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When they came in again Mrs Baker made Andy go on with his story.

‘He–he died very quietly,’ said Andy, hitching round, and resting his elbows on his knees, and looking into the fireplace so as to have his face away from the light. Miss Standish put her arm round her sister. ‘He died very easy,’ said Andy. ‘He was a bit off his head at times, but that was while the fever was on him. He didn’t suffer much towards the end–I don’t think he suffered at all…. He talked a lot about you and the children.’ (Andy was speaking very softly now.) ‘He said that you were not to fret, but to cheer up for the children’s sake…. It was the biggest funeral ever seen round there.’

Mrs Baker was crying softly. Andy got the packet half out of his pocket, but shoved it back again.

‘The only thing that hurts me now,’ says Mrs Baker presently, ‘is to think of my poor husband buried out there in the lonely Bush, so far from home. It’s–cruel!’ and she was sobbing again.

‘Oh, that’s all right, Mrs Baker,’ said Andy, losing his head a little. ‘Ned will see to that. Ned is going to arrange to have him brought down and buried in Sydney.’ Which was about the first thing Andy had told her that evening that wasn’t a lie. Ned had said he would do it as soon as he sold his wool.

‘It’s very kind indeed of Ned,’ sobbed Mrs Baker. ‘I’d never have dreamed he was so kind-hearted and thoughtful. I misjudged him all along. And that is all you have to tell me about poor Robert?’

‘Yes,’ said Andy–then one of his ‘happy thoughts’ struck him. ‘Except that he hoped you’d shift to Sydney, Mrs Baker, where you’ve got friends and relations. He thought it would be better for you and the children. He told me to tell you that.’

‘He was thoughtful up to the end,’ said Mrs Baker. ‘It was just like poor Robert–always thinking of me and the children. We are going to Sydney next week.’

Andy looked relieved. We talked a little more, and Miss Standish wanted to make coffee for us, but we had to go and see to our horses. We got up and bumped against each other, and got each other’s hats, and promised Mrs Baker we’d come again.

‘Thank you very much for coming,’ she said, shaking hands with us. ‘I feel much better now. You don’t know how much you have relieved me. Now, mind, you have promised to come and see me again for the last time.’

Andy caught her sister’s eye and jerked his head towards the door to let her know he wanted to speak to her outside.

‘Good-bye, Mrs Baker,’ he said, holding on to her hand. ‘And don’t you fret. You’ve–you’ve got the children yet. It’s–it’s all for the best; and, besides, the Boss said you wasn’t to fret.’ And he blundered out after me and Miss Standish.

She came out to the gate with us, and Andy gave her the packet.

‘I want you to give that to her,’ he said; ‘it’s his letters and papers. I hadn’t the heart to give it to her, somehow.’

‘Tell me, Mr M’Culloch,’ she said. ‘You’ve kept something back–you haven’t told her the truth. It would be better and safer for me to know. Was it an accident–or the drink?’

‘It was the drink,’ said Andy. ‘I was going to tell you–I thought it would be best to tell you. I had made up my mind to do it, but, somehow, I couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t asked me.’

‘Tell me all,’ she said. ‘It would be better for me to know.’

‘Come a little farther away from the house,’ said Andy. She came along the fence a piece with us, and Andy told her as much of the truth as he could.

‘I’ll hurry her off to Sydney,’ she said. ‘We can get away this week as well as next.’ Then she stood for a minute before us, breathing quickly, her hands behind her back and her eyes shining in the moonlight. She looked splendid.