Yes, the night was charming out here—calm, empty and cooled by the ghosts of little breezes, which fluttered an instant on her face and fainted. There was pleasure in believing that she was the only one awake. It was strange to look on this slumbering camp, bearding the wilderness. She might have been a sentry watching that the hungry bush did not devour it in the hours of night. This habit of keeping the night watch had become a custom lately. The hour brought her more profit than any other of the twenty-four. She was not hot and fagged; she spoke the truth to herself; she could trust her judgments. The calm watered her soul as a shower of rain, so that it swelled up, and flowers broke from it. It was wonderful this growth of soul which lately had been her portion, this serenity brought about by losing herself in another. Sitting here, she told herself how thankful she ought to be. Night was very kind, like some nurse who whispers her child into sweet dreams.
This comprehension of life, this sureness of decision, had all grown up in two years. This renouncing of oneself that another might profit was the fountain from which gushed the purest waters at which the spirit could drink. Yet how many drank at that fountain? Instead, they sat at the windows of their houses in the streets of life, and remarked indifferently the pale faces glued to the panes across the way. Unless it happened that someone, sick with the bloodless silence, broke down one of those bolted doors and pushed inside, the faces sat always staring down the street, and the winds of desolation sweeping down the chimney at even, scattered the flames upon the hearth, and starved the watchers at their seats.
A good love was a wonderful thing, like the fire of the refiner, burning away the dross and leaving the pure metal. She had found it a philosopher's stone, making life golden, giving her humour to laugh when her father was tiresome, leaving her proof against the little annoyances of the day. And better than that. No shortcomings in the man she loved caused her misgiving now. He was easy to anger; a little selfish sometimes; he was thoughtless often. But love had brought understanding of him, and understanding meant forgiveness. She blessed him as she thought of him on his way across the plain, rejoicing that she might serve him, thankful to him for the growth of spirit he had caused in her.
The little breezes sighed, fanned her a moment and passed on, a few leaves turned on the trees; but she sat wrapped in the serenity of her contemplation.
CHAPTER IV Kaloona Run
Power was abroad again before sunrise. Daylight moved over the country, and he bathed, dressed, and pulled on his boots while butcher birds called, and small finches bobbed and twittered in the bushes. As he made an end of his task, the sun rose with menacing countenance. He went outside, looked which way the breeze was, and next walked down the track to the stable. He stopped at the door, threw it open, and cried out loud, "Scandalous Jack! Hullo there!"
At the back of the stable sounded a shuffling, and a small man, with bristling beard and chipped yellow teeth set in a weather-worn face, came out of the shadow, broom in hand. He stood in front of Power, and put his hands together on top of the broom handle, spat carefully, wiped his hairy mouth and shouted—"Marnin', Guv'nor. You're late."