Through the reddish tinge cast by the lowering sun, he could discern, far off likewise, the unmistakable signs of new-springing grass and the course of the river, for so long non-existent.

From the gully he heard the sound of rushing water.

It had been a roaring torrent just after the storm, and he knew that a flood must have come down from the heads.
Yes, the Drought had broken.

The plain would soon be green again.
Flowers would spring up as they had done for Bridget's bridal home-coming.

If the rain had fallen a few months sooner the station might have been saved.
And even now, with the remnant of three or four hundred cattle, provided there were no crippling debt, no spectre of the Man in Possession, he might still hang on, and in time retrieve his losses, lie low, sink artesian wells, make the station secure for the future.
He had been so fond of the place.