The day for my departure arrived—­hot, 110 degrees in the shade.  It was a Wednesday afternoon.  Frank Hawden was to take me as far as Gool-Gool that evening, and see me on to the coach next day.  I would arrive in Yarnung about twelve or one o’clock on Thursday night, where, according to arrangement, Mr M’Swat would be waiting to take me to a hotel, thence to his home next day.

My trunks and other belongings were stowed in the buggy, to which the fat horses were harnessed.  They stood beneath the dense shade of a splendid kurrajong, and lazily flicked the flies off themselves while Frank Hawden held the reins and waited for me.

I rushed frantically round the house taking a last look at nooks and pictures dear to me, and then aunt Helen pressed my hand and kissed me, saying: 

“The house will be lonely without you, but you must brighten up, and I’m sure you will not find things half as bad as you expect them.”

I looked back as I went out the front gate, and saw her throw herself into a chair on the veranda and cover her face with her hands.  My beautiful noble aunt Helen!  I hope she missed me just a little, felt just one pang of parting, for I have not got over that parting yet.

Grannie gave me a warm embrace and many kisses.  I climbed on to the front seat of the buggy beside my escort, he whipped the horses—­a cloud of dust, a whirr of wheels, and we were gone—­gone from Caddagat!

We crossed the singing stream:  on either bank great bushes of blackthorn—­last native flower of the season—­put forth their wealth of magnificent creamy bloom, its rich perfume floating far on the hot summer air.  How the sunlight blazed and danced and flickered on the familiar and dearly loved landscape!  Over a rise, and the house was lost to view, then good-bye to the crystal creek.  The trees of Five-Bob Downs came within eye-range far away on our left.  What merry nights I had spent there amid music, flowers, youth, light, love, and summer warmth, when the tide of life seemed full!  Where now was Harold Beecham and the thirty or more station hands, who but one short month before had come and gone at his bidding, hailing him boss?

It was all over!  My pleasant life at Caddagat was going into the past, fading as the hills which surrounded it were melting into a hazy line of blue.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

My Journey

The coach was a big vehicle, something after the style of a bus, the tilt and seats running parallel with the wheels.  At the rear end, instead of a door, was a great tail-board, on the principle of a spring-cart.  This was let down, and, after we scrambled over it into our seats, it was fixed half-mast, all the luggage piled thereon, and firmly roped into position.  When this was completed, to any one on the ground only the heads of passengers were visible above the pile.  Had the coach capsized we would have been in a nice fix, as the only means of exit was by crawling up through the back of the box-seat, which rose breast-high—­an awkward feat.