"Is there not?" replied Mrs. Neuchamp, "'as you see the vision splendid, of the sunlit plains extended,' an ocean of verdure. You trace the river by the heavy timber on its banks, and the slowly-rising mists along its course. Then the sun, a crimson and gold shield against the cloudless azure, the cattle low in the great river meadows, you hear the crack of a stockwhip as the horses come galloping in like a regiment of cavalry, and the day has begun. It seems like a new world awakening to life."
"I know a young woman," said her husband, "whose 'inward eye' by no means made 'the bliss of solitude' when she first went into the bush."
"That was because I was newly married—torn away from my childhood's home, and all that," laughed his wife. "Besides, you used to stay away unconscionably long sometimes; now everything looks different. You will have to pass through that stage, my dear Miranda. So prepare yourself."
"I am sure Hilary will never stay away from our home unless he is obliged; and then I must sew and sing till he comes back, like my countrywomen at Norfolk Island and Pitcairn when their men are at sea."
"A very good custom, too," said Paul. "That reminds me that we must have some music to-night. Antonia will lead the way, and our cigars will taste all the better in the verandah."
Mrs. Neuchamp had a fine voice and a fine ear. She had been well taught, and played her own accompaniments, while she sang several favourite songs of her father's, and a duet with her husband.
"Now, it's your turn, Miranda," said Mr. Frankston. "I've heard all about you from the captain."
"I shall be very glad to sing," she answered, seating herself at the piano, "if you care for my simple songs. I have always been fond of music, but our poor little harmonium was, for a long time, my only instrument. What shall I sing?"
"Sing the 'Lament of Susannah M'Coy for her drowned lover,'" said the captain, "that was a song brought from Pitcairn, wasn't it? I always liked it the best of all the island sing songs."
"It is simple," replied Miranda, "but it is true; I believe the poor girl used to sit by the sea-shore singing it at night, and died of grief a year afterwards."