, was bending over a spade, digging potatoes.

The old woman straightened herself as they drove up.

"Good daah to you, Misther Gordon," she said. "Good daah to you, Miss."

"Good day, Mrs. Doyle," said Hugh. "Hard work that, this weather. How's
all the family?"

"Mag--Marg'rut, I mane--she's inside. That's her playin' the pianny. She
just got it up from Sydney."

"And where's Peter?"

"Peter's shearin' the sheep. He's in that shed there beyant. He's the
only shearer we have, so we tell him he's the ringer of the shed. He
works terr'ble hard, does Peter. He's not--" and the old woman dropped
her voice--"he's not all there in the head, is Peter, you know."

"And where's Mick?"

"Mick, bad scran to him! He's bought a jumpin' haarse (horse), and he's
gone to hell leppin! Down at one of the shows he is, some place. He has
too much sense to work, has Mick. Won't you come in and have a cup of
tay?"

"No, we must get on, thank you," and Hugh and Mary drove off, watched
by the old lady and the lanky-legged, shock-headed youth--Peter
himself--who came to the door of the big shed to stare at them.

As they drove off Hugh was silent, wondering what effect the sight of
the selectors might have had on Miss Grant.

She seemed to read his thoughts, and after a little while she spoke.

"So those are Mr. Blake's poor relations, are they? Well, that is not
his fault. My father was poor once, just as poor as those people are.
And Mr. Blake saved my life."

Hugh felt that she was half-consciously putting him in the wrong for
having more or less disapproved of Mr. Blake; so he kept silence.

As the team bore them along at a flying trot, they climbed higher
and higher up the range; at last, as they rounded a shoulder of the
hillside, the whole valley of Kiley's River lay beneath them, stretching
away to the far blue foothills. Beyond again was a great mountain, its
top streaked with snow. At their feet was a gorgeous scheme of colour,
greens and greys of the grass, bright tints of willow and poplar, and
the speckled forms of the cattle, so far down that they looked like
pigmy stock feeding in fairy paddocks. Across the valley there came now
and again, softened by distance, the song of the river; and up in
the river-bend, on a spur of the hills, were white walls rising from
clustered greenery.

"How beautiful!" said the girl, half standing up in the waggonette, "and
is that--"

"That's Kuryong, Miss Grant. Your home statio