"Well, we mean to give them eggs to sit on to-morrow," was Aileen's response. "I suppose 'Possum knows how to move them—I should have thought it as much as one's life was worth. Do hens bite deep, Tom?"
"I don't know," he said. "But I guess you'll know to-morrow!"
Meanwhile, Miss Maggie (or something) O'Connor, known as 'Possum, had collected her ewes and driven them slowly homeward through a long afternoon, during which they endeavoured unceasingly to return to their lambs, and bleated woe at being denied. It was dusk when the last entered the home paddock, leaping high in the gateway after the idiotic manner of sheep. 'Possum rode slowly down the hill to her home.
As she took the saddle off the old grey horse, her father came up.
"Well?" he said. "Ewes all right?"
"Yes. Travelled jolly badly."
"Sure to. See the Macleods?"
"'M." 'Possum nodded. "Goin' to take the plough over to-morrow."
"That's right. Nice people, aren't they?"
"Yes, they're nice." She moved towards the house, and then stopped. "But, Lor!—who ever let 'em out!" she said.