The old woman straightened herself as they drove up.
"Good daah to you, Misther Gordon," she said. "Good daah to you,
Miss."
"Good day, Mrs. Doyle," said Hugh. "Hard work that, this weather.
How's all the family?"
"Mag--Marg'rut, I mane--she's inside. That's her playin' the pianny.
She just got it up from Sydney."
"And where's Peter?"
"Peter's shearin' the sheep. He's in that shed there beyant. He's
the only shearer we have, so we tell him he's the ringer of the
shed. He works terr'ble hard, does Peter. He's not--" and the old
woman dropped her voice--"he's not all there in the head, is Peter,
you know."
"And where's Mick?"
"Mick, bad scran to him! He's bought a jumpin' haarse (horse),
and he's gone to hell leppin! Down at one of the shows he is, some
place. He has too much sense to work, has Mick. Won't you come in
and have a cup of tay?"
"No, we must get on, thank you," and Hugh and Mary drove off, watched
by the old lady and the lanky-legged, shock-headed youth--Peter
himself--who came to the door of the big shed to stare at them.
As they drove off Hugh was silent, wondering what effect the sight
of the selectors might have had on Miss Grant.
She seemed to read his thoughts, and after a little while she spoke.
"So those are Mr. Blake's poor relations, are they? Well, that
is not his fault. My father was poor once, just as poor as those
people are. And Mr. Blake saved my life."
Hugh felt that she was half-consciously putting him in the wrong
for having more or less disapproved of Mr. Blake; so he kept silence.
As the team bore them along at a flying trot, they climbed higher
and higher up the range; at last, as they rounded a shoulder of
the hillside, the whole valley of Kiley's River lay beneath them,
stretching away to the far blue foothills. Beyond again was a great
mountain, its top streaked with snow. At their feet was a gorgeous
scheme of colour, greens and greys of the grass, bright tints of
willow and poplar, and the speckled forms of the cattle, so far
down that they looked like pigmy stock feeding in fairy paddocks.
Across the valley there came now and again, softened by distance,
the song of the river; and up in the river-bend, on a spur of the
hills, were white walls rising from clustered greenery.
"How beautiful!" said the girl, half standing up in the waggonette,
"and is that--"
"That's Kuryong, Miss Grant. Your home station."