"I'll
drive, if it would be any convenience to either of you."
"We'll postpone it," said Jim. "There's Brownie at the gate, bless her
old heart!"
They shot up the last furlong of the drive. At the big gate of the
yard--very few people, not even bishops, go to the front gate of a Bush
homestead--Brownie stood, her broad face beaming. As they pulled up,
Murty O'Toole came forward to take the horses--a marked compliment from
Murty, who, like most head stockmen, was a free and independent soul.
Jim went over the wheel with a bound, and seized Brownie's hand.
"How are you, Brownie, dear?"
"The size of him!" said she. "The shoulders. No wonder they 'ad you for
captin of the football eleven, then, my dear!" The boys grinned widely.
"If not eleven, then it's four," said Brownie placidly. "Strange, I
can't never remember which, an' it don't sinnerfy, any'ow. Welkim
'ome--an' you too, Master Wally."
"How are you, Murty?" Jim shook hands with the stockman, while Wally
bowed low over Brownie's hand.
"I've lived for this moment," he said, fervently. "Brownie, you grow
younger every time I go away!"
"Naturally!" said Norah from the buggy.
"Be silent, minx!" said Wally, over his shoulder. "Who are you to break
in on a heart-to-heart talk, anyhow? At this present moment, Mrs.
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