Andy knocked the ashes from his pipe very slowly and deliberately, and put it away; then he seemed to brighten suddenly, and said briskly: “Well, Lizzie! Are you satisfied!”
“Yes, Andy; I'm satisfied.”
“Quite sure, now?”
“Yes; I'm quite sure, Andy. I'm perfectly satisfied.”
“Well, then, Lizzie—it's settled!”
. . . . .
But to-day—a couple of months after the proposal described above—Andy had trouble on his mind, and the trouble was connected with Lizzie Porter. He was putting up a two-rail fence along the old log-paddock on the frontage, and working like a man in trouble, trying to work it off his mind; and evidently not succeeding—for the last two panels were out of line. He was ramming a post—Andy rammed honestly, from the bottom of the hole, not the last few shovelfuls below the surface, as some do. He was ramming the last layer of clay when a cloud of white dust came along the road, paused, and drifted or poured off into the scrub, leaving long Dave Bentley, the horse-breaker, on his last victim.
“'Ello, Andy! Graftin'?”
“I want to speak to you, Dave,” said Andy, in a strange voice.
“All—all right!” said Dave, rather puzzled. He got down, wondering what was up, and hung his horse to the last post but one.