Everyone might go, and go on the bullock-dray, but the picnic was to take place above the ravine, and no one was to venture down, on pain of being instantly packed back to Sydney.

They all promised faithfully.  Mrs. Hassal, tiny as she was, had a way of commanding implicit obedience.

Then an incredible number of hampers, brimming over with good things, was packed.

Mr. Gillet went, to give an appearance of steadiness to the party, and to see no one got sunstroke.

He had a Heine in one pocket against the long, unusual day, a bulging Tennyson in the other, and a sheaf of English papers under his arm as he climbed on the trolly, where the whole seven were already seated.

The seven?  Even so, Judy had refused to stir without the General, and had promised “on her life” not to allow any harm to come near him.

Mr. Gillet gave a glance almost of dismay when he found the whole number was to be present, without the subtraction of the mischievously disposed ones, or the addition of anyone but himself weighted with authority.  For a moment he distrusted his own powers in such a situation.

Judy caught the doubting look.

“You’re quoting poetry to yourself, Mr. Gillet,” she said.

“I?” he said, and looked astonished.  “Indeed, no.  What makes you think so, Miss Judy?”

“I can hear it distinctly,” she said.  “Your eyes are saying it, and your left ear, not to mention the ends of your moustache.”

“Judy!” reproved Meg, whom something had made strangely quiet.

He pretended to be alarmed—­shut his eyes, held his left ear, covered his moustache.

“What can they be saying?” he said.

“’Oh that I was where I would be! 
  Then I would be where I am not: 
  But where I am I still must be,
  And where I would be I cannot.’

“Meg, I wish you would stop treading on my toes.”

So after that even Mr. Gillet grew gay and talkative, to show he was enjoying himself, and the bullocks caught the infection of the brimming spirits behind them, and moved a LEETLE bit faster than snails.  When they had crept along over about ten miles, however, the slow motion and the heat that beat down sobered them a little.

“Miss Meg, that silver-grey gum before you, guileless of leaves, indicates Duck Water.”

How glad they were to unfold themselves and stretch out their arms and legs on the ground at last.  No one had dreamt riding behind a bullock team could have been so “flat, stale, and unprofitable,” as it was after the first mile or two.

Then the trolly continued its course.

“I doubt if they will be back before the sun goes down, if they don’t go a little quicker,” Mr. Gillet said; “it is lunch-time now.”

They were in a great grassed paddock that at one end fell abruptly down to the ravine and swamp lands known as “Duck Water.”