d come and stay an hour or two.
He could read well; nearly as well as she could. Then he had always
something to show her that she'd been asking about. His place was eight
miles off, but he'd always get his horse and go home, whatever the night
was like.

'I must be at my work in the morning,' he'd say; 'it's more than half
a day gone if you lose that, and I've no half-days to spare, or
quarter-days either.'

. . . . .

So we all got on first-rate, and anybody would have thought that there
wasn't a more steady-going, hard-working, happy family in the colony. No
more there wasn't, while it lasted. After all, what is there that's half
as good as being all right and square, working hard for the food you
eat, and the sleep you enjoy, able to look all the world in the face,
and afraid of nothing and nobody!

We were so quiet and comfortable till the winter was over and the spring
coming on, till about September, that I almost began to believe we'd
never done anything in our lives we could be made to suffer for.

Now and then, of course, I used to wake up in the night, and my thoughts
would go back to 'Terrible Hollow', that wonderful place; and one night
with the unbranded cattle, and Starlight, with the blood dripping on
to his horse's shoulder, and the half-caste, with his hawk's eye
and glittering teeth--father, with his gloomy face and dark words. I
wondered whether it was all a dream; whether I and Jim had been in at
all; whether any of the 'cross-work' had been found out; and, if so,
what would be done to me and Jim; most of all, though, whether father
and Starlight were away after some 'big touch'; and, if so, where and
what it was, and how soon we should hear of it.

As for Jim, he was one of those happy-go-lucky fellows that didn't
bother himself about anything he didn't see or run against. I don't
think it ever troubled him. It was the only bad thing he'd ever been
in. He'd been drawn in against his will, and I think he had made up his
mind--pretty nearly--not to go in for any more.

I have often seen Aileen talking to him, and they'd walk along in the
evening when the work was done--he with his arm round her waist, and she
looking at him with that quiet, pleased face of hers, seeming so proud
and fond of him, as if he'd been the little chap she used to lead
about and put on the old pony, and bring into the calf-pen when she was
milking. I remember he had a fight with a little bull-calf, about a