g itself now as fast as even he could wish to see it. "We only
want what is fair," he had told Nellie; "we're not going in for anything
wild. So long as we get a pound a hundred and rations at a fair figure
we're satisfied." And Nellie had shown him things which had struck him
dumb and broken through the veneer of satisfaction that of late had
covered over his old doubts and fears.

"What is to be the end for me?" he used to think, then force himself not
to think in terror. Now, he himself seemed so insignificant, the union he
loved so seemed so insignificant, he was only conscious for the time
being of the agony of the world at large, which dulled him with the
reflex of its pain. Oh, these puny foul-tongued children! Oh, these
haggard weary women! Oh, these hopeless imbruted men! Oh, these young
girls steeped in viciousness, these awful streets, this hateful life,
this hell of Sydney. And beyond it--hell, still hell. Ah, he knew it
now, unconsciously, as in a swoon one hears voices. The sorrow of it all!
The hatefulness of it all! The weariness of it all! Why do we live?
Wherefore? For what end, what aim? The selector, the digger, the bushman,
as the townman, what has life for them? It is in Australia as all over
the world. Wrong triumphs. Life is a mockery. God is not. At least, so it
came gradually to Ned as he walked silently by Nellie's side.

They had turned down a tree-screened side road, descending again towards
the harbour. Nellie stopped short at an iron gate, set in a hedge of some
kind. A tree spanned the gateway with its branches, making the gloomy
night still darker. The click of the latch roused her companion.

"Do you think it's any good living?" he asked her.

She did not answer for a moment or two, pausing in the gateway. A break
in the western sky showed a grey cloud faintly tinged with silver. She
looked fixedly up at it and Ned, his eyes becoming accustomed to the
gloom, thought he saw her face working convulsively. But before he could
speak again, she turned round sharply and answered, without a tremor in
her voice:

"I suppose that's a question everybody must answer for themselves."

"Well, do you?"

"For myself, yes."

"For others, too?"

"For most others, no." The intense bitterness of her tone stamped her
words into his brain.

"Then why for you any more than anybody else?"

"I'll tell you after. We must go in. Be careful! You'd better give me
your hand!"

She led the way along a