at home, and it was pleasant to think
we wouldn't be hunted for a bit and might ride about the old place and
enjoy ourselves a bit. Aileen was as happy as the day was long, and poor
mother used to lay her head on Jim's neck and cry for joy to have him
with her. Even father used to sit in the front, under the quinces, and
smoke his pipe, with old Crib at his feet, most as if he thought he was
happy. I wonder if he ever looked back to the days when he was a farmin'
boy and hadn't took to poaching? He must have been a smart, handy kind
of lad, and what a different look his face must have had then!

We had our own horses in pretty good trim, so we foraged up Aileen's
mare, and made it up to ride over to George Storefield's, and gave him a
look-up. He'd been away when we came, and now we heard he was home.

'George has been doing well all this time, of course,' I said. 'I expect
he'll turn squatter some day and be made a magistrate.'

'Like enough,' says Jim. 'More than one we could pick began lower down
than him, and sits on the Bench and gives coves like us a turn when
we're brought up before 'em. Fancy old George sayin', "Is anything
known, constable, of this prisoner's anterseedents?" as I heard old
Higgler say one day at Bargo.'

'Why do you make fun of these things, Jim, dear?' says Aileen, looking
so solemn and mournful like. 'Oughtn't a steady worker to rise in
life, and isn't it sad to see cleverer men and better workers--if they
liked--kept down by their own fault?'

'Why wasn't your roan mare born black or chestnut?' says Jim, laughing,
and pretending to touch her up. 'Come along, and let's see if she can
trot as well as she used to do?'

'Poor Lowan,' says she, patting the mare's smooth neck (she was a
wonderful neat, well-bred, dark roan, with black points--one of dad's,
perhaps, that he'd brought her home one time he was in special good
humour about something. Where she was bred or how, nobody ever knew);
'she was born pretty and good. How little trouble her life gives her.
It's a pity we can't all say as much, or have as little on our minds.'

'Whose fault's that?' says Jim. 'The dingo must live as well as the
collie or the sheep either. One's been made just the same as the other.
I've often watched a dingo turn round twice, and then pitch himself
down in the long grass like as if he was dead. He's not a bad sort, old
dingo, and has a good time of it as long as it lasts.'

'Yes, till he's trapped or sh