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Updated: May 10, 2025
She raised her head, and answered: "I think that I could walk; but this, you see, is the only hospitality that I can accept, save, it may be, some bread and a little meat, that the child suffer no more, until I reach Winnanbar, which, I fear, is still far away." "This," I replied, "is Winnanbar; the homestead is over there, beyond the hill."
"This is Winnanbar?" she whisperingly said, "this is Winnanbar! I did not think I was-so near."... A thankful look came to her face. She rose, and took the child again and pressed it to her breast, and her eyes brooded upon it. "Now she is beautiful," I thought, and waited for her to speak. "Sir " she said at last, and paused.
His lips trembled and his hand was hurting my arm, though he knew it not. "Where could I go?" she continued. Glenn answered pleadingly now: "To your unworthy brother, God bless you and forgive me, dear! though even here at Winnanbar there is drought and famine and the cattle die." "But my little one shall live!" she cried joyfully.
Perhaps I ought to have mentioned before that Billy was just nine years old. I had come a long journey across country with Glenn, the squatter, and now we were entering the homestead paddock of his sheep-station, Winnanbar. Afar to the left was a stone building, solitary in a waste of saltbush and dead-finish scrub. I asked Glenn what it was. He answered, smilingly: "The Strangers' Hut.
"This is Winnanbar?" she whisperingly said, "this is Winnanbar! I did not think I was-so near." . . . A thankful look came to her face. She rose, and took the child again and pressed it to her breast, and her eyes brooded upon it. "Now she is beautiful," I thought, and waited for her to speak. "Sir " she said at last, and paused.
That night Glenn of Winnanbar was a happy man, for rain fell on the land, and he held his sister's child in his arms. She was the daughter of a ruined squatter, whose family had been pursued with bad luck; he was a planter, named Houghton. She was not an uncommon woman; he was not an unusual man.
She raised her head, and answered: "I think that I could walk; but this, you see, is the only hospitality that I can accept, save, it may be, some bread and a little meat, that the child suffer no more, until I reach Winnanbar, which, I fear, is still far away." "This," I replied, "is Winnanbar; the homestead is over there, beyond the hill."
Perhaps I ought to have mentioned before that Billy was just nine years old. I had come a long journey across country with Glenn, the squatter, and now we were entering the homestead paddock of his sheep-station, Winnanbar. Afar to the left was a stone building, solitary in a waste of saltbush and dead-finish scrub. I asked Glenn what it was. He answered, smilingly: "The Strangers' Hut.
His lips trembled and his hand was hurting my arm, though he knew it not. "Where could I go?" she continued. Glenn answered pleadingly now: "To your unworthy brother, God bless you and forgive me, dear! though even here at Winnanbar there is drought and famine and the cattle die." "But my little one shall live!" she cried joyfully.
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