"Not yet, my boy," she said. "I am all alone. I should have had a dull week, but I knew you were enjoying yourself with your old friend at Garoopna. A great party there, I believe?" "I am glad to get home, mother," he said. "We were very jolly at first, but latterly Sam Buckley and Cecil Mayford have been looking at one another like cat and dog. Stay, though; let me be just; the fierce looks were all on Cecil Mayford's side." "What was the matter?" "Alice Brentwood was the matter, I rather suspect," he said, getting off his horse. "Hold him for me, mother, while I take the saddle off." She did as requested. "And so they two are at loggerheads, eh, about Miss Brentwood? Of course. And what sort of a girl is she?" "Oh, very pretty; deuced pretty, in fact. But there is one there takes my fancy better." "Who is she?" "Ellen Mayford; the sweetest little mouse----Dash it all; look at this horse's back. That comes of that infernal flash military groom of Jim's putting on the saddle without rubbing his back down. Where is the bluestone?" She went in and got it for him as naturally as if it was her place to obey, and his to command. She always waited on him, as a matter of course, save when Tom Troubridge was with them, who was apt to rap out something awkward about Charles being a lazy young hound, and about his waiting on himself, whenever he saw Mary yielding to that sort of thing. "I wonder when Tom will be back?" resumed Charles. "I have been expecting him this last week; he may come any night. I hope he will not meet any of those horrid bushrangers." "Hope not either," said Charles; "they would have to go a hundred or two of miles out of their way to make it likely. Driving rams is slow work; they may not be here for a week." "A nice price he has paid!" "It will pay in the end, in the quality of the wool," said Charles. They sat in silence. A little after, Charles had turned his horse out, when at once, without preparation, he said to her,-- "Mother, how long is it since my father died?" She was very much startled. He had scarcely ever alluded to his father before; but she made shift to answer him quietly. "How old are you?" "Eighteen!" he said. "Then he has been dead eighteen years. He died just as you were born. Never mention him, lad. He was a bad man, and by God's mercy you are delivered from him."