was heaved aboard, the steam-winches ceased clanking and a silence ensued, broken only by farewell "coo-ees." Then, faint but clear, over the patchwork of hot tiles, came the sound of bells. Paul's eyes sought out the tower of the town hall and a mist blurred his vision. The chimes—the magic formula. It was a final message in a code unknown to the old man and all the others, a message for him alone, a message of warning and comfort. "Have faith in yourself." Aunt Verona's words: "Du courage, mon petit—ça ira!" Yes, but it was going to be a lonely progress—bitterlich! For all their wisdom and fortitude, the bells were sad.
Poor red, sandy hot, bare little town! Up the river, beyond the bridge, he could descry the dingy "upstairs house" in which Miss Green lived. It was all but obscured by the branches of a fig tree. On the hill behind the town, near a clump of jarrahs, he made out the spot where he had stood on his first evening ashore—godlike on a sacred mount. He conjured up the smell of eucalyptus, and the shrill strains of "Cock o' the North."
The prosperous steamship was gliding towards the breakwater that extended beyond the mouth of the river. Somewhere a signal was clanging. Paul pictured the brass indicators. "And I polished up the handles so faithfully!" That unforgettable night at the theatre! Some day, somewhere, he would go to vast theatres, hear famous orchestras and operas: Faust, Carmen, Parsifal!
Beyond the steamers, far away at the end of the quay, were the tall masts and disordered yards of the Clytemnestra. Lightened of her burden, she stood high, her sides garishly daubed with vermilion. No more séances in the old sail locker, with its smell of manilla. No more smuggled tins of cherries and peaches; no more chocolate-coated biscuits; no more yarns in the galley and carpenter-shop. They had all seemed sorry when he said good-bye, and sheepishly affectionate. Strange how one could grow
