his dealings, was held in high estimation accordingly, and took rank socially with the best people, many of whom could have counted a thousand pounds to his every ten.
Hugh slept the sleep of the just that night, it may be confidently stated—the delicious, dreamless, utter repose of the fatigued worker; a luxury which the dwellers in high places of the earth very seldom taste. The dawn of a winter's morning had, however, but faintly commenced to tinge the lowering sky when he instinctively arose, and dressing with expedition proceeded to stir up his men and make preparations for an early start. The hut cook, an official whose position rarely permits of morning slumbers, was already up, and had the fire lighted which was to boil the huge breakfast-kettle. A restricted toilette suffices for road-hands in winter time. In half an hour the horses were saddled, a breakfast of beef-steak, damper, and hot tea disposed of, the packer fully accoutred, and all was ready for the road.
'Now boys,' says Tressider, 'I'll count the cattle out of the yard. There won't be another chance for a while. We've had a good night of it, thanks to Mr. Bayard. Let them feed for an hour or two, as soon as they steady to the road, and I'll overtake you somewhere about the Burnt Hut Flat.'
Having counted out his herd, which he was gratified to find turned out the correct number of six hundred and twenty-three—a matter which might well have otherwise resulted after the darkling difficulties of the previous night—and seen them straggle out over the wet green grass, the young man betook himself with a light heart back to the 'big house,' which he reached just in time for the family breakfast.
Here were assembled all the olive branches—from Melanie, aged sixteen, and giving promise of general captivation, to a roly-poly three-year-old boy, who ruled the household despotically, and sat on Hugh's knee, with wide wondering eyes scanning his features, as if seriously considering whether they had met in a former state of existence.
'Very glad to see you, Mr. Tressider,' said the lady of the house, a handsome, hospitable matron, as became the chatelaine of Barallan and the wife of Arnold Bayard; she couldn't well have been otherwise. 'We were afraid that you were going to be one of the mysterious guests who come after every one is in bed, and go away before they get up.'
