'They know as much as some boys who forget to fasten gates, and let the weaners "box" after a day's hard drafting,' returned Mr. Bayard with mildly reproachful emphasis. Here Mr. Jack subsided, while a certain tremulous movement of the lip showed the effect of the reminder.

'Never mind, poor old man! he'll remember next time. I'm sure he was as sorry as any one,' said the tender mother, giving a squeeze to the boy's hand. 'And now, breakfast is quite ready. You had better sit here, Mr. Tressider, and you can tell me how they all were at Rimandah, and who won the tennis match.'

'By the way,' said the Master, seating himself in a contemplative way before a noble round of beef, 'there is an English newspaper and a letter for you in the smoking-room; came yesterday. We were so busy yarning over the fire last night that I forgot to tell you.'

'They'll keep till after breakfast,' said Hugh calmly. 'There isn't a soul out of Australia that I care two straws about. I suppose some one has sent me a Times with nothing in it that can possibly concern me. Thanks; I will take some chicken-pie. I can fall back upon corned beef on the road, though one never seems to tire of it.'

'How are they all on the Allyn?' said Mr. Bayard. 'Have you heard from home lately?'

'Oh, doing quite splendidly,' said the young man, his face lighting up with an expression of tenderness which transfigured the weather-beaten features and imparted a pathetic lustre to his dark-grey eyes. 'Elinor was improving in her drawing—going to be quite an artist. Fairy was taking lessons in singing; she always had a wonderful voice. Bob was head of his class at school, and was safe for a scholarship if he kept up the pace. Mother was stronger than she had been for years. I shall get back there at Christmas time if I've luck on this journey, and we're going to be no end jolly. The Armordens are coming over from Braidwood, and we shall be as happy as kings—much happier, indeed, by late accounts.'

'I'm sure you deserve it,' said Mrs. Bayard half-unconsciously to herself. 'But what a terrible day you must have had of it yesterday. It never ceased raining here. It is perishing weather even now. However you can endure your life in such a season as this, astonishes me.'

'We get used to it, Mrs. Bayard, like the eels, you know. Somebody must do it, or who would buy the Barallan cattle, and get them to market?'

'Yes, I see; but I can't bear to think of nice people—of one's friends, you know—sitting in the saddle through these long, dismal, bitter nights, or watching by fires in the forest, like demons or ghosts.'

'That's the pleasantest part of it, I assure you. When the virtuous drover has eaten his supper, made up his fire, and lighted his pipe, he feels—well, nearly as comfortable as Mr. Bayard here when he has locked up the house and put out the lamp for the night. It doesn't always rain, either.'