fe was too much for
him--riding in all weathers and camping out in the rain, and living like
a dog. But he was never content at home. It was all for the sake of me
and the children. He wanted to make money and start on a station again.
I shouldn't have let him go. He only thought of me and the children! Oh!
my poor, dear, kind, dead husband!' She broke down again and sobbed, and
her sister comforted her, while Andy and I stared at Wellington meeting
Blucher on the field of Waterloo. I thought the artist had heaped up the
dead a bit extra, and I thought that I wouldn't like to be trod on by
horses, even if I was dead.

'Don't you mind,' said Miss Standish, 'she'll be all right presently,'
and she handed us the 'Illustrated Sydney Journal'. This was a great
relief,--we bumped our heads over the pictures.

Mrs Baker made Andy go on again, and he told her how the Boss broke down
near Mulgatown. Mrs Baker was opposite him and Miss Standish opposite
me. Both of them kept their eyes on Andy's face: he sat, with his hair
straight up like a brush as usual, and kept his big innocent grey eyes
fixed on Mrs Baker's face all the time he was speaking. I watched Miss
Standish. I thought she was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen; it was a
bad case of love at first sight, but she was far and away above me, and
the case was hopeless. I began to feel pretty miserable, and to think
back into the past: I just heard Andy droning away by my side.

'So we fixed him up comfortable in the waggonette with the blankets
and coats and things,' Andy was saying, 'and the squatter started into
Mulgatown.... It was about thirty miles, Jack, wasn't it?' he asked,
turning suddenly to me. He always looked so innocent that there were
times when I itched to knock him down.

'More like thirty-five,' I said, waking up.

Miss Standish fixed her eyes on me, and I had another look at Wellington
and Blucher.

'They were all very good and kind to the Boss,' said Andy. 'They thought
a lot of him up there. Everybody was fond of him.'

'I know it,' said Mrs Baker. 'Nobody could help liking him. He was one
of the kindest men that ever lived.'

'Tanner, the publican, couldn't have been kinder to his own brother,'
said Andy. 'The local doctor was a decent chap, but he was only a young
fellow, and Tanner hadn't much faith in him, so he wired for an older
doctor at Mackintyre, and he even sent out fresh horses to meet the
doctor's buggy. Everything was done that co