marry Tom; but—she's engaged to another chap."
"No! You don't say."
"Yes, she is. She's going to marry the one they call the 'greasy bounder at the Bank.'"
Then they drifted into "gussets" and "placquets," and "the sleeves ain't worn full any more now" was the last I heard as I turned into my tent, tore up the verse I held in my hand, and, lighting my pipe with it, I strolled over to Donald's pub and told him the "chemise" story over again—at which he was just going to roar, but stopped suddenly, and looked through the open door towards the graves of his little ones. Then we heard the "square-faced" and a half-drunken digger from Ebayoolah start singing on the verandah outside:
"She was h-all—me—fancee—pinted 'er."
"Ho! 'hi never shall forgit!"
"Ho—"
I put down the glass.
"So long, Donald."
"So long Chemeeses! Lordy! Lordy! cheemeses! Brings back old times! I ain't seen a chemees since last Herb—"
I didn't hear the last of Donald's sentence. I often wondered whether Mrs. Donald did. I passed her with a "Good-night," afterwards, from the shanty door—for Donald never smiled again that I saw.
