en let's ride on together."

"No, you ride ahead and fill the water-bag. It'll save time, Miss
Bethune, because I can be cutting off the corner with the mob."

But the mob had first to be rounded up, for it had split and scattered,
and over a square mile every inch of shade was covered by a crouching
fleece. The mounted Ives made a circuit with his patent yelp, and each
tuft and bush shook out its pure merino. It was harder work to head them
off the fence at an angle of forty-five, and to aim for the other fence
before a post of it was discernible by near-sighted eyes. Ives was too
busy to follow Moya's excursion, but was not less delighted than amazed
at the speed with which she returned from the hut.

"Good riding, Miss Bethune! A drink, a drink, my kingdom----"

Moya's face stopped him.

"I'm sorry to say I've got nothing for you to drink, Mr. Ives."

Ives licked the roof of his mouth, but tried to be heroic.

"Well, have you had some yourself?"

"No. I--the fact is I couldn't see the tank."

"Not see the tank! Why, you ought to be able to see it from here; no,
it's on the other side; give me the bag!"

"What for?" asked Moya, more startled than he saw.

"I'll go this time. You stay with the sheep."

"But what's the good of going if the tank has been removed? If I
couldn't see it I'm sure you can't," said Moya bluntly.

"Did you ride right up?"

"Of course I did."

And Moya smiled.

"Well, at all events there's the whim-water. It's rather brackish----"

"Thank you," said Moya, smiling still.

"But I thought you were knocked up with thirst? I am, I can tell you.
And it's only rather salt--that's why we've given up using that
whim--but it's not salt enough to make you dotty!"

Moya maintained the kindly demeanour which she had put on with her
smile; it cost her an effort, however.

"Go on your own account, by all means," said she; "but not on mine, for
I shan't touch a drop. I'm really not so thirsty as you suppose; let me
set you an example of endurance, Mr. Ives!"

That was enough for him. He was spurring and yelping round his mob next
moment. But Moya did not watch him; she had turned in her saddle to take
a last look at the black hieroglyph of a whim, with the little iron roof
blazing beside it in the sun. She even shaded her eyes with one sunburnt
hand, as if to assure herself that she had made no mistake.

"So the whim is abandoned, and the hut unoccupied?"

"Yes, ever since Mr. Rigden