"Oh, we never go without one in this heat. The boss won't let us. So of course I went and forgot mine. I'm no good in the bush, Miss Bethune!"
"Not even at mustering?" asked sympathetic Moya.
"Why, Miss Bethune, that's the hardest thing of the lot, and it's where I'm least use. It's my sight," said the young fellow ruefully; "I'm as blind as a mole. You ought to be able to see sheep at three miles, but I can't swear to them at three hundred yards."
"That's a drawback," said Moya, looking thoughtfully at the lad.
"It is," sighed he. "Then I haven't a dog, when I do see 'em; altogether it's no sinecure for me, though they do give me the fence; and—and I'm afraid I really ought to be making a start, Miss Bethune."
The outward eye of Moya was still fixed upon him, but what it really saw was herself upon that lonely verandah all day long—waiting for the next nice development—and waiting alone.
"I have excellent eyes," she observed at length.
"To say the least!" cried her cavalier.
"I meant for practical purposes," rejoined Moya, with severity. "I'm sure that I could see sheep at three miles."
"I shouldn't wonder," said he enviously.