On her way on foot from the horse-yard to the schoolroom Millicent stood on her shadow to listen to the song. The governess sang very seldom; she liked better to play accompaniments for the young men, though she had a charming, trained voice of her own. Millicent had never heard her use it, as she was doing now, without a known soul within earshot save the Chinaman in the kitchen. The heat of the sand struck through the young girl's boots. Yet still she stood, her head bent, and at last caught a few of the words: "... in the lime-tree, The wind is floating through: And oh! the night, my darling, is sighing-- Sighing for you, for you." A verse was finished. Millicent crept nearer. She had never heard such tender singing. Three or four simple bars and it began again: "O think not I can forget you; I could not though I would; I see you in all around me, The stream, the night, the wood; The flowers that slumber so gently, The stars above the blue. Oh! heaven itself, my darling, is praying-- Praying for you, for you." The voice sank very low, its pathos was infinite, yet the listener heard every word. There were no more. Millicent dried her eyes, and went tripping over her habit through the open schoolroom door. There sat the governess, with wrung face and grey eyes all intensity. "My dear, it was divine!" "You heard! I'm sorry." "But why?" "I never sing that song." "Why, again?" The fixed eyes fell. "It was--his favourite.... The music is better than the words, I think; don't you? But then the words are a translation." Complete change of tone forbade further questioning. But once more the younger girl felt horribly discontented with her own really adequate affection for the honest rabbit inspector. It seemed such a little thing beside the passion of her friend. Not long after this Millicent was reclining on a deck-chair under shelter of the white verandah. The heat was still intense, and she was nearly asleep. It was a Saturday afternoon, the children were abroad in the paddocks, but their governess was in her own schoolroom, for once as enervated as Millicent herself, who could just see the hem of her frock through the open door. Millicent had closed her eyes. A spur clinked on the verandah, but she was too lazy to lift a lid. A voice said, "Is Mr. Pickering about, please, miss?" with a good accent, but in a curious hang-dog tone. She answered, "You'll find him in the store," without troubling to see which of the men it was. Then came sleep ... then her father, shaking her softly, and whispering in her ear. "It's Cattle-station Bill," he said. "Wants another cheque--hasn't had one since the day Miss Winfrey came. Where is she, Milly? She seemed to think she'd like to try her hand at reforming our Bill, and now's her chance. He's only gone five months this time!" "Miss Winfrey's in the schoolroom," replied Milly drowsily. "She won't thank you for disturbing her any more than I do."