n rouseabouts----"

"I'm afraid it's Greek to me," interrupted Moya dryly; but she wished it
was not.

"--and no swearing allowed in the shed; half-a-crown fine each time;
that very old ruffian who gave us tea just now said it was a _lapsus
lingua_ when I fined _him_! You never know what they've been, not even
the roughest of them. But to come back to the shed: no smoking except at
given times when they all knock off for quarter-of-an-hour, and the
cook's boy comes down the board with pannikins of tea and shearers'
buns. Oh, they take good care of themselves, these chaps, I can tell
you; give their cook half-a-crown a week per head, and see he earns it.
Then there's a couple of wool-pressers, a wool-sorter from Geelong, Ives
branding the bales, Spicer seeing the drays loaded and keeping general
tally, and the boss of the shed with his eye on everything and
everybody. Oh, yes, a great sight for you--your first shearing!"

Moya shook her head without speaking, but Rigden was silenced at last.
He had rattled on and on with the hope of reawakening her enthusiasm
first, then her sympathy, then--but no! He could not keep it up unaided;
he must have some encouragement, and she gave him none. He relapsed into
silence, but presently proposed a canter. And this brought Moya to her
point at last.

"Cantering won't help us," she cried; "do let's be frank! It's partly my
fault for beating about the bush; it set you off talking against time,
and you know it. But we aren't anywhere near the station yet, and
there's one thing you _are_ going to tell me before we get there. Why
did you move those sheep?"

Rigden was taken aback.

"You heard me tell that rabbiter," he replied at length.

"But not the truth," said Moya bluntly. "You know you don't usually
have these musters at a moment's notice; you know there was no
occasion for one to-day. Do let us have the truth in this one
instance--that--that I may think a little better of you, Pelham!"

It was the first time that she had called him by any name since the very
beginning of their quarrel. And her voice had softened. And for one
instant her hand stretched across and lay upon his arm.

"Very well!" he said brusquely. "It was to cover up some tracks."

"Thank you," said Moya; and her tone surprised him, it was so free from
irony, so earnest, so convincing in its simple sincerity.

"Why do you thank me?" he asked suspiciously.

"I like to be trusted," she said. "And I like t