She watched him drive them out of the gate till his dark form and the piebald shapes he was driving before him were lost in the night.

She knew that it would take some little time to pen them all securely in their fold.

But the night was young yet.
From shivering, the fire of the brandy and the warmth of the fur rug had turned her temperature to fever heat.

She felt keenly excited; the blood in her veins seemed boiling, and the occasional raindrops and moist wind were pleasant on her face.

She had gone to the end of the veranda and stood there with long withes of the native cucumber vine that grew over the Old Humpey swaying around her in the breeze.