style="font-size:15px;"> "So do I, dear, and your father too."
"Ah! I never knew him myself."
"Tell me about them," she coaxed, holding his sunburnt hand in one of hers, and stroking it with the other. She was not very inquisitive on the subject herself. But she happened to have heard much of it at home, and it was disagreeable not to be in a position to satisfy the curiosity of others. She was scarcely put in that position now.
"They came out in the early days," said Rigden, "both of the colony and of their own married life. Yet already these were numbered, and I was born an orphan. But my dear mother lived to make a man of me: she was the proudest and the poorest little woman in the colony; and in point of fact (if this matters to you) she was not badly connected at home."
Moya said that it didn't matter to her one bit; and was unaware of any insincerity in the denial.
"I don't tell you what her name was," continued Rigden. "I would if you insisted. But I hate the sound of it myself, for they treated her very badly on her marriage, and we never used to mention them from one year's end to another."
Moya pressed his hand, but not the point, though she was sorely tempted to do that too. She had even a sense of irritation at his caring to hide anything from her, but she was quick to see the unworthiness of this sentiment, and quicker to feel a remorse which demanded some sort of expression in order to restore complete self-approval. Yet she would not confess what had been (and still lingered) in her mind. So she fretted about the trifle in your true lover's fashion, and was silent until she hit upon a compromise.
"You know – if only anybody could! – how I would make up to you for all that you have lost, dearest. But nobody can. And I am full of the most diabolical faults – you can't imagine!"
And now she was all sincerity. But Rigden laughed outright.
"Tell me some of them," said he.
Moya hesitated; and did not confess her innate curiosity after all. She was still much too conscious of that blemish.
"I have a horrible temper," she said at length.
"I don't believe it."
"Ask Theodore."
"I certainly shouldn't believe him."
"Then wait and see."
"I will; and when I see it I'll show you what a real temper is like."
"Then – "
"Yes?"
"Well, I suppose I've had more attention than I deserve. So I suppose you might call me unreasonable – exacting – in fact, selfish!"
This was more vital; hence the hesitation on his part.
"When I do," said Rigden, solemnly, "you may send me about my business."
"It may be too late."
"Then we won't meet our troubles half-way," cried the young man, with virile common-sense. "Come! We love each other; that's good enough to go on with. And we've got the station to ourselves; didn't I work it well? So don't let's talk through our necks!"
The bush slang made the girl smile, but excitement had overstrung her finer nerves, and neither tone nor topic could she change at will.
"Shall we always love each other, darling?"
And there was the merest film of moisture upon the lovely eyes that were fixed so frankly upon his own.
"I can only answer for myself," he said, catching her mood. "I shall love you till I die."
"Whatever I do?"
"Even if you give me up."
"That's the one thing I shall never do, dearest."
"God bless you for saying it, Moya. If I knew what I have ever done or can do to deserve you!"
"Don't, dear … you little dream … but you will know me by and by."
"Please Heaven!"
And he leant and kissed her with all his might.
"Meanwhile – let us promise each other – there shall be no clouds between us while I am up here this week!"
"I'll kiss the Book on that."
"No shadows!"
"My dear child, why should there be?"
"There's Theodore – "
"Bother Theodore!"
"And then there are all those faults of mine."
"I don't believe in them. But if I did it would make no difference. It's not your qualities I'm in love with, Moya. It's yourself – so there's an end of it."
And an end there was, for about Rigden there was a crisp decisiveness which had the eventual advantage of a nature only less decided than his own. But it was strange that those should have been the last words.
Still stranger was it, as they sat together in a silence happier than their happiest speech, and as the lowering sun laid long shadows at their feet, that one of these came suddenly between them, and that it was not the shadow of pine-tree or verandah-post, but of a man.
II
INJURY
It was not Theodore, however. It was a man whom Moya was thankful not to have seen before. Nor was the face more familiar to Rigden himself, or less unlovely between the iron-grey bristles that wove a wiry mat from ear to ear, over a small head and massive jaws. For on attracting their attention the man lifted his wideawake, a trick so foreign to the normal bushman that Rigden's eyebrows were up from the beginning; yet he carried his swag as a swag should be carried; the outer blanket was the orthodox "bluey," duly faded; and the long and lazy stride that of the inveterate "sundowner."
"Eureka Station, I believe?" said the fellow, halting.
"That's the name," said Rigden.
"And are you the boss?"
"I am."
"Then Eureka it is!" cried the swagman, relieving himself of his swag, and heartily kicking it as it lay where he let it fall.
"But," said Rigden, smiling, "I didn't say I had any work for you, did I?"
"And I didn't ask for any work."
"Travellers' rations, eh? You'll have to wait till my storekeeper comes in. Go and camp in the travellers' hut."
Instead of a thank-you the man smiled – but only slightly – and shook his iron-grey head – but almost imperceptibly. Moya perceived it, however, and could not imagine why Rigden tolerated a demeanour which had struck her as insolent from the very first. She glanced from one man to the other. The smile broadened on the very unpleasant face of the tramp, making it wholly evil in the lady's eyes. So far from dismissing him, however, Rigden rose.
"Excuse me a few minutes," he said, not only briefly, but without even looking at Moya; and with a word
