An Australian Girl. Catherine Martin

nor a free selector dare show his nose.'

      'Oh, I feel as if I knew every inch of Strathhaye!'

      'Well, a good tale is none the worse for being twice told. Besides, I am coming to the point. You might marry for love to-morrow, and in a few months find you were quite insolvent in the article—have to pay a bob in the pound, or even less.'

      'True—become an utter bankrupt; such things happen.'

      'Yes; there was your friend Cicely Mowbray——'

      'Oh, please don't!' said Stella, in a tone of quick pain.

      'Well, not speaking of things doesn't make them different. You know how completely gone she was on the man she married; and in less than three years she ran off with another fellow!'

      'And that was less immoral than staying with the man she married,' said Stella, a hard expression coming into her face.

      'Still, it isn't what people mean to do when they marry for love. You see, the point is that you may fall as completely out of love as you may fall into it. But you can't wake up one morning to find eighty thousand acres first-class arable land, freehold, all gone to kingdom come like a rainbow. May I smoke a cigarette?'

      'Yes. What a pretty case, and what elegant little cigarettes!'

      'They ought to be. Do you know what they cost each?'

      'Oh heavens! You are going to be just like Cr[oe]sus Henway, always telling the price of things.'

      'Or you might say like my father. He likes to mention the figure that things cost. Still, I might easily take after a worse old boy than the governor. Though, mind you, I don't mean to go into Parliament ever, and give ninety Affghanistan camels for an exploring expedition, and get a handle tacked to my name because they came on a desert a hundred miles by ninety.'

      'You're like a good many more Australians. You'll never do as much for your native land as your fathers did for their adopted one.'

      'Oh, I don't know! I've half a dozen gold medals for my wool; and my horses are far-away the best in the district. But there—I'll put my foot in it again if I say much more. Would you like me to be Sir Edward Ritchie, Stella, like the old man?'

      'Surely that is a very foolish question to ask me, of all people.'

      'I am not so sure about that—Sir Edward and Lady Ritchie. If you really have any fancy for the title, I might give another big dose of camels to the Government. There's plenty more desert to be opened up for selectors to perish in.'

      'Your speaking of the desert reminds me that I am getting parched with thirst. There must be some afternoon tea going on by this time. Haven't we been here a good while?'

      'About five minutes. I don't care for tea. But I'll go and get a split soda for myself and bring you a cup. Oh, if we go inside you won't come out again—and we haven't settled anything yet. But here comes Kirsty with a tray.'

      Kirsty was a tall spare woman, who was getting to be more than middle-aged, but whose active, vigorous ways forbade the imputation of old age. She was invariably attired in black, a snowy cap, apron, collars and cuffs, and a face in which all the cardinal virtues ran riot. But it was withal tempered by a certain severity of expression that would seem to be seldom absent from the bearing of trusted Scotch servants who have lived nearly all their lives in one family.

      'I hae brought your pet Chiny teapot, Miss Stella,' said Kirsty, putting the tray down on a little wicker table that was fixed beside a rustic bench in the arcade. 'And Mr. Tom bade me ask ye, sir, whether ye wadna rather hae a glass o' soda water?'

      'Yes, if you please, Kirsty; but tell Mr. Tom to draw it mild.'

      'Where is Maisie, or Sarah, Kirsty?' asked Stella, as she poured herself out a cup of tea. 'You shouldn't be attending on us here, when we really ought to go inside.'

      'Weel, Miss Stella, ye see there's whiles when people disna want ither folk aboot,' answered Kirsty, with a demure smile; 'Sarah's gone to Mile End to see her aunt; as for Maisie, I've set her to learn a page o' the Shorter Catechism. She used to ken every question in it; but ye suld hear her when I pit a few till her to-day. It's just awfu' hoo this climate seems to be against proper grounding in the fundamentals.'

      'Poor Maisie!' said Stella with a smile; 'fancy learning a page of the Shorter Catechism on a day like this!' She fanned herself softly with a wide pink satin fan, tipped with marabout feathers, and slowly sipped her tea.

      'What is the Shorter Catechism when it is at home?' asked the young man, who was sitting near the girl and watching her every movement.

      'Oh, it's just a little Scotch book, full of questions and answers about things people are supposed to believe—but don't.'

      'What sort of questions?'

      'The first is, What is the chief end of man? Now what answer would you give to that?'

      'Being in a garden with the girl who won't have you—but will some day——'

      'No; but in a general way, what do you think is the chief end of man? what he should most live for?'

      Ritchie knitted his brows for a moment. 'Well, I should say it is to sell on the rise and have a good time.'

      'Sell on the rise?'

      'Yes, if you sell on the rise you make a pot of money. If you don't, the other fellow collars the tin. Now, what is the answer in the Catechism?'

      'The answer is that the chief end of man is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him for ever.'

      'But, of course, that means when people get to heaven.'

      'But why should they get to heaven if they do nothing to deserve it?'

      'Well, there you ask me a question! Ah! here comes Kirsty with my seltzer. Here's to you, Stella—and many of them,' said Ritchie, clinking Stella's cup with his tall tumbler, and tossing off half its contents at a draught.

      'What a pretty pale amber colour! Is that ordinary soda water?' asked Stella.

      'Yes, ordinary soda water—but not ordinary old Irish whisky. I'd back your brother Tom's judgment in that article against any man's. Have a little nip. It's ever so much better than tea. I say, Stella, why does the old woman—Kirsty, I mean—set her daughter to learn such stuff?'

      'Ted, I am afraid you are almost a heathen. Do you ever read the Bible?'

      'Well, I sometimes begin to read it on Sunday evening after a game or two at billiards. But I generally drop off to sleep. I seem as if I always knew what was coming.'

      'I wonder how much you really know of it?'

      'Oh, lots! You try. Ask me about Noah or any of those old buffers.'

      'Then what can you tell me about Noah?'

      'Ah, Noah! Well, he was the one that put all the insects into an ark and drank too much wine, and was going to put a knife into his son Esau, till the ram called out, "Here am I." If he had been a proper prize animal he'd never have given himself away like that. Well, what are you laughing at?'

      'Oh, Ted, Ted! Then what about Abraham?'

      'Abraham was one of those fellows that was always getting into a fix because he didn't leave his wife at home. It shows how wrong it is for a man to take his wife everywhere.'

      'And Isaac, what about him?'

      'Well, he was about as sly as a Jew pawnbroker. He put on a kangaroo skin, or something, so as to get a mess of porridge. But he didn't make much out of it, for he got put into a fiery furnace afterwards—but no, it was a pit.'

      'And how many sons had he?'

      'Well, there was Jacob and a thundering lot more; but ten of them got lost, you know—the ten tribes—so you can't expect me to know their names. One of them—Joseph—had an awful swell coat. He went down into Egypt. But I never could swallow