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of the house bisecting it slantingly, emphasizing its emptiness. The goatswatched with scuts standing stiffly and beards wiggling. They stamped theirfeet but made no move towards her.She paused at the veranda's edge. A marmalade cat crawled from the debrisand leaped away, looking back once, fearfully. Two orange and grey kittenspoked their heads out from beneath a pyjama leg and complained of an interruptionbefore they licked the rim of milk from their mouths.An old mattress had let its stuffing go, and the flock had made full use ofits liberty to wander into every corner, to stuff what cracks were available inthe floor and to lie against every nearby tuft of dried-up grass. Amongst itand on top of it as it mingled with cardboard boxes, tins and bottles and afull quarter loaf of bread, lay various articles of men's wear—a pair of braces,several shoes, the pyjama pants, a singlet with a sleeve gone, a pair oftrousers with one leg off at the knee, socks turned together at the top to makepairs, an old jacket and a teacup half on its side with milky tea still in it.And on a line fastened to the last of the veranda posts and one of the deadtrees, a flannel shirt and two pairs of fuU-length underpants were plumply filledby a confiding breeze.Teresa hesitated. It was perhaps wise to knock or there would be too muchexplaining to be done; an offer to come back might have to be made. Shehesitated in case she was bidden to enter. But all was still.Still. The house reassured her, it was so still. She stepped up and knocked.It was so quiet that a mouse came out of a hole not three feet from whereshe stood and licked at what was in the bottom of the teacup. It licked likea cat, hollowing its tongue. Teresa knocked again. Her hand seemed woodenon the wooden doorpost, and the echoes were not dead before she was runningdown the straight path, most glad to get away from a world where a mousecould be so bold."Incredible," she said, smoothing out the place in her trouser leg where thebarb had caught but not torn. "A cup and a mouse and cats and rubbish, oh,everything—but no Mr Brice.""I thought you were game. All those goats. I'm glad we don't have to takehim up the mountain—Mr Brice, I mean. He must smell. And it would beone more distraction.""Yes, of course." Once more the automatic answer. Still more awful tobe a pioneer, though. That old toilet sitting up like that. We're so different.We couldn't be expected ever to go back to it. Why does it make me feelguilty?The river, too, winding away on the left, was rather more sophisticated thanof old, but still able to flood its banks.The citizens had arrested the old mining town, which they were entering,and somehow confined it. It was cut off in character already from the slagheapsand shafts and sagging gaol, which presented themselves indifferently.The imported trees and the tourist bureau said. Talking of now, come andstay.Here at the bureau. Miss Ellie Hampden, Miss Teresa McMahon and MrJock Brice were introduced.They were looking down a little, though neither was tall, because he wasso bent from the hips that he could have been strung across like a harp. TheyWESTERLY, No. 1 of 1967