"He'll always be waiting for you when you come home, dear," he said.
"Plenty of holidays--and think how fit he'll be! We'll have great rides,
Norah."
"I guess I'll want them," she said. Silence fell between them.
The scrub at the backwater was fairly thick, and the cattle had sought
its shade when the noonday sun struck hot. Well fed and sleek, they lay
about under the trees or on the little grassy flats formed by the bends
of the stream. Norah and her father separated, each taking a dog, and
beat through the bush, routing out stragglers as they went. The echoes
of the stock-whips rang along the water. Norah's was only a light whip,
half the length and weight of the one her father carried. It was
beautifully plaited--a special piece of work, out of a special hide;
while the handle was a triumph of the stockman's art. It had been a
gift to Norah from an old boundary rider whose whips were famous, and
she valued it more than most of her possessions, while long practice
and expert tuition had given her no little skill in its use,
She worked through the scrub, keeping her eyes in every direction, for
the cattle were lazy and did not stir readily, and it was easy to miss
a motionless beast hidden behind a clump of dogwood or Christmas
bush--the scrub tree that greets December with its exquisite white
blossoms.
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