“Where will you behavin ’ your breakfast this morning, ma’am?”

Mrs. Nelson turned to regard the girl with eyes that bored through flesh and bone into the soul of her, standing docilely placid.

“The wind is rising, Tilly, and it is going to be another nasty day, but I will take breakfast here.”

The girl withdrew, and when again she appeared she was carrying a breakfast-tray. This she placed on a small weather-beaten table before dusting and placing a chair beside it. Mrs. Nelson was dissatisfied with the position of table and chair, and Tilly was directed that they be placed nearer the end of the balcony, where the view of the Broken Hill track would be unobstructed. Tilly lifted the cover from a dish of bacon and eggs; her mistress poured milk and tea into a delicate china cup.

“What time did you get home last night?” asked Mrs. Nelson.

“It was after one o’clock, ma’am.”

“Hum! And I suppose you’re fit for nothing today?”

“I’m all right, ma’am.”

Mrs. Nelson noted the faint colour in Tilly’s face.

“If you are, you are stronger than I was at your age. Who did you dance with?”

The faint colour swiftly became a vivid blush.

“My boy, mostly, ma’am,” replied poor Tilly.

Mrs. Nelson’s attitude imperceptibly stiffened.

“Does your father know that you have a young man?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. It…it’s Harry West.”

“Oh!”

For ten seconds Mrs. Nelson gave her attention to her breakfast. Tilly waited, her nervousness increasing, as Mrs. Nelson intended it should. Tilly both feared and loved her mistress, and in this she was not alone, but she loved and feared her father more. There was nothing of the rebel in Tilly’s mental composition. Now, in softer tones, Mrs. Nelson spoke again.