right, father," said the boy, brightening up, and seeming greatly
relieved.

He looked down at the little girl with a smile that I can't describe,
but didn't speak to her. She still stood with quivering chin and mouth
and great brimming eyes upturned, full of such pity as I never saw
before in a child-face--pity for him.

"You can get ashore now," said Mitchell; "see, they've got the gangway
out aft."

Presently I saw Mitchell with the portmanteau in his hand, and the baby
on his arm, steering them away to a quiet corner of the shed at the top
of the wharf. The digger had the little girl in his arms, and both hers
were round his neck, and her face hidden on his shoulder.

When Mitchell came back, he leant on the rail for a while by my side, as
if it was a boundary fence out back, and there was no hurry to break up
camp and make a start.

"What did you follow him below that time for, Mitchell?" I asked
presently, for want of something better to say.

Mitchell looked at me out of the corners of his eyes.

"I wanted to score a drink!" he said. "I thought he wanted one and
wouldn't like to be a Jimmy Woodser."

Seeing the Last of You

"When you're going away by boat," said Mitchell, "you ought to say
good-bye to the women at home, and to the chaps at the last pub. I hate
waiting on the wharf or up on deck when the boat's behind time. There's
no sense in it, and a lot of unnecessary misery. Your friends wait on
the wharf and you are kept at the rail to the bitter end, just when they
and you most want a spell. And why? Some of them hang out because they
love you, and want to see the last of you; some because they don't like
you to see them going away without seeing the last of you; and you hang
out mostly because it would hurt 'em if you went below and didn't give
them a chance of seeing the last of you all the time--and you curse the
boat and wish to God it would start. And those who love you most--the
women-folk of the family--and who are making all the fuss and breaking
their hearts about having to see the last of you, and least want to do
it--they hang out the longest, and are the most determined to see it.
Where's the sense in it? What's the good of seeing the last of you? How
do women manage to get consolation out of a thing like that?

"But women get consolation out of queer things sometimes," he added
reflectively, "and so do men.

"I remember when I was knocking about the coasts, an old aunt o