the queerest tales—By the way, Liz., is it really true that she is to do something in the garden? or is that only a little legend of the present day?

Eliz.—No, no, Janet.—The poor old soul! I told her she could come. She can put in some of those late seeds.

Janet.—A poor old soul she is, indeed! I believe she grows a year older every week.—No, Elizabeth, but you should see her this morning—such a hunchy, bunchy lump of tatters, and tattoo! And I am sure I have fewer hairs upon my head than she wrinkles on her face—that dried-up, puckery brown desert, with the two tired camp-fires at one end—her poor old peering eyes.—Are you really off at last, Liz.? Stay—wasn’t it here you settled those seeds should be sown? for I could be out here, you know, and show her....Oh, yes, laugh away! How long a spell did you have, pray?

Ah, you lucky, lucky Liz!....

Well, I must gather the strawberries.

