common-place.

It happened one day--after Andy had been coming two or three times a
week for about a year--that she found herself sitting with him on a log
of the woodheap, in the cool of the evening, enjoying the sunset breeze.
Andy's arm had got round her--just as it might have gone round a post he
happened to be leaning against. They hadn't been talking about anything
in particular. Andy said he wouldn't be surprised if they had a
thunderstorm before mornin'--it had been so smotherin' hot all day.

Lizzie said, "Very likely."

Andy smoked a good while, then he said: "Ah, well! It's a weary world."

Lizzie didn't say anything.

By-and-bye Andy said: "Ah, well; it's a lonely world, Lizzie."

"Do you feel lonely, Andy?" asked Lizzie, after a while.

"Yes, Lizzie; I do."

Lizzie let herself settle, a little, against him, without either seeming
to notice it, and after another while she said, softly: "So do I, Andy."

Andy knocked the ashes from his pipe very slowly and deliberately, and
put it away; then he seemed to brighten suddenly, and said briskly:
"Well, Lizzie! Are you satisfied!"

"Yes, Andy; I'm satisfied."

"Quite sure, now?"

"Yes; I'm quite sure, Andy. I'm perfectly satisfied."

"Well, then, Lizzie--it's settled!"

. . . . .

But to-day--a couple of months after the proposal described above--Andy
had trouble on his mind, and the trouble was connected with Lizzie
Porter. He was putting up a two-rail fence along the old log-paddock on
the frontage, and working like a man in trouble, trying to work it off
his mind; and evidently not succeeding--for the last two panels were out
of line. He was ramming a post--Andy rammed honestly, from the bottom of
the hole, not the last few shovelfuls below the surface, as some do. He
was ramming the last layer of clay when a cloud of white dust came along
the road, paused, and drifted or poured off into the scrub, leaving long
Dave Bentley, the horse-breaker, on his last victim.

"'Ello, Andy! Graftin'?"

"I want to speak to you, Dave," said Andy, in a strange voice.

"All--all right!" said Dave, rather puzzled. He got down, wondering what
was up, and hung his horse to the last post but one.

Dave was Andy's opposite in one respect: he jumped to conclusions, as
women do; but, unlike women, he was mostly wrong. He was an old chum and
mate of Andy's who had always liked, admired, and trusted him. But
now, to his helpless surprise, Andy went on