you just make her.

Merton. Any woman?… that kind of work? [smiling and shaking his head.]

Thwaite. I daresay women isn't much use where you come from.

Merton. I come from London.

Thwaite [with a pitying smile]. London … ah!

Merton. I shall think of your life out here, Mr Thwaite, when I'm back in London.

Thwaite. No, no, you won't, young man. Nothing of the kind. You won't be thinking of us, no more than we shall be thinking of you. I shall be thinking of my sheep, and you—well, whatever folks do think of in London.

Merton. A good many things.

Thwaite [indifferently and rather incredulously]. Do they?

Merton. I shall have to think a great deal about my job. I'm going to be a doctor, and it's uphill work at first. But my uncle is a successful doctor, and that will be a help.

Thwaite. Ah, you mean he's done the work for you.

Merton [smiling]. Some of it perhaps.

Thwaite. I've not much use for doctors. Never had one inside my door.

Merton. They seem to be needed in London, luckily for me.

Thwaite. Never been there.

Merton. But you are an Englishman, aren't you?

Thwaite [sombrely]. Yes, I'm an Englishman. My father was a Yorkshire farmer; my mother was a Scotch woman. I quarrelled with him and ran away from home and I went to Liverpool. And the captain of a steamer going to Sydney took me on as cabin boy, and on board there was an Australian sheep farmer. And he brought me to his sheep run—and afterwards I married his daughter, and he died, and I went on with the sheep farming. That's my tale.

Merton. And you never saw your parents again?

Thwaite. I never went back. I never knew my mother. She died when I was born. Kirstin, she never knew her mother neither.

Merton. That's a bad loss.

Thwaite [smokes reflectively]. Mebbe, mebbe. But she's no need of a mother. I've learned her what she'd need to know, and though I says it, she's been brought up by an honest man to earn an honest living in honest ways. And that's enough for anyone.

Merton. It's a great deal. But is it enough for her? Doesn't she want any more?

Thwaite. I don't know—but if she did, want 'd be her master. [Passes his hand along the railing]. There's that fence going again. I believe the wood's rotting. Kirstin! [Kirstin comes out of the house with a strap in her hand]. Look at this place in the fence—it's rotting. That's bad.

Kirstin [looking at it]. Yes, I know. There's some more going the same way, further up.

Thwaite. Well, you'd better go round and see where the places are; it'll have to be looked to.

Kirstin. Yes, father; I'll see to it.

[Thwaite goes on looking at the fence and passing his hand along it. Kirstin gives the strap to Merton.]

Kirstin. Here's a strap you left in the house, Mr Merton.

Merton. Oh, thank you so much. [Tries to put strap round bag]. I'm afraid it's about time for me to be off.

Kirstin. Yes, I suppose it is. I've saddled your mare for you; she's ready.

Merton. Have you done that besides everything else? I'm not going to try to thank you for it all—

Thwaite. No, I wouldn't. If the mare is saddled, you'd best be mounting, you've got a long way to go.

Kirstin [looking at him struggling with the strap]. You want another hole there. Here, let me. [Taking the strap and pulling out a knife].

Thwaite [looking impatiently at Kirstin]. Well, I'll be stepping, Mr Merton. I'm rather busy to-day.

Merton [smiling]. I'm so sorry, Mr Thwaite—this is the last time I shall interrupt the farm work.

Kirstin [repeats half to herself]. The last time—yes.

Thwaite. I'll be going on. Kirstin, you follow me down there away—when you're ready [rather sarcastically].

Kirstin. Yes, father. [Still doing strap].

Merton [shaking hands with Thwaite]. Good-bye, then, Mr Thwaite. And——

Thwaite [interrupting him]. Now don't start thanking me again! Good-bye, and don't break your neck this time.