on the rude wooden settle, with its chopped tussock mattrass, which
had been covered with a bright cotton damask, and was now called
respectfully, "the kitchen sofa." Her arm was round Lois's waist,
and she had drawn that young lady's shock head of red curls down on
her capacious bosom. Both were crying as if their hearts would
break, and startled as I felt to see these floods of tears, it
struck me how incongruous their attitude looked against the
background of the large window through which all nature looked so
smiling and sparkling. The kettle was singing on the fire,
everything seemed bright and snug and comfortable indoors. "What in
the world has happened?" I gasped, really frightened.

"Nothing, mem: its only them sheep," sobbed Euphemia, "calling like.
They always makes me cry. Your tea 'll be ready directly, mem"
(this last with a deep sigh.)

"Is it possible you are crying about that?" I inquired. "Yes, mem,
yes," said Euphemia, in heart-broken accents, clasping Lois, who was
positively howling, closer to her sympathetic heart. "Its terrible
to hear 'em. They keeps calling and answering each other, and that
makes us think of our home and friends." Now both these women had
starved as factory "hands" all their lives, and I used to feel much
more inclined to cry when they told me, all unconscious of the
pathos, stories of their baby work and hardships. Certainly they
had never seen a sheep until they came to New Zealand, and as they
had particularly mentioned the silence which used to reign supreme
at the manufactory during work hours, I could not trace the
connection between a dingy, smoky, factory, and a bright spring
morning in this delightful valley. "What nonsense!" I cried, half
laughing and half angry. "You can't be in earnest. Why you must