Norah said. "It hasn't got anything to do
with me. Only I don't want to see a man who could kill his mate, that's
all."

"He's much like any other man," said Blake philosophically. "Say, here's
someone comin' after you, missy, I think."

"I thought I'd find you here," exclaimed Mrs. Brown's fat, comfortable
voice, as its owner puffed her way up the slope leading to the
blacksmith's. "Good afternoon, Mr. Blake. I've finished all my shopping,
Miss Norah, my dear, and the mail's in, and here's a letter for you, as
you won't be sorry to see."

"From Dad? How lovely!" and Norah, snatching at the grey envelope with
its big, black writing, tore it open hastily. At the first few words,
she uttered a cry of delight.

"Oh, he's coming home to-morrow, Brownie--only another day! He says he
thinks it's time he was home, with murderers roaming about the
district!" and Norah executed a few steps of a Highland fling, greatly
to the edification of the blacksmith.

"Dear sakes alive!" said Mrs. Brown, truculently. "I think there are
enough of us at the station to look after you, murderer or no
murderer--not as 'ow but that 'Arris must be a nasty creature! Still I'm
very glad your Pa's coming, Miss Norah, because nothing do seem right
when he's away--an' it's dull for you, all alone."

"Master Jim gone back, I s'pose?" queried Blake.

"Yesterday," Norah added.

"Then you must be lonely," the old blacksmith said, taking Norah's small
brown hand, and holding it for a moment in his horny fist very much as
if he feared it were an eggshell, and not to be dropped. "Master Jim's
growing a big fellow, too--goin' to be as big a man as his father, I
believe. Well, good-bye, missy, and don't forget to come in next time
you're in the township."

There was nothing further to detain them in Cunjee, and very soon the
ponies were fetched from the stables, and they were bowling out along
the smooth metal road that wound its way across the plain, and Norah was
mingling excited little outbursts of delight over her father's return
with frequent searches into a big bag of sweets which Mrs. Brown had
thoughtfully placed on the seat of the buggy.

"I don't know why Blake wanted to go telling you about that nasty
murderer," Mrs. Brown said. They were ten miles from Cunjee, and the
metal road had given place to a bush track, in very fair order.

"Why not?" asked Norah, with the carelessness of twelve years.

"Well, tales of murders aren't the thing