with the Sydney cut. My riding clothes were evidently a
source of much wonderment and admiration to the yokels. Unfortunately
they have become badly stained with some confounded raspberry juice,
and though I left them out for Mrs. Brown to clean, she has not done so
yet.

"Well, there is no news to be got in a place like this; we never go
out, except on the run, and there seems absolutely no society. The
local doctor came out yesterday, in a prehistoric motor, but I found
him very uninteresting. Of course, one has no ideas in common with
these Bush people. Where the 'Charm of the Bush' comes in is more than
I can see--I much prefer Town on a Saturday morning to all Billabong and
its bullocks. They wanted me to go out one night and--fancy!--help burn
down dead trees; but, really, I jibbed on that. There is no billiard
room. Uncle David intends building one when Jim comes home for good,
but that certainly won't be in my time here. I fancy a very few weeks
will see me back in town.

"No bridge played here, of course! Have you had any luck that way?

"Your affectionate son,

"CECIL AUBREY LINTON."

Cecil blotted the final sheet of his letter home, and sat back with a
sigh of satisfaction, as one who feels his duty nobly done. He stamped
it, strolled across the hall to deposit it in the post box which stood
on the great oak table, and then looked round for something to do.

It was afternoon, and all was very quiet. Mr. Linton had ridden off
with a buyer to inspect cattle, Norah ruefully declining to accompany
him.

"I'm awfully sorry, Dad," she had said, "But I'm too busy."

"Busy, are you? What at?"

"Oh, cooking and things," Norah had answered. "Brownie's not very well,
and I said I'd help her--there's a lot to do just now, you know." She
stood on tiptoe to kiss her father. "Good-bye, Dad--don't be too long,
will you? And take care of yourself!"

Cecil also had declined to go out, giving "letters to write" as a
reason. The truth was that several rides had told on the town youth,
whose seat in the saddle was not easy enough to prevent his becoming
stiff and sore. Bush people are used to this peculiarity in city
visitors, and, while regarding the sufferers with sympathy, generally
prescribe a "hair of the dog that bit them"--more riding--as the quickest
cure; which Cecil would certainly have thought hard-hearted in the
extreme. However, nothing would have induced him to say that he had
felt the riding, since C