A few children loitered past to the little school-house, staring
at her as though she were some animal.
She was in a hurry to get away--English people always are--but
in the bright lexicon of the bush there is no such word as hurry.
Tracey, the blacksmith, had not by any means finished shoeing the
coach-horse yet. So Mrs. Connellan made an attempt to find out who
she was, and why she was going to Kuryong.
"You'll have a nice trip in the coach," she said. "Lier (lawyer)
Blake's going down. He's a nice feller."
"Yes?"
"Father Kelly, too. He's good company."
"Yes?"
"Are you staying long at Kuryong?"
"Some time, I expect."
"Are you going to teach the children?"
"No, I'm going to live there. My father owns Kuryong. My father is
Mr. Grant."
Mrs. Connellan was simply staggered at this colossal treasure-trove,
this majestic piece of gossip that had fallen on her like rain from
Heaven. Mr. Grant's daughter! Going out to Kuryong! What a piece
of news! Hardly knowing what she did, she shuffled out of the
room, and interrupted the singing waitress who was wiping plates,
and had just got back to "It's a vilet" when Mrs. Connellan burst
in on her.
"Maggie! Maggie! Do you know who that is? Grant's daughter! The one
that used to be in England. She must be going to Kuryong to live,
with all that luggage.
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