r or two, and see something of
the world, under the care of her mother's people, but she steadfastly
refused to leave him.

"It would be simply horrible for me, father. I could not stand it for
even a month. I am very, very happy here with you, and only wish I had
more to do."

"You have quite enough I think, little woman--keeping house for me,
milking and dairy work, and making bread for seven hungry men."

"I like it. And then I am the only woman about here now that Mrs Tallis
has gone, and I feel more important than ever. But I _do_ wish I were a
man, and could help you more than I do."

Between father and daughter there had ever been the greatest love and
confidence, and their existence, though often monotonous, was a happy
one. To her father's miners, "Miss Kate" was a fairy goddess, and
consternation reigned among them when one day a passing Jewish hawker
told them that it was rumoured that Parson Forde was "a stickin' up ter
Miss Fraser, and the match was as good as made."

The men had bought a couple of bottles of whisky from the hawker when
this portentous announcement was made, and little "Cockney Smith" the
youngest man of the party, who was just about to drink off the first
grog he had tasted since his semi-annual spree at Boorala, set it down
untouched.

"I thought the bloomin' Holy Joe was a comin' 'ere pretty frequent,"
he said, "but didn't think he was after Miss Kate. Well, all I can say
is,"--he raised his glass--"that suthin'll 'appin to 'im. I 'ope 'e may
be bloomin' well drownded when 'e's crossin' a creek."

"Shut up, Cockney," growled Sam Young, an old grey-haired miner, "it's
only a Boorala yarn, and Boorala is as full of liars as the bottomless
pit is full of wood and coal merchants. And it doesn't become you to
call the parson a Holy Joe. Maybe you've forgottten that when you
busted your last cheque at Hooley's pub in Boorala, and had the dilly
trimmings, that it was the parson who brought you back here, you boozy
little swine. Didn't he, boys?"

"You bet he did," was the unanimous response.

"And come here and give you four good nips a day outer his own flask
until you was rid of the green dogs with red eyes, and flamin' fiery
tails that you was screechin' about," went on Sam, relentlessly. "If
she's going to hitch up with the parson it can't be helped. Anyways
he's the right sort of a sky pilot; a white man all over, and can shoe a
horse, and do a bit of bullocking{*} as well as he