f wool, the probable breeding capacity of the male stock they
kept, and of the want of grass--never a word about their country's
politics or the events of the day; even the news of the "Mountain
Murders" by Butler had not penetrated here. I wondered if they were
acquainted with the names of their Governor and Prime Minister.

It was not the poor food and the filthy way of preparing it that worried
me, or that Mr M'Swat used "damn" on an average twice in five minutes
when conversing, or that the children for ever nagged about my father's
poverty and tormented me in a thousand other ways--it was the dead
monotony that was killing me.

I longed feveredly for something to happen. Agony is a tame word
wherewith to express what that life meant to me. Solitary confinement to
a gipsy would be something on a par.

Every night unfailingly when at home M'Swat sat in the bosom of his
family and speculated as to how much richer he was than his neighbours,
what old Recce lived on, and who had the best breed of sheep and who was
the smartest at counting these animals, until the sordidness of it turned
me dizzy, and I would steal out under the stars to try and cool my heated
spirit. This became a practice with me, and every night I would slip away
out of hearing of the household to sing the songs I had heard at
Caddagat, and in imagination to relive every day and hour there, till the
thing became too much for me, and I was scarcely responsible for my
actions. Often I knelt on the parched ground beneath the balmy summer sky
to pray--wild passionate prayers that were never answered.

I was under the impression that my nightly ramble was not specially
noticed by any one, but I was mistaken. Mr M'Swat, it appears, suspected
me of having a lover, but was never able to catch me red-handed.

The possibility of a girl going out at night to gaze at the stars and
dream was as improbable a thought for him as flying is to me, and having
no soul above mud, had I attempted an explanation he would have
considered me mad, and dangerous to have about the place.

Peter, junior, had a sweetheart, one Susie Duffy, who lived some miles on
the other side of the Murrumbidgee. He was in the habit of courting her
every Sunday and two or three nights during the week, and I often heard
the clang of his stirrup-irons and the clink of hobble-chain when he
returned late; but on one occasion I stayed out later than usual, and he
passed me going home. I stood st