they latched down the
trap-door; together they left the counting-house.

"Tell Sam to ride to the shed and ask Mr. Wentworth to come to me at
once--at once." Kate gave the order in a calm voice to the one woman
servant that did the work in the house.

"Sam isn't in the yards," was the answer. "He told me three hours ago
that he was wanted by Mr. Wentworth to ride to the township for
something or other. He was in a fine way about it, for he said it was
taking him from his work here."

Some of Kate's calm left her. She looked round at the helpless
women--three now, for her aunt had joined them.

"Aunt," she said, forcing herself to speak quietly, "I have fears that
this afternoon we shall be attacked by bushrangers. Unfortunately Sam
has been called away, and he is the only man we have on the premises.
There is not another within reach, except at the shearing-shed, and you
know where that is. Which of you will venture to ride there for help? I
dare not go, for I must protect the house."

She glanced at each of the three faces in turn, and saw no help there.
Becky, the servant, had utterly collapsed at the word bushranger; the
other two faces looked as if carved in stone.

"Kate, Kate, is there no other help near?"

"Not nearer than the shearing-shed, aunt."

"I daren't go. I couldn't ride that distance."

"Cicely?" Kate's tone was imploring.

"Don't ask me," and Cicely burst into a flood of tears.

"We must defend ourselves, then."

The Australian girl's voice was quiet, albeit it trembled slightly.

"Come to the counting-house. Becky, you come too. We must barricade the
place. I'll run round and fasten up every door. They will have a tough
job to get in," she murmured grimly.

How she thanked her father for the strong oak door! The oaken shutters
with their massive iron clamps! It would seem as if he had expected a
raid from bushrangers at some time or other in his life. The
counting-house door was stronger than the others. She now understood the
reason why. The room below had been taken into consideration when that
door was put up.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon. A broiling, sun-baking afternoon.
They were prepared, sitting, as it were, in readiness for the attack
they were momentarily expecting.

It came at last. The voice that sounded outside the counting-house door
took her back to the time when she was fifteen years of age. It was a
strange, harsh voice, grating in its harshness, strange