"Say," said Hornby, pausing in his walk, "I want to tell you: your brother behaved like a perfect brick. I sent him your letter and told him I was up against it—d'you know I hadn't a bob? I was jolly glad to earn half a dollar digging a pit in a man's garden. Bit thick, you know!"
"I can see you," laughed Nora.
"Your brother sent me the fare to come on here and told me I could do the chores. I didn't know what they were. I soon found it was doing all the jobs it wasn't anybody else's job to do. And they call it God's own country!"
"I think you're falling into the ways of the country very well, however!" retorted Nora as she struggled across to the table with the heavy ironing-board.
"Do you? What makes you think that?"
"You can stand there and smoke your pipe and watch me carry the ironing-board about."
"I beg your pardon. Did you want me to help you?"
"Never mind. It would remind me of home."
"I suppose I shall have to stick it out at least a year, unless I can humbug the mater into sending me enough money to get back home with."
"She won't send you a penny—if she's wise."