necks, across a sky of perfect blue. Their leader's note floated down,
as if in answer to the magpies that carolled in the pine trees by the
stables. The sound seemed to hang in the still air.

Beyond the tennis-court, in the farther recesses of the garden, a
hammock swung between two grevillea trees, whose orange flowers made a
gay canopy overhead; and in the hammock Norah swayed gently, and
knitted, and pondered. The shining needles flashed in and out of the
dark blue silk sock. Outsiders--mothers of prim daughters, whom Norah
pictured as finding their wildest excitement in "patting a doll"--were
wont to deplore that the only daughter of David Linton of Billabong was
brought up in an eccentric fashion, less girl than boy; but outsiders
are apt to cherish delusions, and Norah was not without her share of
gentle accomplishments. Knitting was one; the sock grew quickly in the
capable brown fingers that could grip a stock-whip as easily as they
handled the needles. All the while, she was listening.

About her the coo of invisible doves fell gently, mingling with the
happy droning of bees in the overhead blossoms. Somewhere, not far off,
a sheep bell tinkled monotonously, the only outside sound in the
afternoon stillness. It was very peaceful. To Norah, who knew that the
world held no place like Billabong, it only lacked one person for the
final seal of perfection.

"Wish Dad would come," she said aloud, puckering her brow over a knot
in the silk. "He's late--and it is jolly dull without him." The knot
came free, and the needles raced as though making up for lost time.

Two dogs lay on the grass: a big sleepy collie that only moved
occasionally to snap at a worrying fly; and an Irish terrier, plainly