For some days Bett-Bett had wandered about in an aimless, listless way, doing nothing and saying nothing, but just looking “out bush” with big dreamy eyes.

She did not know what had happened to her, but I, who had seen this many times in her people, knew.

She was homesick—“bush hungry”—hungry for her own ways, and her own people; for the bush talks, and the camps, and the long long wanderings from place to place, for the fear of Debbil-debbils, for anything that would make her a little bush nigger once more, for anything—if only she could shake off the white man for a little while, and do nothing but live.

We whites sometimes grow very weary and “bush hungry” when we are taken away to the towns, but we can never even guess at the pain of a blackfellow’s longing for his own people, and his beloved “bush.”

Poor little Bett-Bett! as I watched her I knew that sooner or later I must let her go, for there was no other cure for her. If I tried to keep her, she would only run away or be ill.

At last she came to me saying—

“Missus! me sick-fellow, I think,” and sat down at my feet.

I talked to her quietly for a little while about her people, and their long walk-abouts; for the sooner she went, the quicker she would be cured.

All at once she knew what she needed.

“Missus,” she cried, springing to her feet, all life and energy again, “Missus, me want walk-about. No more longa you, Missus, longa blackfellow.”

That was all—and I only asked—

“How long, Bett-Bett?”

“Me no more savey, Missus,” sh............