decision.

Andy had come to a conclusion with regard to a selector's
daughter--name, Lizzie Porter--who lived (and slaved) on her father's
selection, near the township corner of the run on which Andy was a
general "hand". He had been in the habit for several years of calling
casually at the selector's house, as he rode to and fro between the
station and the town, to get a drink of water and exchange the time of
day with old Porter and his "missus". The conversation concerned the
drought, and the likelihood or otherwise of their ever going to get
a little rain; or about Porter's cattle, with an occasional enquiry
concerning, or reference to, a stray cow belonging to the selection,
but preferring the run; a little, plump, saucy, white cow, by-the-way,
practically pure white, but referred to by Andy--who had eyes like a
blackfellow--as "old Speckledy". No one else could detect a spot or
speckle on her at a casual glance. Then after a long bovine silence,
which would have been painfully embarrassing in any other society, and
a tilting of his cabbage-tree hat forward, which came of tickling and
scratching the sun-blotched nape of his neck with his little finger,
Andy would slowly say: "Ah, well. I must be gettin'. So-long, Mr.
Porter. So-long, Mrs. Porter." And, if SHE were in evidence--as she
generally was on such occasions--"So-long, Lizzie." And they'd shout:
"So-long, Andy," as he galloped off from the jump. Strange that those
shy, quiet, gentle-voiced bushmen seem the hardest and most reckless
riders.

But of late his horse had been seen hanging up outside Porter's for an
hour or so after sunset. He smoked, talked over the results of the last
drought (if it happened to rain), and the possibilities of the next one,
and played cards with old Porter; who took to winking, automatically, at
his "old woman", and nudging, and jerking his thumb in the direction of
Lizzie when her back was turned, and Andy was scratching the nape of his
neck and staring at the cards.

Lizzie told a lady friend of mine, years afterwards, how Andy popped
the question; told it in her quiet way--you know Lizzie's quiet way
(something of the old, privileged house-cat about her); never a sign in
expression or tone to show whether she herself saw or appreciated the
humour of anything she was telling, no matter how comical it might be.
She had witnessed two tragedies, and had found a dead man in the bush,
and related the incidents as though they were