"Oh, people just shook their heads, and said something about an old story, and the mutiny, and that a great many ladies were killed in that messhouse one night—and the servants have heaps of tales."
"I don't want to hear their tales, and I wish you would not listen to them," he said sharply.
"Why?" with a look of bewildered injury, "how can I help it, when they are talking all round me? The ayah's sister and her niece come in, and bring a huka and sit on the floor of the nursery and gossip when mother is out, and I can't sleep; they talk, ever so much, all the station gup, oh, such stories. Why are you so solemn, cousin Phil?" she asked suddenly, gazing up at his face in the moonlight; "why are you so grave; what are you thinking about?"
"Then I will tell you, Angel; I am thinking about you—it is full time you were at home."
"So I am at home. Here we are—the gate is open. Oh, what a shy!" as Sally executed a deep curtsey to a long black shadow.
"I mean England," giving Sally a flip; "would you not like to go there?"
"No; for I don't want to leave mother. Anyway, she cannot afford to send me to school. She owes such a lot of money; there she is on the verandah watching for us; and oh! I am so sorry this drive is over—thank you a million thousand times."
"I am afraid we are rather late," he called out to Mrs. Wilkinson, "but I've brought her back safe and sound."
"Yes, thank goodness; it is after eight o'clock, and I began to be nervous."
"I'm sorry I am behind time, but it is such a fine moonlight night, and Angel has been telling me stories."