r father came up.

"I do think he loves it as much as I do!" she said, patting the pony's
neck.

"He's certainly as keen a pony as I ever saw," Mr. Linton said. "How
are you going to manage without him, Norah?"

Norah looked up, her eyes wide with astonishment.

"Do without BOBS!" she exclaimed. "But I simply couldn't--he's one of
the family." Then her face fell suddenly, and the life died out of her
voice. "Oh--school," she said.

The change was rather pitiful, and Mr. Linton mentally abused himself
for his question.

"He'll always be waiting for you when you come home, dear," he said.
"Plenty of holidays--and think how fit he'll be! We'll have great rides,
Norah."

"I guess I'll want them," she said. Silence fell between them.

The scrub at the backwater was fairly thick, and the cattle had sought
its shade when the noonday sun struck hot. Well fed and sleek, they lay
about under the trees or on the little grassy flats formed by the bends
of the stream. Norah and her father separated, each taking a dog, and
beat through the bush, routing out stragglers as they went. The echoes
of the stock-whips rang along the water. Norah's was only a light whip,
half the length and weight of the one her father carried. It was
beautifully plaited--a special piece of work, out of a special hide;
while the handle was a triumph of the stockman's art. It had been a
gift to Norah from an old boundary rider whose whips were famous, and
she valued it more than most of her possessions, while long practice
and expert tuition had given her no little skill in its use.

She worked through the scrub, keeping her eyes in every direction, for
the cattle were lazy and did not stir readily, and it was easy to miss
a motionless beast hidden behind a clump of dogwood or Christmas
bush--the scrub tree that greets December with its exquisite white
blossoms. When at length she came to the end of her division and drove
her cattle out of the shelter she had quite a respectable little mob to
add to those with which her father was already waiting.

It was only to be a rough muster; rather, a general inspection to see
how the bullocks were doing, for the nearest stockyards were at the
homestead, and Mr. Linton did not desire to drive them far. He managed
to get a rough count along a fence--Norah in the rear, bringing the
bullocks along slowly, so that they strung out under their owner's eye.
Occasionally one would break out and try to race past him