As the story of Cape Lost opens, an important new thread is about to be woven into the life of teenaged Gabrielle Allan. Home from boarding school for the summer holidays, she and Merry are once more happily on horseback. They are helping their Uncle Dunsany bring a herd of sheep to Cape Lost, the station owned by their Great-Uncle Garnet. Considered eccentric, Garnet Allan has lived all alone on this remote station bordering the sea ever since the mysterious disappearance of his young and beautiful wife many years before. Gay, curiously drawn to the homestead’s wild landscape so different from the green, rolling hills of home, does not expect to find herself thrown right into the middle of its mystery. These and subsequent events cause Gay to realize that everyone’s life holds unforeseen twists and turns—and change happens, whether one likes it or not. Yet a quiet inner resilience is growing in Gay that promises to carry her forward—come what may—along her own unique path. New Zealand, 1950's RL6.7 Of read-aloud interest ages 9-up Joyce West (1908-1985)   spent her childhood in the remote country districts of New Zealand where her parents taught in Maori schools. In her own words, she wrote books for children "with the wish that I might save a little of the charm and flavour of those times and places for the children of today." Critics and readers alike affirm the success of this wish. Joyce West’s stories with their hallmark of warm family relationships where members weather together—with both tears and laughter—the ups and downs of life provide a welcome addition to the literature available for the reading pleasure of families today. The road ran on, long and white and winding, into the hills. From our horses’ feet the dust rose up; a haze of dust hung over the moving mob of sheep; there was a constant chorus of bleating, and the voices of the dogs were sharp. We had left Drovers Road that morning, and we were bound for Cape Lost. We were taking the sheep by road to my Great-uncle Garnet Allan’s place. There seem to be a great number of Allans in this part of the world; I am sure it must be very confusing to people who do not know us well. At the homestead of Drovers Road, near Renny’s Crossing, live our own family of Allans: my three cousins, Eve, Hugh and Merry, my young unmarried uncle Dunsany, Aunt Belle and I. Drovers Road has been my home as long as I can remember. Eve, Hugh and Merry are the children of Dunsany’s eldest brother, Hugh, who was killed with his wife in an accident. My father is the middle brother; he and my mother were divorced when I was very small, and he has lived away from New Zealand for many years. Now he is planning to buy the piece of land that lies farther up the valley, and when I am finished at boarding-school I am going to keep house for him. I mean to try to make a real home, as Drovers Road has always been. Aunt Belle says that Great-uncle Garnet is a recluse. That means that he likes living alone and is not always going around visiting people. Sometimes I wish that some more of our relations were recluses too. It was a very early summer morning in the first week of the holidays when we left Drovers Road. The great steep hills were gold coloured in the sunlight and the blue shadows lay low over the valley floor. Now, by ten o’clock, there was only bush around us, and the hills and the winding curves of the old stock road. Four of us rode behind the mob: Dunsany on his young chestnut, Ted Marshall our head shepherd, slouching and graceful on his roan pony, and Merry and I, with our big hound dog Bugle trotting at our horses’ heels. The pack-horses followed lazily, with lurching loads. School seemed ten thousand miles and a hundred years away. "Smoke-O!” Dunsany called, turning in his saddle to shout back at us. We had come to a wide, stony stream bed, and while Merry collected dry twigs for the fire, I filled the billy from the clear, fast-running current, and piled up a rough fireplace of stones. We cut slices of Aunt Belle’s fresh home-baked bread, and put them together with a thick spread of butter and wedges of cold meat. When the water boiled we threw in a small handful of tea, and lifted the billy from the fire. The tea smelt sweetly of manuka smoke. The sheep fanned out in the clearing and the dogs lay and watched them. We sat in the shade of the tree-ferns and ate as if we had not seen food for a week. The pack-horses carried our blankets and cooking gear. There were two of them; the big chestnut was called Paninui, which means in Maori, "big head." He had the biggest head I ever saw on a horse; in fact he was just about as ugly as a horse could be, but he was very good-natured, and no trouble on the road. We all liked the other pack-horse, the little grey gelding. We called him Old Goat, because he had a little grey beard under his chin, and long furry ears that flickered back and forth as he ambled along under his swaying pack. I rode my own horse, my dear Ge