It was near one of the many lakes which abound amongst the mountains
round Hobart that our short tale begins.
It was in the middle of January--midsummer in Tasmania. It had been a
hot day, but the heat was of a dry sort, and therefore bearable, and of
course to those born and bred in that favoured land, it was in no way
trying.
On the verandah of a pretty wooden house of the chalet description,
stood a lady, shading her eyes from the setting sun, a tall, graceful
woman; but as the sun's rays fell on her hair, it revealed silver
threads, and the sweet, rather worn face, with a few lines on the
forehead, was that of a woman of over forty; and yet she was a woman to
whom life's romance had only just come.
She was gazing round her with a lingering, loving glance; the gaze of
one who looks on a loved scene for the last time. On the morrow Eva
Chadleigh, for so she was called, was leaving her childhood's home,
where she had lived all her life, and going to cross the water to the
old--though to her new--country.
Sprinkled all down the mountain sides were fair white villas, or wooden
chalet-like houses, with their terraces and gardens, and most of them
surrounded by trees, of which the eucalyptus was the most common. The
soft breezes played round her, and at her feet the little wavelets of
the lake rippled in a soft cadence. Sounds of happy voices came wafted
out on the evening air, intermingled with music and the tones of a rich
tenor voice.
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