g along the Damascus road and had seen
a great light.

And so, for two years, they lived on at Castle Lashcairn; for long days
sometimes Louis went off to Cook's Wall, and she despaired. Most of the
time she hoped blindly. Much of the time they were incredibly happy in
small things. Some slight measure of prosperity came to Loose End. The
uncle who used to send the gramophone records retired from business and,
buying himself an annuity, divided his money between his few relatives
so that he could see what they did with it before he died. Quite a
respectable flock of sheep came to take the place of those drowned in
the flood and burnt in the fire; a horse and buggy went to and fro
between Loose End and the station; Scottie the collie got busy and two
shepherds came, building another hut at the other side of the run. A
plague of rabbits showed Mr. Twist the folly of putting off the
construction of rabbit-proof fencing any longer, now that he could
afford it, and the gorse was once more left uncleared for months in the
pressure of new things. Neighbours came, too--the deposit of manganese
at Cook's Wall was found cropping up on the extreme borders of Gaynor's
run, and a tiny mining township called Klondyke settled itself round the
excavations five miles from the Homestead. Marcella made friends with
everyone, to Louis's amazement. To him friendliness was only possible
when whisky had taken away his self-consciousness; the parties of
miscellaneous folks who turned up on Sundays, bringing their own food,
as is the way in the Bush where the nearest store is often fifty miles
away, worried him at first. He stammered and was awkward and ungracious
with them, but Marcella, dimly realizing that it must be bad for him to
be drawn in so much upon their _egoisme a deux_, tried to make him more
sociable. When he forgot himself and was effortlessly hospitable, he was
charming. When he felt shy and frightened, and was fighting one of his
rhythmical fits of desire, he was difficult and rude.

Aunt Janet wrote every month: her letters varied little; they were
cynical though kindly; especially was she cynical about Louis, for,
though Marcella told her nothing about him, she guessed much from the
girl's description of their life. She was very cynical about Marcella's
breathless descriptions of her happiness: she was frankly despondent
about young Andrew, who, as yet, showed no signs of fulfilling her
gloomy predictions.

Dr. Angus wrote