racehorses; all the same, I wouldn't like to ride 'em after cattle in the Ranges on a dark night."

The sedate head coachman could not understand the situation. He was puzzled as to what manner of man this might be, who, though so poorly dressed, while treating his master with the utmost respect, conversed with him on terms of perfect equality. His amazement, however, was turned into admiration later in the day when Mr. O'Riley favoured him with an exposition of the gentle art of horse-breaking.

"He's a bit too free and easy in his manners towards the governor for my likin'," he informed the head gardener afterwards, "but there's no denyin' the fact that he's amazin' clever with a youngster. They do say as 'ow he did all Mr. Standerton's horse-breaking in foreign parts."

It soon became apparent that Terence was destined to become one of the most popular personages at Childerbridge. His quaint mannerisms, extraordinary yarns, and readiness to take any sort of work, however hard, upon his shoulders, won for him a cordial welcome from the inhabitants of the Manor House. As for Jim and Alice, for some reason best known to themselves they derived a comfort from his presence that at any other time they would scarcely have believed possible.

On the day following Terence's arrival James stood on the steps at the front door, watching him school a young horse in the park. The high-spirited animal was inclined to be troublesome, but with infinite tact and patience Terence was gradually asserting his supremacy. Little by little, as he watched him, Jim's thoughts drifted away from Childerbridge, and another scene, equally familiar, rose before his eyes. He saw a long creeper-covered house, standing on the banks of a mighty river. A man was seated in the verandah, and that man was his father. Talking to him from the garden path was another—no less a person than Terence. Then he himself emerged from the house and stood by his father's side—a little boy of ten, dressed in brown holland, and wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat upon his head. Upon his coming his father rose, and, taking him by the hand, led him down to the stock-yard, accompanied by Terence. In the yard stood the prettiest pony that mortal boy had ever set eyes on.

"There, my boy," said his father, "that is my birthday present to you. Terence has broken him."

And now here was this self-same Terence in England, of all places in the world, making his hunters for him, while the father, who all his life had proved so generous to him, was lying in his grave, cruelly 

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