Dave Boone, and departed, waving to Norah
a stout reticule that looked, Wally said, as though it contained
sausages! Only Mary, the housemaid, remained. Mary was a prim soul, and
did not care for race meetings. She had remarked that she would stay at
home and "crocher"!

Mr. Linton and the boys had ridden away after lunch. A valuable bull
had slipped down the side of a steep gully and injured himself, and
bush surgery was required. David Linton was rather notable in this
direction, and he had seen to it that Jim had had a thorough course of
veterinary training in Melbourne. Together they made, the squatter
remarked, a very respectable firm of practitioners! Cecil and Wally
were ready to perform unskilled labour as required, and it was quite
possible that their help might be needed, since no men were available.
So the picnic planned for the afternoon had had to be abandoned, and
Norah was left somewhat desolate, since she could not take part in the
"relief expedition."

"Hard on you, old girl," Jim had said; "but it can't be helped."

"No, of course it can't," Norah replied. She was well trained in the
emergencies of the country, and would probably have been perfectly
cheerful had this particular one only been something that would not
have excluded her. As it was, however, it was certainly disappointing,
and she felt somewhat "at a loose end" as she watched the four ride
off. There seemed nothing for her to do. It was beyond doubt that being
a girl had its drawbacks.

Within, the silence of the house was depressing, and the rooms seemed
much too large. Norah saw to one or two odd jobs, fed some chickens,
talked for a while to Fudge, the parrot, who was a companionable bird,
with a great flow of eloquence on occasions, wrote a couple of
letters--always a laborious proceeding for the maid of the bush--and
finally arrived at the decision that there was nothing to do. In the
kitchen Mary sat and "crochered" placidly at a fearful and wonderful
set of table mats. Norah watched her for a while, with a great scorn
for the gentle art that could produce such monstrosities. Then she
practised for half an hour, and at length, taking a book, sauntered off
to read by the creek.

Meanwhile Mary worked on contentedly, unconscious of outer things,
dreaming, perhaps, such dreams as may come to any one who makes
crocheted table mats of green and yellow. Now and then she rose to
replenish the fire, returning to her needle in the far-