Stingaree
proposition from which the ladies alone saw occasion to dissent.
"You may have heard of me before," said the man on the platform, sweeping the forest of hands with his eye-glass. "My name's Stingaree."
It was the word which Hilda Bouverie had heard on the veranda and taken for some strange expletive.
"Who is he?" she asked, in a whisper that bespoke excitement, agitation, but not alarm.
"The fancy bushranger—the dandy outlaw!" drawled Radford, in cool reply. "I've been expecting him. He was seen on our run the day Mrs. Clarkson went down to Melbourne."
That memorable day for Hilda Bouverie! And it was this manner of man who had been her hero ever since: a bushranger, an outlaw, a common robber under arms!
"And you never told me!" she cried, in an indignant whisper.
"We never told Mrs. Clarkson either. You must blame the boss."
Hilda snatched her eyes from Stingaree, and was sorry for Mrs. Clarkson for the first time in their acquaintance. The new ball-dress of bridal satin was no whiter than its wearer's face, which had aged several years in as many seconds. The
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