And Polly? Sitting motionless at her husband's side, her hands folded on
her black silk lap, Polly obediently turned her head this way and that,
when Richard pointed out a landmark to her, or called her attention to
the flowers. At first, things were new and arresting, but the novelty
soon wore off; and as they went on and on, and still on, it began to
seem to Polly, who had never been farther afield than a couple of miles
north of the "Pivot City," as if they were driving away from all the
rest of mankind, right into the very heart of nowhere. The road grew
rougher, too--became scored with ridges and furrows which threw them
violently from side to side. Unused to bush driving, Polly was sure at
each fresh jolt that this time the cart MUST tip over; and yet she
preferred the track and its dangers to Richard's adventurous attempts to
carve a passage through the scrub. A little later a cold south wind
sprang up, which struck through her thin silk mantle; she was very
tired, having been on her feet since five o'clock that morning; and all
the happy fuss and excitement of the wedding was behind her. Her heart
sank. She loved Richard dearly; if he had asked her, she would have gone
to the ends of the earth with him; but at this moment she felt both
small and lonely, and she would have liked nothing better than Mrs.
Beamish's big motherly bosom, on which to lay her head. And when, in
passing a swamp, a well-known noise broke on her ear--that of hundreds
of bell-frogs, which were like hundreds of hissing tea-kettles just
about to boil--then such a rush of homesickness took her that she would
have given all she had, to know she was going back, once more, to the
familiar little whitewashed room she had shared with Tilly and Jinny.
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