irst past the post, and his
rider safe and sound at my side again. No, no, what did I care whether
he came in first or last? It would make no difference to me, in spite
of my father's wager; I wanted the race over, and then, whether Boatman
were first or last, Boatman's rider was my sweetheart in the face of
all the world, no matter what my father or Dick Stanton should say. Dick
Stanton was there, a regular bush dandy, for he was going to ride his
own horse, but I would not look at him, though he came over and wished
me "Good morning" as if we were the best of friends, and I hated him for
it, and I know now my hatred was well founded, for if it had not been
for him, I should have been a happy woman this day.

How slowly the morning wore on. It seemed to me it must be somewhere
about five o'clock, when there was a stir and a bustle, and the clock
struck twelve, and they were preparing for the "Telowie Handicap." I
know nothing whatever about that race, though I watched it from the best
vantage point on the course, our own verandah. My eyes were too dim to
see it, though I heard quite plainly the hoarse roar of the people as
the favourite passed the post just a length ahead, and I knew that Paul
by my side was shouting with the rest. I was thinking all the time
that the next race I should be standing there alone, while my lover was
riding the worst-tempered, most unmanageable brute in the colony.

Then, when the race was over, Paul turned to me with a smile, and I felt
that the morning, instead of crawling, had taken to itself wings.

"I must go now, dear," he said, and I put my hand on his arm, and
without a word drew him into the house, empty now, for everybody was too
interested in the racing to stay inside.

"Oh, Paul! Paul! I do try to be brave, but do be careful. For my sake,
do be careful."

Perhaps if I had begged of him then, he might have given up the thought
of riding. I reproach myself sometimes with not having asked him, but
after all, I don't think it would have been any good, only it is the
bitterest thing in the world to think "it might have been."

He was so good to me, so good. No one has been so good to me since. He
stroked my hair, and kissed me, and comforted me.

"I am a brute," he said, "to bring the tears into those pretty brown
eyes."

And I brushed away the tears and tried to tell him again how dear he
was to me. But what is the good of going over the old story once again,
child. It is