Up the Country: A Saga of Pioneering Days

Bert rode away from Gowandale into the perfect night through country which paradise might equal but not excel. He splashed into the singing streams and galloped girth-deep in flowers across the dew-drenched, tussocked plains. He eased up on the timbered ridges where the snow gums stood like brides in veils of perfumed lace, and threaded his way through shrubberied gullies. As the sun rose, he laughed in company with the kookaburras, and sang with the operatic magpies that were sweetly intoning matins. Ah, but it was good to be alive, with the Waterfall invincible on the bit, and in his pocket a withering rosebud that had made a world-shaking revelation. At last he knew why his life hung upon Rachel Labosseer's every movement. Marriage, after all, need not be a barrier to his feelings for this lady. The birds, the streams, the splendid ringing clatter of the Waterfall's hoofs on the ridges--all sang the refrain of beautiful little Rachel. That she was Labosseer's wife could no longer stem the intoxicating revelation. Sufficient to the hour was the glory thereof.

Good Mrs McEachern kept most of the young people about her, and the work of reducing Gowandale to order was as merry as a circus. Bert was absent, but he had left behind him three maids all convinced that joy and adventure depended upon seeing him again as soon as possible.