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.
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