ers of course in bush townships, for the Australian, having a
soul above details, does not shine at hotel-keeping. The breakfast was
enlivened by snatches of song from the big, good-natured bush-girl who
waited at table, and who "fancied" her voice somewhat, and marched into
the breakfast-room singing in an ear-splitting Soprano:

"It's a vilet from me"--

(spoken.) "What you'll have, there's chops, steaks, and bacon and
eggs"--"Chops, please."

(singer continues.) "Sainted mother's"--

(spoken.) "Tea or coffee"--"Tea, please."

(singer finishes.)--"grave."

While she ate, Miss Grant had an uneasy feeling that she was being
stared at; all the female staff and hangers-on of the place having
gathered round the door to peer in at her and to appraise to the
last farthing her hat, her tailor-made gown, and her solid English
walking-shoes, and to indulge in wild speculation as to who or what she
could be. A Kickapoo Indian in full war-paint, arriving suddenly in a
little English village, could not have created more excitement than she
did at Tarrong. After breakfast she walked out on the verandah that ran
round the little one-story weatherboard hotel, and looked down the
mile and a-half of road, with little galvanised-iron-roofed cottages at
intervals of a quarter of a mile or so, that constituted the township.
She watched Conroy, the policeman, resplendent in breeches and polished
boots, swagger out from the court-house yard, leading his horse to
water. The town was waking to its daily routine; Garry, the butcher,
took down the clumsy board that passed for a window-shutter, and
McDermott, the carter, passed the hotel, riding a huge rough-coated
draught-horse, bare-backed. Everyone gave him a "Mornin', Billy!" as
he passed, and he returned the greeting as he did every morning of his
life. A few children loitered past to the little school-house, staring
at her as though she were some animal.

She was in a hurry to get away--English people always are--but in the
bright lexicon of the bush there is no such word as hurry. Tracey, the
blacksmith, had not by any means finished shoeing the coach-horse yet.
So Mrs. Connellan made an attempt to find out who she was, and why she
was going to Kuryong.

"You'll have a nice trip in the coach," she said. "Lier (lawyer) Blake's
going down. He's a nice feller."

"Yes?"

"Father Kelly, too. He's good company."

"Yes?"

"Are you staying long at Kuryong?"

"Some time, I expect