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“Cheer up, Mary!” he said. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do–when I come back I’ll whistle when I reach the Spur and you be here to let the sliprails down for me. I’ll time myself to get here about sundown. I’ll whistle ‘Willie Riley,’ so you’ll know it’s me. Good-bye, little girl! I must go now. Don’t fret–the time will soon go by.”

He turned, swung his horse, and rode slowly down the track, turning now and again to wave his hand to her, with a farewell flourish of his hat as he rounded the Spur. His track, five hundred miles, or perhaps a thousand, into the great north-west; his time, six months, or perhaps a year. Hers a hundred yards or so back to the dusty, dreary drudgery of selection life. The daylight faded into starlight, the sidings grew very dim, and a faint white figure blurred against the bars of the slip-panel.

ACT II

It was the last day of the threshing–shortly after New Year–at Rocky Rises. The green boughs, which had been lashed to the veranda-posts on Christmas Eve, had withered and been used for firewood. The travelling steamer had gone with its gang of men, and the family sat down to tea, the men tired with hard work and heat, and with prickly heat and irritating wheaten chaff and dust under their clothes–and with smut (for the crop had been a smutty one) “up their brains” as Uncle Abel said–the women worn out with cooking for a big gang of shearers.

Good-humoured Aunt Emma–who was Uncle Abel’s niece –recovered first, and started the conversation. There were one or two neighbours’ wives who bad lent crockery and had come over to help with the cooking in their turns. Jim Carey’s name came up incidentally, but was quickly dropped, for ill reports of Jim had come home. Then Aunt Emma mentioned Harry Dale, and glanced meaningly at Mary, whose face flamed as she bent over her plate.

“Never mind, Mary,” said Aunt Emma, “it’s nothing to be ashamed of. We were all girls once. There’s many a girl would jump at Harry.”

“Who says I’m ashamed?” said Mary, straightening up indignantly.

“Don’t tease her, Emma,” said Mrs Carey, mildly.

“I’ll tell yer what,” said young Tom Carey, frankly, “Mary got a letter from him to-day. I seen her reading it behind the house.”

Mary’s face flamed again and went down over her plate.

“Mary,” said her mother, with sudden interest, “did Harry say anything of Jim?”

“No, mother,” said Mary. “And that’s why I didn’t tell you about the letter.”

There was a pause. Then Tommy said, with that delightful tact which usually characterizes young Tommies:

“Well, Mary needn’t be so cocky about Harry Dale, anyhow. I seen him New Year’s Eve when we had the dance. I seen him after the dance liftin’ Bertha Buckolt onter her horse in the dark–as if she couldn’t get on herself–she’s big enough. I seen him lift her on, an’ he took her right up an’ lifted her right inter the saddle, ‘stead of holdin’ his hand for her to tread on like that new-chum jackaroo we had. An’, what’s more, I seen him hug her an’ give her a kiss before he lifted her on. He told her he was as good as her brother.”

“What did he mean by that, Tommy?” asked Mrs Porter, to break an awkward pause.

“How’m I ter know what he means?” said Tommy, politely.

“And, Tommy, I seen Harry Dale give young Tommy Carey a lick with a strap the day before New Year’s Eve for throwing his sister’s cat into the dam,” said Aunt Emma, coming to poor Mary’s rescue. “Never mind, Mary, my dear, he said goodbye to you last.”

“No, he didn’t!” roared Uncle Abel.

They were used to Uncle Abel’s sudden bellowing, but it startled them this time.