" he sighed; "your blood----"

"I shan't lose one drop," said Moya brightly. "And no more questions?"

"Of course not."

"And no tellings?"

"Miss Bethune!"

"Forgive me," said Moya. "I'm more than satisfied. And
you're--_the_--dearest young man in the bush, Mr. Ives!"

The jackeroo swept his wideawake to the earth.

"And you're the greatest girl in the world, though I were to be drawn
and quartered for saying so!"

Moya returned to the house with pensive gait. She was not overwhelmed
with a present sense of her alleged greatness. On the contrary, she had
seldom felt so small and petty. But she could make amends; at least she
could try.

Horse-yard and house were not very far apart, but some of the lesser
buildings intervened, and Moya had been too full of her own sudden ideas
to lend an ear to any or aught but Ives and his replies. So she had
missed a word or two which it was just as well for her to miss, and more
even than a word. She did notice, however, that Mr. Spicer turned his
back as she passed him in the verandah. And she found Theodore dabbing
his knuckles in his bedroom.

"What's the matter? What have you done?"

"Oh, nothing."

But tone and look alike betokened some new achievement: they were
self-satisfied even for Bethune of the Hall.

"Tell me," demanded Moya.

"Well, if you want to know, I've been teaching one of your back-blockers
(yours no more, praises be!) a bit of a lesson. Our friend Spicer. Very
offensive to me all day; seemed to think I was inspiring the police.
Just now he surpassed himself; wanted me to take off my coat and go
behind the pines; in other words to fight."

"And wouldn't you?"

"Not exactly. Take off my coat to him!"

"So what did you do?"

"Knocked him down as I stood."

"You didn't!"

"Very well. Ask Mr. Spicer. I'm sorry for the chap; he meant well; and I
admire his pluck."

"What did he do?"

"Got up and went for me bald-headed."

"And you knocked him down again?"

"No," said Theodore, "that time I knocked him out."

And he took a cigarette from his silver case, while Moya regarded him
with almost as much admiration as disgust, and more of surprise than of
either.

"I didn't know this was one of your accomplishments," said she at
length.

"Aha!" puffed Theodore; "nor was it, once upon a time. But there's a
certain old prize-fighter at a place called Trumpington, and he taught
me the most useful thing I learnt up at Cambridge. The poetic j