. I had made up my mind to do it, but, somehow,
I couldn't have done it if you hadn't asked me.'

'Tell me all,' she said. 'It would be better for me to know.'

'Come a little farther away from the house,' said Andy. She came along
the fence a piece with us, and Andy told her as much of the truth as he
could.

'I'll hurry her off to Sydney,' she said. 'We can get away this week as
well as next.' Then she stood for a minute before us, breathing quickly,
her hands behind her back and her eyes shining in the moonlight. She
looked splendid.

'I want to thank you for her sake,' she said quickly. 'You are good men!
I like the Bushmen! They are grand men--they are noble! I'll probably
never see either of you again, so it doesn't matter,' and she put her
white hand on Andy's shoulder and kissed him fair and square on the
mouth. 'And you, too!' she said to me. I was taller than Andy, and had
to stoop. 'Good-bye!' she said, and ran to the gate and in, waving her
hand to us. We lifted our hats again and turned down the road.

I don't think it did either of us any harm.

A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs.

This is a story--about the only one--of Job Falconer, Boss of the
Talbragar sheep-station up country in New South Wales in the early
Eighties--when there were still runs in the Dingo-Scrubs out of the
hands of the banks, and yet squatters who lived on their stations.

Job would never tell the story himself, at least not complete, and as
his family grew up he would become as angry as it was in his easy-going
nature to become if reference were made to the incident in his presence.
But his wife--little, plump, bright-eyed Gerty Falconer--often told the
story (in the mysterious voice which women use in speaking of private
matters amongst themselves--but with brightening eyes) to women friends
over tea; and always to a new woman friend. And on such occasions she
would be particularly tender towards the unconscious Job, and ruffle his
thin, sandy hair in a way that embarrassed him in company--made him look
as sheepish as an old big-horned ram that has just been shorn and turned
amongst the ewes. And the woman friend on parting would give Job's hand
a squeeze which would surprise him mildly, and look at him as if she
could love him.

According to a theory of mine, Job, to fit the story, should have been
tall, and dark, and stern, or gloomy and quick-tempered. But he wasn't.
He was fairly tall, but he was fresh-complexioned and sa