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The girl spoke. Her voice was full of lights and shades.

"Don't always be growling at Wells, father. He maddened me once; but I have accepted him long ago. He will learn something else soon. The cornet is new. He got it two or three coaches ago. Mr. King, do you remember the concertina last summer? The heat unstuck it or something. That's why he sent for the cornet. One day I asked him why he was so persistent, and he put his hands on his chest very grandly like this and said—'Miss Neville, it is in here. It must come out.'"

The old man screwed up his face. "He can tell the flies that to-morrow when he takes the track."

King took the cigar from his mouth very deliberately.

"Maybe we listen to more than a poor storeman—a lover, a poet rather. Who can say? A lover whose beloved has wandered afar: a poet born tongueless, whose breast must break with fullness. Then what do our ears matter, while he finds relief?"

Power laughed. "You're an amusing idiot, King." But the old man snorted.

"I've something else to even up with besides that trumpet. Every man jack on the place is doing what he likes with the water tanks these last two months. They're three part done. There'll be a drought here 'fore the rains come, sure as I sit here, there will. I believe half the women wash their brats in it. They've got the devil's impidence. I watched Wells to-day carry half-a-dozen kerosene tins for Mrs. Simpson and Mrs. Boulder. I'd have seen he knew about it, if I'd been nearer. I'll fix the lot of 'em up yet. I'll settle them quick."