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under the stars rather than to have the labor of unloading and putting them up.

Hugh loved the open-air sleeping. It was then that he feit his mother closest to him: not in the crowded tent, heavy with the smell of unwashed humanity, loud with snores. But out in the open, the stars glimmering faintly through the gum-trees overhead, she seemed very near—• comforting, strengthening, always loving.

He never wondered at this conviction that had come to him of his mother as a real, living presence. Father had told him she had gone away to be an angel: and every one knew angels were alive. Why should she not come back to him, now that he had no longer Father? He wondered sometimes how she managed her wings, which of course all angels had. Sometimes he fancied they brushed his face.

It was Jeff and Micky who saved him, after the first week or two, from the horrors of the sleeping-tent. Certainly it was no place for a young boy. Big Carl kept discipline there after a fashion, but he could not check the rough talk and horse-play of the hands, who regarded Hugh no more than they would have regarded a stray puppy that had crept in for shelter. Jeff and Micky worried over it between themselves, seeing Hugh's nervous shrinking from the place. Finally they went to Crowe. There was a little tent, a spare one scarcely ever used: could they have it for themselves and the kid?

Crowe had his own reasons for liking Hugh, and he respected Micky and Jeff. He was as curt as Big Dan

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