"No cony, no cony," said the Bushman; "see, what is that there moving in
the shade round the point?"

"Nothing, you idiot!" said the navvy. "Finish your meat; we must start
now."

There were two roads to the homestead. One went along the open plain, and
was by far the shortest; but you might be seen half a mile off. The other
ran along the river bank, where there were rocks, and holes, and willow
trees to hide among. And all down the river bank ran a little figure.

The river was swollen by the storm full to its banks, and the willow trees
dipped their half-drowned branches into its water. Wherever there was a
gap between them, you could see it flow, red and muddy, with the stumps
upon it. But the little figure ran on and on; never looking, never
thinking; panting, panting! There, where the rocks were the thickest;
there, where on the open space the moonlight shone; there, where the
prickly pears were tangled, and the rocks cast shadows, on it ran; the
little hands clinched, the little heart beating, the eyes fixed always
ahead.

It was not far to run now. Only the narrow path between the high rocks and
the river.

At last she came to the end of it, and stood for an instant. Before her
lay the plain, and the red farmhouse, so near, that if persons had been
walking there you might have seen them in the moonlight. She clasped her
hands. "Yes, I will tell them, I will tell them!" she said; "I am almost
there!" She ran forward again, then hesitated. She shaded her eyes from
the moonlight, and looked. Between her and the farmhouse there were three