"If they are bushrangers, they will meet with a still warmer reception," said the shepherd grimly. "And now, daughter, hurry up supper, for I have a very fair appetite myself."
Lucy moved about quietly but actively in obedience to her father's directions. An hour later, or perhaps less, the table was spread once more, and all got up to it. The boys, though the edge of their appetite was taken away, managed to eat the vegetables with a relish, not having had a chance to eat any for a considerable time, except at their hotel in Melbourne.
After supper they sat down beside the fire and talked. Living so much alone, the shepherd and his daughter were anxious to hear all that the boys could tell them of the great world from which they lived aloof. Later in the evening, the shepherd, whose name, by the way, was Andrew Campbell, said, "Now, let us have a little music. Lucy, bring me the bagpipe."
His daughter went into an adjoining room, and brought out a Highland bagpipe, which Campbell received, and straightway began to play upon it some characteristic Scotch tunes. It was loud and harsh, but the boys enjoyed it for want of better.
"Don't you sing, Miss Lucy?" asked Harry, when her father laid down the instrument.
"No," answered the girl, smiling. "I wish I did. Father is very fond of singing."
"Aye, am I; Lucy's mother sang, but the gift has not descended to her."
"Harry is a professional singer," said Jack. "He sings in public."
"Please sing something, then," pleaded Lucy.
"If you really wish it," answered Harry.