‘Poor boy, perhaps he’s very fond of cherries,’ said Chris in extenuation.

Summers regarded the young woman dryly for a moment.

‘Eh, eh, girl,’ he said, ’ye’d begin to pity the very De’il himself if ye thought maybe he’d burnt his finger.’

Dick was greatly comforted.  As a general thing he writhed under sympathy, but, strangely enough, he found it very sweet to hear her speaking words of pity on his behalf, and to feel her soft eyes bent upon him with gentle concern.  Probably no young woman quite understands the deep devotion she has inspired in the bosom of a small boy even when she realises—­which is rare indeed—­that she is regarded with unusual affection by Tommy or Billy or Jim.  Jim is probably very young; his hair as a rule appears to have been tousled in a whirlwind, his plain face is never without traces of black jam in which vagrant dust finds rest, and in the society of the adored one he is shy and awkward.  The adored one may think him a good deal of a nuisance, but deep down in the dark secret chamber of his heart she is enshrined a goddess, and worshipped with zealous devotion.  Men may call her an angel lightly enough; Jim knows her to be an angel, and says never a word.  His romance is true, and pure, and beautiful while it lasts—­the only true, pure, and beautiful romance many women ever inspire, and alas! they never know of it, and would not prize it if they did.

That was the feeling Dick had for Christina Shine.  Thore had been others—­Richard Haddon was not bigoted in his constancy—­but now it was Miss Chris, and to him she was both angel and princess; a princess stolen from her royal cradle by the impostor Shine under moving and mysterious circumstances, and at the instigation of a disreputable uncle.  It only remained for Dick to slaughter the latter in fair fight, under the eyes of an admiring multitude, in order to restore Chris to all her royal dignities and privileges.

Jock Summers had not relaxed his grip on the boy’s ear.  He led him to a small dairy sunk in the side of the hill and roofed with stone.

Ye may bide in there, laddie,’ he said, ’till I can make up my mind.  I think I might just skin ye, an’ I think maybe I might get ye ten years to Yarraman Goal, but I’m no sure.’

Dick had to go down several steps to the floor of the dairy, and when the door was shut his face was on a level with the grating that let air into the place.  He passed the first few minutes of his imprisonment making offers of friendship to the dog that sprawled out side, opening its capacious mouth at him and curling its long tongue as if anxious to amuse.  The boy had no fears as to his fate; he felt he could safely leave that to Miss Chris; and, meanwhile, the dog was entertaining.  The animal was new to Dick:  had he known of its existence, his descent upon the orchard would have been differently ordered.  In time Maori came to be intimately known to every boy in Waddy as the most kindly and