"I WISH YOU'D LIKE ME."


All the Saturday night Heathcote had been on the run, and he did not
return home to bed till nearly dawn on the Sunday morning. At about
noon prayers were read out on the veranda, the congregation
consisting of Mrs. Heathcote and her sister, Mrs. Growler, and Jacko.
Harry himself was rather averse to this performance, intimating that
Mrs. Growler, if she were so minded, could read the prayers for
herself in the kitchen, and that, as regarded Jacko, they would be
altogether thrown away. But his wife had made a point of maintaining
the practice, and he had of course yielded. The service was not long,
and when it was over Harry got into a chair and was soon asleep. He
had been in the saddle during sixteen hours of the previous day and
night, and was entitled to be fatigued. His wife sat beside him,
every now and again protecting him from the flies, while Kate Daly
sat by with her Bible in her hand. But she, too, from time to time,
was watching her brother-in-law. The trouble of his spirits and the
work that he felt himself bound to do touched them with a strong
feeling, and taught them to regard him for the time as a young hero.

"How quietly he sleeps!" Kate said. "The fatigue of the last week
must have been terrible."

"He is quite, quite knocked up," said the wife.

"I ain't knocked up a bit," said Harry, jumping up from his chair.
"What should knock me up? I wasn't asleep, was I?"

"Just dozing, dear."