“But that’s just what I can do—­what a man has to do.  If a match were thrown there at your feet, and the grass was aflame, couldn’t you alter that by putting your foot on it?  If you find a ewe on her back, can’t you alter that by putting her on her legs?”

“Yes, I can do that, I suppose.”

“What does a man live for except to alter things?  When a man clears the forest and sows corn, does he not alter things?”

“That’s not your line, Mr. Heathcote,” said the cunning old man.

“If I send wool to market, I alter things.”

“You’ll excuse me, Mr. Heathcote.  Of course I’m old, but I just give you my experience.”

“I’m much obliged to you; though we can’t always agree, you know.  Good-night.  Go in and say a word to my wife, and tell them you saw me all right.”

“I’ll have a crack with ’em, Mr. Heathcote, before I turn in.”

“And tell Mary I sent my love.”

“I will, Mr. Heathcote; I will.”

He was thinking always of his wife during his solitary rides, and of her fear and deep anxiety.  It was for her sake and for the children that he was so care-worn, not for his own.  Had he been alone in the world he would not have fretted himself in this fashion because of the malice of any man.  But how would it be with her should he be forced to move her from Gangoil?  And yet, with all his love, they had parted almost in anger.  Surely she would understand the tenderness of the message he had just sent her.

Of a sudden, as he was riding, he stopped his horse and listened attentively.  From a great distance there fell upon his accustomed ear a sound which he recognized, though he was aware that the place from whence it came was at least two miles distant.  It was the thud of an axe against a tree.  He listened still, and was sure that it was so, and turned at once toward the sound, though in doing so he left his course at a right angle.  He had been going directly away from the river, with his back to the wool-shed; but now he changed his course, riding in the direction of the spot at which Jacko had nearly fallen in jumping over the fence.  As he continued on, the sounds became plainer, till at last, reining in his horse, he could see the form of the woodman, who was still at work ringing the trees.  This was a job which the man did by contract, receiving so much an acre for the depopulation of the timber.  It was now bright moonlight, almost as clear as day—­a very different night, indeed, from that on which the rain had come—­and Harry could see at a glance that it was the man called Boscobel still at work.  Now there were, as he thought, very good reasons why Boscobel at the present moment should not be so employed.  Boscobel was receiving wages for work of another kind.

“Bos,” said the squatter, riding up, and addressing the man by the customary abbreviation of his nickname, “I thought you were watching at Brownbie’s boundary?” Boscobel lowered his axe, and stood for a while contemplating the proposition made to him.  “You are drawing three shillings a night for watching; isn’t that so?”