"You eat it, my dear. I'm sure your ma won't say nothin'," was her last
remark as she pushed the swing-door and vanished into the house,
followed by Peter.

Then the driver's pleasant face appeared at the window of the coach. In
one hand he held a glass, in the other a bottle of lemonade.

"Here, little woman, have a drink. It's warm work ridin'."

Now this was quite different from the matter of the apple. Laura's
throat was parched with dust and tears. She accepted the offer
gratefully, thinking as she drank how envious Pin would be, could she
see her drinking bottle-lemonade.

Then the jolting and rumbling began anew. No one else got in, and when
they had passed the only two landmarks she knew--the leprous Chinaman's
hut and the market garden of Ah Chow, who twice a week jaunted at a
half-trot to the township with his hanging baskets, to supply people
with vegetables--when they had passed these, Laura fell asleep. She
wakened with a start to find that the coach had halted to apply the
brakes, at the top of the precipitous hill that led down to the railway
township. In a two-wheeled buggy this was an exciting descent; but the
coach jammed on both its brakes, moved like a snail, and seemed hardly
able to crawl.

At the foot of the hill the little town lay sluggish in the sun.
Although it was close on midday, but few people were astir in the
streets; for the place had long since ceased to be an important mining
centre: the chief claims were worked out; and the coming of the railway
had been powerless to give it the impetus to a new life. It was always