These words were spoken in the tone of a judge passing sentence of death on a criminal, and Miss Edgeworth was in doubt whether it would be becoming under the circumstances to laugh or to cry, so she made no speech in reply.  She said afterwards to Mrs. Martin, “Mr. Philip must have been a most severe master; I can see sternness on his brow.”  Moreover, she was secretly aware that she did not deserve his compliments, and that her learning was limited, especially in arithmetic; she had often to blame the figures for not adding up correctly.  For this reason she had a horror of examinations, and every time the inspector came round she was in a state of mortal fear.  His name was Bonwick.  He was a little man, but he was so learned that the teachers looked forward to his visits with awe.  A happy idea came into Miss Edgeworth’s mind.  She was, it is true, not very learned, nor was she perfect in the practice of the twelve virtues, but she had some instinctive knowledge of the weakness of the male man.  Mr. Bonwick was an author, a learned author who had written books—­among others a school treatise on geography.  Miss Edgeworth bought two copies of this work, and took care to place them on her table in the school every morning with the name of the author in full view.  On his next visit Mr. Bonwick’s searching eyes soon detected the presence of his little treatise, and he took it up with a pleased smile.  This was Miss Edgeworth’s opportunity; she said, in her opinion, the work was a must excellent one, and extremely well adapted for the use of schools.

The inspector was more than satisfied; a young lady of so much judgment and discrimination was a peerless teacher, and Miss Edgeworth’s work was henceforward beyond all question.

There were no coaches running to Nyalong, and, as Philip’s poverty did not permit him to purchase a horse, and he had scruples about stealing one, he packed up his swag and set out on foot.  It may be mentioned as bearing on nothing in particular that, after Philip had taken leave of Miss Edgeworth, she stood at a window, flattened her little nose against one of the panes, and watched him trudging away as long as he was in sight.  Then she said to Mrs. Martin: 

“Ain’t it a pity that so respectable a young man should be tramping through the bush like a pedlar with a pack?”

“No, indeed, miss, not a bit of it,” replied Mrs. Martin; “nearly every man in the country has had to travel with his swag one time or another.  We are all used to it; and it ain’t no use of your looking after him that way, for most likely you’ll never see him again.”  But she did.

About two miles from the Waterholes Philip overtook another swagman, a man of middle age, who was going to Nyalong to look for work.  He had tried the diggings, and left them for want of luck, and Philip, having himself been an unlucky digger, had a fellow feeling for the stranger.  He was an old soldier named Summers.