Our house settled itself into its peaceful routine. I sat down to write stories, which I had a great urge to do, but I was never satisfied with the result. Sometimes I got out my painting materials and dashed off sprays of flowers or a landscape, or something out of my imagination with fields of pastures green, or rocks and caverns with sweeping waters - dark as night with flashes of moonlight.

We had been there just thirteen months when we had a letter from Australia from one of my brothers, Arnold, who was called Tiggy as a boy and who continued to be so called ever after.

He had been a very impressionable boy and played the violin more than beautifully - in fact he was a genius with it. Music was his very life and he could play any stringed instrument. We  

had not seen him for years. He had sailed away to sea at the age of fourteen - to the grief of both my parents - and he had made a home away in Sydney. He was said not to live alone but with a woman fifteen years older than himself. It had been a love affair that had kept him from returning to his native land. Well, he wrote to say he was coming home. We were all delighted and made the house look very cheerful. My two sisters came to meet him and one of his very old friends who had remembered him as a boy. We did not know if he was bringing the woman with him.

But he came alone and stayed with us, playing his violin and telling us of the many things which had happened all those years he had been away.