My husband never had time to speak to me, and when he did, it was only about sheep.
I grew weary of living on cold meat, for it was really too hot to cook; and my servants used to send me over, every second day, cold fowls or pies; besides, one seemed to live in a whirl and confusion of dust, and bleating, and barking.

After the day's work was fairly over, F---- used to rush in, seize a big bath-towel, cry "I am off for a bathe in the creek," and only return in time for supper and bed.

The weather was all that a sheep-farmer could desire.

Bright, sunny, and clear, one lovely summer day followed another; hot, almost to tropical warmth, without any risk or fear of sun-stroke or head-ache, and a delicious lightness in the atmosphere all the time, which merged into a cool bracing air the moment the sun had slowly travelled behind the high hills to the westward.
But all these details, though necessary to make you understand what I had been doing, are not the story itself, so to that we will hurry on.
The shearing was over; Saturday evening had come, as welcome to poor imprisoned me as to any one, and the great work of the New Zealand year had been most successfully accomplished.

F---- was in such good humour that he even deigned to admit that his own comfort had been somewhat increased by my living at the home station, so I felt quite rewarded for my many dreary hours.