The tears came to his voice again at the sight of Miss Browne, sitting with her thimble on, looking helplessly at Bartie.
'Oh dear,' he said, 'isn't there never going to be any tea?'
'You poor little fellow!' she said. 'Just one minute more, Roly dear. You can be sitting down.'
Hermie had gone flying across the ground to a place in the eighty acres where the ground dipped into a little valley. It was all fenced round with wire, to keep off the fowls and sheep. Within there grew roses in such beauty and profusion as to astonish one. She saw a very old cabbage-tree hat bending over a bush, and darted towards it.
'Dad,' she said, 'dad darling, come along in; the mail has come.'
There rose up a man, grey as his own selection, a man not more than five-and-forty. Eyes blue as Hermie's own looked from under his grey eyebrows, a grey beard covered his mouth.
'The mail, did you say, little woman?' he said, and stopped to prune just one more shoot here, and snip off just one more drooping blossom.
'And tea, too, darling; at least I suppose it will be ready some day. Come along, you are very tired, daddie. Why did you start ploughing a day like this?'
The man sighed.
'It had to be done, girlie; but see, I gave myself a reward. I have been down here an hour. Now let us go and read our letters.'