no means a philosopher—exactly did now that the excitement was over and he had time to think. He flung himself down on the ground near an almond-scented clump of brilliantly coloured gorse, and smote his fists together.
"What a fool I've been!" he groaned. "What a fool! And what shall I do now?"
That, of course, is what all young men placed in the same predicament would say. And his next remark—with the exception of the proper name included in it—is one that has been voiced more times than once by more young men than one would like to reckon the number of.
"I wish I'd never taken Bassett's advice! And yet he said Mountain Apple was a certainty—a dead certainty. I wish I'd never known Bassett."
Then he groaned again, and rising from his recumbent position, began to pace up and down the quiet patch of ground amongst the gorse brakes into which he had accidentally strayed. He was walking to and fro with bent head and hands clasping and unclasping themselves behind his back when he suddenly heard himself addressed by what was without doubt the voice of a young woman.
"I am afraid you are in great trouble!"
Goulburn started, turned, and stared about him, the colour rising to his cheek at the thought that he had been observed. He had believed himself to be alone; now, looking round his retreat, he saw a girl of something about his own age, who, shaded by a scarlet
