same thing that makes some women and girls swear ropes round men's
necks. The Pretty Girl might be the daughter of well-to-do
people--even aristocrats, said Mitchell--she was pretty enough and
spoke well enough. "Every woman's a barmaid at heart," as the
_Bulletin_ puts it, said Mitchell.

But not even one of the haggard women of Bourke ever breathed a
suspicion of scandal against her. They said she was too good and too
pretty to be where she was. You see it was not as in an old settled
town where hags blacken God's world with their tongues. Bourke was
just a little camping town in a big land, where free, good-hearted
democratic Australians, and the best of black sheep from the old world
were constantly passing through; where husband's were often obliged to
be away from home for twelve months, and the storekeepers had to trust
the people, and mates trusted each other, and the folks were
broad-minded. The mind's eye had a wide range.

After her maiden speech the Pretty Girl seldom spoke, except to return
thanks for collections--and she never testified. She had a sweet
voice and used to sing.

Now, if I were writing pure fiction, and were not cursed with an
obstinate inclination to write the truth, I might say that, after the
advent of the Pretty Girl, the morals of Bourke improved suddenly and
wonderfully. That One-eyed Bogan left off gambling and drinking and
fighting and swearing, and put on a red coat and testified and fought
the devil only; that Mitchell dropped his mask of cynicism; that
Donald Macdonald ate no longer of the tree of knowledge and ceased to
worry himself with psychological problems, and was happy; and that Tom
Hall was no longer a scoffer. That no one sneaked round through the