‘Now, the old woman helped us, without wanting to, for she says, “Carry, you’re looking like a washed-out print frock; do, for gracious sake, go to bed, and sleep away your headache. She’s not been well lately, Mr. Windsor, and she’s flustered like at seeing strangers, not but what you’ve behaved most gentlemanly.” ‘“I’m afraid she’s thinkin‘about her wedding-dress or her veil, or something,” says I. “I wish I could stay and see how she looks to-morrow, but I can’t, and business is business.” ‘Poor Carry was off before this, with just “Good-night all,” which made Homminey look rather glum. I ordered another round, saying I must be off; but when it was drunk and paid for, I stayed half an hour before I shook hands, most hearty, and walked out. ‘The moment I turned the corner of the garden-fence I started off, and ran that mile up to the cross-roads as if all the blacks on Cooper’s Creek was after me. Just as I got to the trap I overtook a woman, with a large bundle, labouring along. It never could be—yes _it was_—Carry! ‘I first kissed her and then scolded her. “Never a woman born,” I said, “that could do without a bundle. Why didn’t you leave all that rubbish? ain’t you good enough for me as you are?” ‘“Oh, John,” says she, “would you have me come to you in my—in my one frock? Nonsense! every woman must have a little dress.” ‘“Suppose you had been caught?” ‘“But I’m not caught, except by a bushranger, or some wild character,” says she, smiling for the first time. “I’m afraid poor Harry will not enjoy his dinner to-morrow.” ‘“Hang him and his dinner!” said I. “He’s all dinner. I’ve half a mind to go back and murder him now.” ‘But instead of that, we made haste for Appin, after giving the boy a pound. And, to make a long story short, were married there _that day_, for it was past twelve o’clock. And Carry’s there with my old mother now, and very proud she is of her.’ ‘I see, John,’ said Mr. Neuchamp, ‘that you have carried out one enterprise with your usual success. The other one I want you for, now, is to start at once for Rainbar, and to take delivery of Mildool run and stock, which I bought last week. They agree to muster in six weeks. And you can tell Carry—Mrs. Windsor, I beg her pardon—that she is the overseer’s wife at Mildool. I have decided to give you the management of that run, and I look for wonderful profits from it all this season.’ ‘And you’ll get ’em, sir,’ said Mr. Windsor, ‘if there’s any faith in a fust chop season, and right-down hard work. God Almighty’s given us the fust, and if Jake Windsor don’t find the second, he wishes his right arm may rot off to the shoulder.’