She wept not: her soul was too tired; for waiting is harrowing work;
And then I bethought me and wired away to the agents in Bourke.
’Twas little enough I could glean there; ‘twas little enough that they knew:
They answered he hadn’t been seen there, but might in a week—perchance two.
She wept not at all—only whitened with staring too long at the night:
There was only one time when she brightened—that time when red dust hove in sight,
And settled and hung on the backs of the cattle, and altered their spots,
While the horses swept up, with their packs of blue blankets and jingling pint-pots.
She always was set upon meeting those boisterous cattle-men, lest
Her husband had sent her a greeting by one of them, in from the West.
Not one of them ever owned to him, or seemed to remember the name:
(The truth was they all of them knew him, but wouldn’t tell her of his shame)
But never, though long time she waited, did her faith in the faithless grow weak;
And each time the outer door grated an eager flush sprang to her cheek:
