periodicals, back numbers half a year old. And often on reading of the happenings to people or friends known to him far over the sea, he would put the paper down and lose himself in meditation, until mother, perhaps, would seek him out with a sheaf of closely written and cross-written letters in her hand to communicate their contents to him. She, too, was English and educated; and in her heart, even more than any other, she showed a tendency to fret for old associations and friends, and to weary of the isolation and loneliness that the new life on Runnibede brought to her.
“And are we always going to remain here in this Australian bush, Edward?" she would sigh as she folded the letters again and gazed out at the belts of brigalow on the distant landscape.
“Not on your life, my dear,” the Governor would assure her. "Cattle will become gold mines here directly — most of them are animated nuggets now. And in a year or two, we'll be able to spare a thousand or so on a trip back to London to see them all again,"
"I hope so, Edward."
"There’s no need to 'hope,' Dorrie, my dear — it’s as sure as night follows day and day follows night — which seems something of a paradox.”
"In any case, Edward," she would remind him in her soft, appealing way, "the boys and Dorothy will be sent home to be properly educated when they are old enough, won't they?" (The "boys were Ted, ten years; myself, twelve; and Dorothy, eight.)
"My good woman," and the Governor would pat
