during the
night; even the best bits of the road were worked into deep, glutinous
ruts, and the low-lying parts were under water. Mahony, but a fairish
hand with the reins, was repeatedly obliged to leave the track and take
to the bush, where he steered a way as best he could through trees,
stumps, boulders and crab-holes. Sometimes he rose to his feet to
encourage the horse; or he alighted and pulled it by the bridle; or put
a shoulder to the wheel. But to-day no difficulties had power to daunt
him; and the farther he advanced the lighter-hearted he grew: he went
back to Ballarat feeling, for the first time, that he was actually
going home.

And Polly? Sitting motionless at her husband's side, her hands folded
on her black silk lap, Polly obediently turned her head this way and
that, when Richard pointed out a landmark to her, or called her
attention to the flowers. At first, things were new and arresting, but
the novelty soon wore off; and as they went on and on, and still on, it
began to seem to Polly, who had never been farther afield than a couple
of miles north of the "Pivot City," as if they were driving away from
all the rest of mankind, right into the very heart of nowhere. The road
grew rougher, too--became scored with ridges and furrows which threw
them violently from side to side. Unused to bush driving, Polly was
sure at each fresh jolt that this time the cart MUST tip over; and yet
she preferred the track and its dangers to Richard's adventurous
attempts to carve a passage through the scrub. A little later a cold
south wind sprang up, which struck through her thin silk mantle; she
was very tired, having been on her feet since five o'clock that
morning; and all the happy fuss and excitement of the wedding was
behind her. Her heart sank. She loved Richard dearly; if he had asked
her, she would have gone to the ends of the earth with him; but at this
moment she felt both small and lonely, and she would have liked nothing
better than Mrs. Beamish's big motherly bosom, on which to lay her
head. And when, in passing a swamp, a well-known noise broke on her
ear--that of hundreds of bell-frogs, which were like hundreds of
hissing tea-kettles just about to boil--then such a rush of
homesickness took her that she would have given all she had, to know
she was going back, once more, to the familiar little whitewashed room
she had shared with Tilly and Jinny.

The seat of the cart was slanting and slippery. Polly wa