LITMIR.BIZ

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no! I thought I had the station to myself."

      "So you had—I have not seen a soul."

      Miss Bouverie instantly perceived that honors were due from her.

      ​"I am so sorry! You've come to see Mr. and Mrs. Clarkson?" she cried. "Mrs. Clarkson has just left for Melbourne with her maid, and Mr. Clarkson has gone mustering with all his men. But the Indian cook is about somewhere. I'll find him, and he shall make some tea."

      The visitor planted himself with much gallantry in the doorway; he was a man still young, with a single eye-glass and a martial mustache, which combined to give distinction to a somewhat swarthy countenance. At the moment he had also an engaging smile.

      "I didn't come to see either Mr. or Mrs. Clarkson," said he; "in fact, I never heard their name before. I was passing the station, and I simply came to see who it was who could sing like that—to believe my own ears!"

      Miss Bouverie was thrilled. The stranger spoke with an authority that she divined, a sincerity which she instinctively took on trust. Her breath came quickly; she was a little nervous now.

      "If you won't sing to my face," he went on, "I must go back to where I hung up my horse, and pray that you will at least send me on my way rejoicing. You will do that in any case. I didn't know there was such a voice in these parts. You sing a good deal, of course?"

      ​"I haven't sung for months."

      He was now in the room; there was no longer any necessity to bar the doorway, and the light coming through fell full on his amazement. The girl stood before him with a calm face, more wistful than ironic, yet with hints of humor in the dark blue eyes. Her companion put up the eye-glass which he had dropped at her reply.

      "May I ask what you are doing in these wilds?"

      "Certainly. I am Mrs. Clarkson's companion."

      "And you sing, for the first time in months, the minute her back is turned: has the lady no soul for music?"

      "You had better ask the lady."

      And her visible humor reached the corners of Miss Bouverie's mouth.

      "She sings herself, perhaps?"

      "And I am here to play her accompaniments!"

      The eye-glass focussed the great, smiling girl.

      "Can she sing?"

      "She has a voice."

      "But have you never let her hear yours?"

      "Once. I had not been here long enough to know better. And I made my usual mistake."

      "What is that?"

      ​"I thought I had the station to myself."

      The questioner bowed to his rebuke. "Well?" he persisted none the less.

      "I was told exactly what my voice was like, and fit for."

      The gentleman turned on his heel, as though her appreciation of the humor of her position were an annoyance to him. His movement brought him face to face with a photographic galaxy of ladies in varying styles of evening dress, with an equal variety in coiffures, but a certain family likeness running through the series.

      "Are any of these Mrs. Clarkson?"

      "All of them."

      He muttered something in his mustache. "And what's this?" he asked of a sudden.

      The young man (for as such Miss Bouverie was beginning to regard him) was standing under the flaming bill of a grand concert to be given in the township of Yallarook for the benefit of local charities.

      "Oh, that's Mrs. Clarkson's concert," he was informed. "She has been getting it up, and that's why she's had to go to Melbourne—about her dress, you know."

      He smiled sardonically through mustache and monocle.

      ​"Her charity begins near home!"

      "It need not necessarily end there."

      "Yet she sings five times herself."

      "True—without the encores."

      "And you don't sing at all."

      "But I accompany."

      "A bitter irony! But, I say, what's this? 'Under the distinguished patronage of Sir Julian Crum, Mus. Doc, D.C.L.' Who may he be?"

      "Director of the Royal College of Music, in the old country," the girl answered with a sigh.

      "Royal College of Music? That's something new, since my time," said the visitor, sighing also. "But what's a man like that doing out here?"

      "He has a brother a squatter, the next station but one. Sir Julian's spending the English winter with him on account of his health."

      "So you've seen something of him?"

      "I wish we had."

      "But Mrs. Clarkson has?"

      "No—not yet."

      "I see!" and an enlightened gleam shot through the eye-glass. "So this is her way of getting to know a poor overworked wreck who came out to patch his lungs in peace and quiet! And ​she's going to sing him one of his own songs; she's gone to Melbourne to dress the part; and you're not going to sing anything at all!"

      Miss Bouverie refrained alike from comment and confirmation; but her silence was the less creditable in that her companion was now communing chiefly with himself. She felt, indeed, that she had already been guilty of a certain disloyalty to one to whom she owed some manner of allegiance; but that was the extent of Miss Bouverie's indiscretion in her own eyes. It caused her no qualms to entertain an anonymous gentleman whom she had never seen before. A colder course had commended itself to the young lady fresh from London; but to a Colonial girl, on a station where special provision was made for the entertaining of strange travellers, the situation was simply conventional. It might have been less onerous with host or hostess on the spot; but then the visitor would not have heard her sing, and he seemed to know what singing was.

      Miss Bouverie watched him as he leant over the piano, looking through the songs which she had dared once more to bring forth from her room. She might well have taken a romantic interest in the dark and dapper man, with the military eye-glass and mustache, the spruce duck ​jacket and the spurred top-boots. It was her first meeting with such a type in the back-blocks of New South Wales. The gallant ease, the natural gayety, the charming manners that charmed no less for a clear trace of mannerism, were a peculiar refreshment after society racier of Riverina soil. Yet it was none of these things which attracted this woman to this man; for the susceptible girl was dead in her for the time being; but the desperate artist was alive again after many, weeks, was panting for fresh life, was catching at a straw. He had heard her sing. It had brought him galloping off the track. He praised her voice; and he knew—he knew what singing was.

      Who could he be? Not … could that be possible?"

      "Sing me this," he said, suddenly, and, seating himself at the piano, played the opening bars of a vocal adaptation of Handel's Largo with a just, though unpractised, touch.

      Nothing could have afforded a finer hearing of the quality and the compass of her voice, and she knew of old how well it suited her; yet at the outset, from the sheer excitement of her suspicion, Hilda Bouverie was shaky to the point of a pronounced tremolo. It wore off with the lengthening cadences, and in a minute the little building ​was bursting with her voice, while the pianist swayed and bent upon his stool with the exuberant sympathy of a brother in art. And when the last rich note had died away he wheeled about, and so sat silent for many moments, looking curiously on her flushed face and panting bosom.

      "I can't place your voice," he said, at last. "It's both voices—the most wonderful compass in the world—and the world will tell you so, when you go back to it, as go back you must and shall. May I ask the name of your master?"

      "My

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