Brook1 let down the heavy, awkward sliprails, and the gaunt cattle stumbled through, with aggravating2 deliberation, and scattered3 slowly among the native apple-trees along the sidling. First there came an old easygoing red poley cow, then a dusty white cow; then two shaggy, half-grown calves4—who seemed already to have lost all interest in existence—and after them a couple of “babies,” sleek5, glossy6, and cheerful; then three more tired-looking cows, with ragged7 udders and hollow sides; then a lanky8 barren heifer—red, of course—with half-blind eyes and one crooked9 horn—she was noted10 for her great agility11 in jumping two-rail fences, and she was known to the selector as “Queen Elizabeth;” and behind her came a young cream-coloured milker—a mighty13 proud and contented14 young mother—painfully and patiently dragging her first calf15, which was hanging obstinately16 to a teat, with its head beneath her hind12 legs. Last of all there came the inevitable17 red steer18, who scratched the dust and let a stupid “bwoo-ur-r-rr” out of him as he snuffed at the rails.
Brook had shifted the rails there often before—fifteen years ago—perhaps the selfsame rails, for stringy-bark lasts long; and the action brought the past near to him—nearer than he wished. He did not like to think of that hungry, wretched selection existence; he felt more contempt than pity for the old-fashioned, unhappy boy, who used to let down the rails there, and drive the cattle through.
He had spent those fifteen years in cities, and had come here, prompted more by curiosity than anything else, to have a quiet holiday. His father was dead; his other relations had moved away, leaving a tenant19 on the old selection.
Brook rested his elbow on the top rail of an adjacent panel and watched the cattle pass, and thought until Lizzie—the tenant's niece—shoved the red steer through and stood gravely regarding him (Brook, and not the steer); then he shifted his back to the fence and looked at her. He had not much to look at: a short, plain, thin girl of nineteen, with rather vacant grey eyes, dark ringlets, and freckles20; she had no complexion21 to speak of; she wore an ill-fitting print frock, and a pair of men's 'lastic-sides several sizes too large for her. She was “studying for a school-teacher;” that was the height of the ambition of local youth. Brook was studying her.
He turned away to put up the rails. The lower rail went into its place all right, but the top one had got jammed, and it stuck as though it was spiked22. He worked the rail up and down and to and fro, took it under his arm and tugged23 it; but he might as well have pulled at one of the posts. Then he lifted the loose end as high as he could, and let it fall—jumping back out of the way at the same time; this loosened it, but when he lifted it again it slid so easily and far into its socket24 that the other end came out and fell, barking Brook's knee. He swore a little, then tackled the rail again; he had the same trouble as before with the other end, but succeeded at last. Then he turned away, rubbing his knee.
Lizzie hadn't smiled, not once; she watched him gravely all the while.
“Did you hurt your knee?” she asked, without emotion.
“No. The rail did.”
She reflected solemnly for a while, and then asked him if it felt sore.
He replied rather briefly25 in the negative.
“They were always nasty, awkward rails to put up,” she remarked, after some more reflection.
Brook agreed, and then they turned their faces towards the homestead. Half-way down the sidling was a clump26 of saplings, with a big log lying amongst them. Here Brook paused. “We'll sit down for a while and have a rest,” said he. “Sit down, Lizzie.”
She obeyed with the greatest of gravity. Nothing was said for awhile. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, gazing thoughtfully at the ridge27, which was growing dim. It looked better when it was dim, and so did the rest of the scenery. There was no beauty lost when darkness hid the scenery altogether. Brook wondered what the girl was thinking about. The silenc............