he question, and was about to show
off in yet another branch of the bushman's craft which even he had
succeeded in mastering.

"The fences are my watch," said he; "they happen to run due east and
west and north and south on this station. This one is north and south.
So at noon the shadows of the posts lie exactly under the wires: put
your head between 'em, and when the bottom wire bisects the shadow it's
as near noon as you would make it with a quadrant and sextant. The rest
comes by practice. Another dodge is to put a stick plumb in the ground
and watch when the shadow is shortest; that's your meridian."

"Yet you say you are no good in the bush!"

"I have two of the unnecessary qualifications, Miss Bethune, and I've
taken care to let you see them both," laughed the open youth. "My only
other merit as a bushman is a good rule which I am sorry to say I've
broken through talking to you. I always have my lunch at twelve under
the biggest tree in sight. And I think we shall find something in that
pine-ridge within a cooee on the right."

But they could not find shade for two, and Moya voted the pine-tree a
poor parasol; whereupon her companion showed off still further by
squatting under the very girths of his horse, but once more spoilt his
own effect by confessing that they gave him the quietest horse on the
station. So the two of them divided bread and meat and "browny" for one,
of which last Moya expressed approval; but not until she was asked; for
she was not herself during this interval of inaction, or rather she was
herself once more. Care indeed had ridden behind her all the morning;
but now the black imp was back before her troubled eyes, and for the
moment they saw nothing else. But Ives began to see and to wonder what
in the world it could be. She was engaged to one of the best of good
fellows. She took to the bush as to her proper element, and but now had
seemed enchanted with her foretaste of the life. Why then the grim
contour of so sweet a face, the indignant defiance in the brooding eyes?
Ives thought and thought until his youthful egoism assumed the blame,
and shot him from his precarious shelter, all anxiety and remorse.

"What a brute I am! You're simply perishing of thirst!"

Moya coloured, but had the wit to accept his construction.

"Well, it isn't your fault, at any rate, Mr. Ives."

"But I might have ridden on and filled the bag; there's certain to be
something in the tank at the hut."

"Th