of life, the wildness of bush-bred boys, that inspired them with
their irreverent impishness, although the brethren professed to discover
evidence of the direct influence of a personal devil.

The superintendent arose from his stool of office and shuffled to the
edge of the small platform, rattling his hymn-book for order. Ephraim
never raised his head even in chapel, but his cold, dull eyes, under
their scrub of overhanging brow, missed nothing that was going on, as the
younger boys often discovered to their cost.

'Dearly beloved brethren, we will open this morn-in's service with that
beautiful hymn--'

Brother Shine stopped short. A powerful diversion had been created by the
entrance of a young man. The new-corner was dressed like a drover,
wearing a black coat over his loose blue shirt, and he carried in his
right hand a coiled stockwhip. His face had the grey tinge of wrath, and
his lips were set firm on a grim determination. He walked to a form well
up in front, and seated himself, placing his big felt hat on the floor,
but retaining his grip on the whip hanging between his knees.

Jacker Mack kicked Dick excitedly. 'Harry Hardy!' he said.

Dick nodded but did not speak; he was staring with all his eyes, as was
every man, woman, and child in the congregation. Harry Hardy had not
fulfilled expectations; he had been home five days, and had done nothing
to avenge his brother. He moved about amongst the men, but was reserved
and grew every day more sullen. He had heard much and had answered
nothing; and now here he was at chapel and evidently bent on mischief,
for the stockwhip was ominous. Ephraim Shine had noticed it and retreated
a step or two, and stood for quite a minute, turning his boot this way
and that, but with his eyes on Harry all the time. Now he cleared his
throat, and called the number of the hymn. He read the first verse and
the chorus with his customary unction, and, all having risen, started the
singing in a raspy, high-pitched voice.

Harry Hardy stood with the rest, a solitary figure in the centre of the
chapel, still holding the long whip firmly grasped in his right hand.
Attention was riveted on him, and the singing of the hymn was a dismal
failure. The young man stared straight before him, seeing only one
figure, that of Ephraim Shine, until he felt a light touch on his arm.
Someone was standing at his side, offering him the half of her hymn-book.
Harry raised his hand to the leaves mechan