of the country, for Carmichael had put himself in excellent
temper for the day of battle.

That day dawned blood-red and beautiful, but in a little it was a
blinding blue from pole to pole, and the thermometer in the veranda
reached three figures before breakfast. It was a hot-wind day, and even
Carmichael's subordinates pitied Dr. Methuen and his chaplain, who were
riding from the south in the teeth of that Promethean blast. But
Carmichael himself drew his own line with unswerving rigidity; and
though the deep veranda was prepared as a place for worship, and covered
in with canvas which was kept saturated with water, he would not permit
an escort to sally even to the boundary fence to meet the uninvited
prelate.

Not long after breakfast the two horsemen jogged into view, ambling over
the sand-hills whose red-hot edge met a shimmering sky some little
distance beyond the station pines. Both wore pith helmets and fluttering
buff dust-coats, but both had hot black legs, the pair in gaiters being
remarkable for their length. The homestead trio, their red necks chafed
by the unaccustomed collar, gathered grimly at the open end of the
veranda, where they exchanged impressions while the religious raiders
bore down upon them.

"They can ride a bit, too, I'm bothered if they can't," exclaimed the
overseer, in considerable astonishment.

"And do you suppose, my good fool," inquired Carmichael, with the usual
unregenerate embroidery--"do you in your innocence suppose that's an
accomplishment confined to these precious provinces?"

"They're as brown as my sugar," said the keeper of books and stores.

"The Bishop looks as though he'd been out here all his life."

Carmichael did not quarrel with this observation of his overseer, but
colorless eyebrows were raised above the cheap glasses as he stepped
into the yard to shake hands with the visitors. The bearded Bishop
returned his greeting in a grave silence. The chaplain, on the other
hand, seemed the victim of a nervous volubility, and unduly anxious to
atone for his chief's taciturnity, which he essayed to explain to
Carmichael on the first opportunity.

"His lordship feels the heat so much more than I do, who have had so
many years of it; and to tell you the truth, he is still a little hurt
at not being met, for the first time since he has been out here."

"Then why did he come?" demanded Carmichael, bluntly. "I never asked
him, did I?"

"No, no, but--ah, well! We won