ort-handed. I'm
goin' on to knock them up at Bimbalong."

"Hold hard," I replied. "We haven't a man on the place, only Joe
Slocombe, and I heard him say he would ride down the river and see what
the smoke was about; so he will be there. Mr Hawden and the others have
gone out for the day. You go back to the fire at once; I'll rouse them up
at Birribalong."

"Right you are, miss. Here's a couple of letters. My old moke
flung a shoe and went dead lame at Dogtrap; an' wile I was saddlun another,
Mrs Butler stuffed 'em in me pocket."

He tossed them over the fence, and, wheeling his mount, galloped the way
he had come. The letters fell, address upwards, on the ground--one to
myself and one to grannie, both in my mother's handwriting. I left them
where they lay. The main substance of mother's letters to me was a hope
that I was a better girl to my grannie than I had been to her--a sentiment
which did not interest me.

"Where are you off to?" inquired grannie, as I rushed through the house.

I explained.

"What horse are you going to take?"

"Old Tadpole. He's the only one available."

"Well, you be careful and don't push him too quickly up that pinch by
Flea Creek, or he might drop dead with you. He's so fat and old."

"All right," I replied, snatching a bridle and running up the orchard,
where old Tadpole had been left in case of emergency. I clapped a
side-saddle on his back, a hat on my head, jumped on just as I was, and
galloped for my life in the direction of Bimbalong, seven miles distant.
I eased my horse a little going up Flea Creek pinch, but with this delay
reached my destination in half an hour, and sent the men galloping in the
direction of the fire. I lingered for afternoon tea, and returned at my
leisure.

It was sundown when I got in sight of Caddagat. Knowing the men would not
be home for some time, I rode across the paddock to yard the cows. I
drove them home and penned the calves, unsaddled my horse and returned
him to the orchard, then stood upon the hillside and enjoyed the scene.
It had been a fearfully hot day, with a blasting, drought-breathed wind;
but the wind had dropped to sleep with the sunlight, and now the air had
cooled. Blue smoke wreathed hill and hollow like a beauteous veil. I had
traversed drought-baked land that afternoon, but in the immediate
vicinity of Caddagat house there was no evidence of an unkind season.
Irrigation had draped the place with beauty, and I stood ankle-dee