A Bush Sketch.

Otago Witness, Issue 1765, 19 September 1885, Page 24

A Bush Sketch.

By ORA HOPE,

BS, Mr Rutherford, ten years is a long time to spend on Lonely Ridge. I've took a sudden " notion to go home to see, the old land again ; I'm off to England by the first vessel. Well, si i", if I am talcing -you short there's no harm done. Mervyn won't have another male. Him and his little girl and the dogs will manage. He's 'coming along to see you about it when I go back."

" Will it be safe to trust him alone, Ben ? - Is he not an eccentric sort of a follow ? I've heard some of the hands calling him • cranky.' " " • " He's right enough now, sir. He was a bit queer when he first came on, but I humoured his odd ways, and got him to talk to me. It was fretting made him queer. He's had a sight of trouble, but he's a gentleman, and no mistake, He oarries his wife's likeness around his neck. She was handsome as a pioture. Gave up friends and everything for him! ■ Made a runaway match. Got wrecked in sight of Melbourne ; lost 'most everything. She died three months after landing, leaving an infant six weeks. He left the child with a shipmate, and came up-country looking for work. He had a bad side, and couldn't do much,' but we .nvere glad to get anyone to stay at Lonely, so' we took him on, and gave him all his own way for a spell. It's always been a trouble to keep a hutkeeper at Lonely Ridge. It's a skeery place, owing to its being an old burying-ground for the blacks. Once a year the few that's left of the tribe comes there to • corroboree,' and I tell you if you once heard their lamentations in the dead of the night you wouldn't forget it. They do say the old chief . haunts the spot. No' ( one ever saw him that I know ; still the yarn goes round, and people believe it. Well, as I \yas telling you, I thought Mervyn would leave too, so I tried to humour him. He was ' queer then, but once I got him to talk he was all right. He'd keep me awake all night, poor fellow! telling me about his wife and the little one. He's a great botanist, and took to gathering roots and things. He's mortal clever; made some stuff out of common bluegum leaves that cured my rheumatiz as sound as a bell. After a couple of years he got unsettled again. He wanted to see the youngster. He says :; ' % must go, Ben, to see my poor child. How-do \ know how she's treated ? Hqw 'can I expect her to love me if she never sees me? I am stronger now, and I might get work in town.' After considering awhile I says (you see, sir,- P$ got to like him so well) : • Bring her along here, Mervyn. I'll help to look after her. I'm awfuj fond of children. She'll be rare good company for us. You'll save more money then. Make up your mind .to keep her here till she's > big enoßgh for school.' He didn't take, kindly to the notion at first, but the money decided him, and he brought her along. She was about threp years old then. It's eight years ago." , " Does Mervyn expect hutkeeper's wages in addition to his own for a child of that age ?" "He does, sir ; and it's not unreasonable, either. His dogs are as 'oute as Christians, and the child Is wiser than lots of a women F,ve met."

H The old master would see nothing unreasonable in it, but the new proprietor will, lie's been a slaveowner in America, and the independence of the Australian workmen galls him. However, I'll broach the subject to him. I'll advise him to give tho man his own way rather than lose him. Poor man ! I suppose it's not .altogether the money he covets ; it's the companionship of a stranger for his little girl he objects to. But what a strange life for her ! Never seeing a woman or a child, and growing up with' rude men, she must be a half-savage." " Never made such a mistake in your life, sir. Her clothes don't fit too well, to be sure, but otherwise she's as well cared for as if she had her mother. And, by George ! can't she learn just as fast as you can teach her ! Mervyn calculates that before she's twelve she'll know all he can teach her. He's saving up till then to put her to a good boarding-school." " What is she like, Ben ? Does she inherit her mother's beauty ? " " Well, no,'Mr Rutherford," said tho old man slowly, as if reluctant to own a fault in his pst. "Seeing her up yonder, playing with the piccaninnies that come to Lonely now aud again, listening to her merry laugh, and looking at her bright eyes when she's telling Mervyn and me , about her Prince, I'd got to think our Maida •pretty ; but beside these ones here," pointing to some well-dressed children playing in the garden, " she's nowhere for looks." " Her Prince — that's a favourite dog, I suppose ?" x " No. it's not. You see her school-books were not the regular sort. They were fairy tales, newspapers, novels — all manner of yarns, aud she can talk like a book herself now. When she's got nothing to read she builds castles in the air about her Prince, who's got to find her out and make us all happy. Ah, she's a dear little soul ! It don't seem she was ever a baby ; she's been wise all the time. I'll be dreadful lonesome without her, and I don't know what on earth she'll do without me. Mervyn gets gloomy turns, and then she rattles on with me till she makes him laugh in spite of himself." "She must be a queer little stick! I say, how far is L-Miely Ridge ? I'll go and see that girl some day," cried a shrill unpleasant voice, and Rutherford and Ben were made aware that their conversation had not been private. The speaker was Horace Clayden, a lad of fifteen, a son of the owner of the station. He had entered the office unobserved. " You had better stay at home, sir," returned i^ie overseer angrily. " You are not on the plantation now dealing with niggers, as you will find out yet to your cost. Your sneaking Way of coming in here is most contemptible. Here is your cheque, Ben. Should you change your mind about going Home, your old berth is open to you. Tell Mervyn I will advise Mr Clayden to meet his wishes. His dogs are marvels of intelligence, I know, and I have no doubt that he and his daughter can manage very well." "It seems absurd, though Rutherford refuses to see anything preposterous in your demand," said Mr Clayden, when the next day the shepherd from Lonely Ridge made a formal proposal to discharge Ben's duties in addition to his own. " Very well, Mr Clayden, I have only to remove to the next run, where they will be glad to engage* me, though it is with regret I will leave the hut I have lived in so long, and where I expected to spend a few more years. I am a poor man, and must sell my time to the highest bidder." " Exactly," said the other testily — " a poor man with extravagant ideas about educating,) your daughter, I am informed. In a situation so exposed to dingoes aud thieving blacks two men are necessary to protect my sheep. Send your daughter up here ; Mrs Clayden will give her wages, and make a good domestic servant of her, sir, which will accord better with her position than your high-flown ideas of education." " Pardon me, sir, I am not here to discuss my daughter's prospects. I make you an offer : jfive me yea or nay. The blacks will not molest your flocks while I am in charge of them, and the dingoes are becoming scarcer every year." * "Well, well, if Rutherford is satisfied, I suppose I may not demur ; I know so little yet of how things are managed in the Colony." And the whilom slaveowner turned, abruptly from this shabby-looking employe, who dared to make his own terms. Horace Clayden and Maris Griffis are enjoying their holidays famously, Griffis proudly showing him the beauties of his Australian home, and initiating him in the various sports and pastimes of young Colonials. They are neighbours, about the same age, and both devoted to outdoor amusements. Further they have very little in common, being as unlike «in appearance as they are in disposition. They are both handsome, well-grown lads. " You promised, Maris, to show me every inch of the country, aud there's no place I want to. see so badly as Lonely Ridge. I'm just dying ,to see that savage of a girl. Fancy her never seeing a boy or a girl or a woman in her life, and those two old fellows making her clothes. She must be a regular spectacle." " I don't like going there at all, Horace ; it seems such a liberty. I know Mervyn so well, yet he never asked me to the hut, though I've spent whole days with him out with the sheep." " Liberty be hanged ! Standing on such ceremony with my father's shepherd ! Come on ; I'll take the responsibility. Why, he'll feel highly honoured by our visit." " You don't knew Mervyn. He's not like the other shepherds ; he compels your respect, and makes you feel that he is a gentleman. However, we can ride up to the hut and ask for a drink. Mind, you are not to laugh at her or show her any rudeness. I would not offend her father for anything." He- was not rude to Maida, for' the simple reason that he did not see her. Warned by the dog of their approach, she concealed herself in -a hollow tree curtained by high ferns, from where she usually reconnoitred visitors before ' showing herself. She was a shy, sensitive child, but gifted witty a high intelligence. Hitherto her sole acquaintances had been a few rough bushmen, who had profited by her father's medicinal knowledge.* Impelled by gratitude they frequently visited the hub, bringing with them such books and papers as they could beg or borrow, knowing - that they were the gifts most highly prized by Mervyn. And on such mental pabulum was our little heroine nourished. Queer indeed were Maida's school-bo,oks. Old almanacs, stray pages of Punch, fairy tales, histories, novels — all in a more or less dilapidated condition — furnished her reading-lessons. At eleven years old this well-read little maiden quite plumes herself on her knowledge of mankind, and looks forward with delight to the hazy future, when . she will dress like and mingle with such ladies 4W she sees represented in the illustrated papers, and her father will wear the garb of those gentlemen whom she knows are infinitely superior, to dear kindly old Ben. "Gome at last,'* she murmurs, peering cau-

tiously from her hiding-place, still holding Floss' collar. " Gone, and you didn't have such fun with me — oh no ! I wasn't such a muff, if I am a ' little savage.' I never saw boys — oh no ! but don't I know you, for all ? Haven't I read about you, and flon't I know your pranks ? You wouldn't exactly tie me on a board and set me afloat on the pond to aim stones at, like you would to a kitten, but you'd torment me other ways and put me in such a passion. But I was too wise for you ; I kept out of your sight. And don't I dislike boys just worse than ever ! I'm glad I'm not going into the world until I'm old enough to snub you on every possible occasion." " They were Maris Griffis and Horace Clayden," said Mervyn, when Maida told him of the visit, and repeated such scraps of the conversation as she overheard. " I am glad they did not see you, dear. Griffis is a well-behaved lad. He was overruled by his companion, or ha never would have come here. Olayden is an insolent, overbearing fellow. I must leave Rover with you for the future instead of Floss. If unwelcome visitors appear, go indoors and tell Rover to 'guard.' When he shows his fangs and growls, I'll warrant even Clayden will keep a respectful distance. My poor little girl, it is a lonely, unsuitable life for you ; I wish I could order things differently." And Mervyn's eyes as they met those of his i daughter were filled with a wistful love painful in its intensity. Maida's arms were round his neck in a moment. " Not a bit lonely. Wo/re just as happy as the birds, father dear, you and I ; but we do miss dear old Ben sometimes. And it's only a few years more until I'm going to school, and then my adventures will begin. I'll meet my Prince, you know." " Maida, Maida, I can teach you everything but common sense. Can I never make you understand how different real life is to what we read about ? I am afraid to think how many disillusions are in store for you." " Well, what odds, daddy dear ! " she exclaimed, with a merry, musical laugh. " I had disillusion number one to-day, and it didn't hurt a little bit — only made me think how wise my father was. Let me tell you, when I saw those boys to-day I knew one was good and one was bad. In the books the fair one looks nice, and good, and soft at firvt; then, when he's going to be bad, his eyes have a steely glitter, a wicked gleam, and all the beauty vanishes. The dark ones look gloomy and morose, as if they could do dreadful things all the time, but they don't ; their eyes scften, their features relax, and they do all manner of kindnesses that nobody •expected from them. That's the way in the books mostly, but to-day the dark one was the worst, and the fair one looked vexed-like and ashamed of him." There was a pause, the little chatterbox still clinging to her father's neck, her mouth pursed, her childish face wearing a look of comic perplexity. Then she burst forth : " I wonder will my Prince be fair or dark. I always pictured him dark ; now I'm not so sure that I wouldn't like him" better fair." " Stop, child ; it pains me To hear you talking like this. I am afraid I have done you no good by allowing you to read those nonsensical novels, yet I had no choice of books, and you were so sensible in other ways that - I thought it no harm. You must not give up your mind to those fancies, Maida. You are a big girl now ; do try to be more practical." " You dear old daddy Gradgrind," she ex•claimed, giving him another hug, " what harm can there be in fancies ? I know my Prince is not going to fiud me here on Lonely Ridge, but it's thinking of him and lots of other impossible things that keeps Lonely Ridge from being lonely when you are away all day. Aud now confess, father dear, didn't you dream dreams when you were little, like me ? And when you grew up to be a young man — ah ! you must have been handsome, and good, and kind — weren't you somebody's Prince ? Didn't mamma nearly worship you? You never tell me about her, father," she added plaintively. A cry of anguish burst from Mervyn. He put the little arms from his neck. " Don't, Maida— don't remind me of my loss ! I dare not think of her. Not even for your sake could I bear the! burden of life if I did not vanish the memory of my brief happiness. To think Of my love and how I lost her is agony too great to be borne." Lifting his arms above his head he rushed from the hut. He threw himself beueath a wide-spreading sheoak, and gave vent to his grief with a violence that terrified the child, who had thus unconsciously opened a wound which no lopse of time could heal. Time dragged wearily with Maida after Ben's departure. The days were long to spend with no one to speak to save the dogs — nothing to hear but the song of the birds and the murmur of the streamlet that passed the hut. A feeling of nervousness, hitherto unknown, had grown upon her since the visit of the boys. Her rambles in the bush were no longer an unalloyed pleasure. There was no dainty cooking to take up her time — none of those unfailing feminine resources, yclept fancy work, to while away an hour. Books, which were so few, were her only amusement. , As her twelfth birthday approached Maida's desire to leave Lonely Ridge became almost uncontrollable. She urged her father to leave at once, bjut upon this point he was immovable. He knew how precarious his earnings would be in Melbourne ; here he was drawing a liberal salary, and hoarding it with miserly care that Maida might be educated. Her hereafter he had not yet given a thought to. Maida wearies of the solitude of her home, and as she ponders in her lonely hours on her own brief past, on what her father has told her of his bereavement, on scraps of gossip that have fallen from Ben, she feels sure that at one time her father's reason tottered on its throne, and that his mind has not yet recovered its firmness. She thinks, poor child ! should a similar misfortune again befall him, how useless, how worse than useless, she would be to him. She feels her ignorance of the world and its ways, and how deficient she is in everything that a girl of her age should know. Her simple pleasures pall ; she is conscious only of a burning desire to get away to learn to be useful, so that she in turn may be able to guard her father with the same loving care he has lavished 011 her. " Twelve to-day, father clear ! " she cries joyously, meeting him with a kiss. " Oh, do give up the sheep now. I'll * soon be too big for school." " No, Maida, not for another year. I have so little saved, child, after all. It makes me wretched to think of it." • Mervyu's brow 'clouded. He smoked moodily by the fire, refused breakfast, and became absorbed in thought. " It is dreadful now, dear Ben," she writes a few months afterwards. " Father is so altered. We have no nice chats now. He goes out so early with the sheep, and lets the dogs bring them home. I think he cannot sleep, because I've often peeped into his room at night, and

found he was not in bed. I am afraid to tell him so, lest he should be vexed. And he seems so dreadfully tired when he comes home iii the evening ; yet the night seems all too long for him to get out again. Oh, Ben ! if you knew of any trouble hanging over my dear father, why did you not warn me of it before you left ? You knew I had no one else to look to for advice.'' Yes, Mervyn was altered. He was growing thin and haggard from suppressed excitement anil unaccustomed labour. It was evident to his daughter that his highly-trained dogs were the sole custodians of the sheep, and that her father was engaged in some pursuit that absorbed his every hour of daylight. He was an enthusiastic naturalist. He hoped to give to the world some day a description of the floral treasures of Australian glen and'f orcst, with its bird and insect life. He frequently took long and tiresome journeys to secure some coveted specimen. When Maida questioned him, he gave evasive answers suggesting a connection between his altered habits and his book. But she knew differently. For months he had not taken a pen in hand. She knew that he would commit his impressions to writing while they were fresh in his mind, had he been engaged in this muehcherished project of his. " No, father dear," she sobbed, as she watched him stealing out in the grey dawn of the morning, "it is nob your book. You have a secret from me, and you shouldn't. You couldu't either if I liked to watch you, if I once made up my mind to find it out. But I won't, father darling — not if I have to shut my eyes not to see, I shan't know what you don't want to tell me ; but, oh ! you ought to trust me." But Mervyn could hardly put his secret into words if he'were inclined to. It dates from a period when his mind was darkened by the loss of' his wife, and he can hardly yet discern what were facts and what wore fancies. He has a hazy recollection of a man coming to the hut one morning after Ben had gone out with the sheep — a man of evil aspect, coarse and brutal in manner ; a powerfully-built man, though then tottering with weakness. He shows him a gunshot wound in his shoulder, and implores him to dress it. He remembers offering this man his own bad, telling him that he feared the wound was beyond his skill — that he would do the best he could for him until Ben's return, when one of them would go for a doctor. But he will have no doctor; he will not even see Ben. He is flying from the police, he says with oaths and blasphemy. It was only a case of illicit distilling ; but Mervyn, as he looks at the evil eye which will not meet his own, is impressed with the thought that it is not for so blameless an offence he has escaped from and been wounded by the police. He cannot in common humanity refuse to aid him. He goes with him to where a few bushes thrown against a rock cover a heap of ferns- crushed and blood-stained, where he had lain the night before. He remembers dressing his wound, giving him food, and solemnly promising that not even to his mate will he reveal his whereabouts. Is the rest fact or only the creation of his disordered brain ? Did his patient become delirious, and reveal his identity as Morgan, the most bloodthirsty of all New South Wales' long list of marauders? Did he reveal a horrible project of revenge on a widow left with a young family and not too much of this world's goods ? He cannot tell. Since he kissed good-bye to his babe beside the fresh grave of its mother until Maida's prattle charmed him back to a better possession of his faculties Mervyn's mind is a blank, in which events stand forth vividly for a time only to be _ obscured again. The more he ponders over it the more certain he becomes of it. And he recollects having quarrelled with this man. He kept his promise faithfully, and healed his wound. When with profuse thanks he was saying farewell he put a chamois bag of sovereigns into his hand, Mervyn flung back the money to him with contempt. He tells him that his price for saving his life and keeping his secret is the safety of the family he has threatened in his ravings. He refuses. " What ! give up the revenge I have thirsted for for years. No, I would die first ! " Strong, bitter words pass between them. They part in anger. But only for a while. Morgan comes back next day. He is strangely softened. Monster though he it., he is not all bad. He is grateful. He unbends to Mervyn, and shows a yearning for human sympathy, which touches him, and makes him for the time forgetful of his ciimes. He tells of a time — which seems so long ago — when this widow and he were young, when he wooed and won her. Ho loved her with all the intensity of his nature, and trusted her implicitly. She was a silly, frivolous girl, and found another admirer more suited to her taste. They both thought it a capital joke to lead ■ Morgan on to furnish the house for her reception, to have a weddingfeast prepared, guests invited, and overwhelm him with ridicule by eloping on the. very morning he expected to make her his wife. Stung by the taunts aud bantering of his neighbours he fled the district. All that was good in him was blasted by this woman's perfidy. After a career of dissipation, which lasted until he was penniless, Morgan became a bushranger. All this floats clearly before Mervyn's mental vision. He hears again the man's humble, apologebic tone. He saj's, " Let Him who made the heart and tried it be its judge." He clasps his hand in friendship, and entreats him, even yet, to turn over a new leaf. But this was impossible : his hands are bloody, his nature brutalised. Yet he gives Mervyn a promise that for his sake the woman shall be safe. Hore again his memory fails. He did something for this widow. What was it ? Does he dream that once again he meets Morgan, who takes him to a shallow stream, and shows him gold shining — nuggety gold — shows him how to wash it, telling him that with such shallow stripping he can work the claim alone, and return to his child a rich man ? Does he show him, carefully hidden under the brushwood, a cradle, pick, and shovel — all the mining requisites, and instruct him in their use — and then bid him farewell for ever ? Is all this a dream ? Alas ! he cannot tell, though he taxes his brain incessantly. It must have taken place about the time he brought Maida to Lonely Ridge, and the joyous reunion stands out so vividly in his memory that surrounding events recede with deeper gloom. He might have forgotten it for ever but for accident. On Maida's birthday one of the station hands came round, as usual, with rations. He had a horrible tale to tell of murder and robbery committed by Morgan. The mention of the name brought a rush of associations to the shepherd's mind. Swiftly, confusedly, the scenes rcpass before him, and that night, in the stillness of his room, he tries with fevered brow and throbbing heart to realise what did take place between him and the murderer. For weeks he is a prey to the keenest anxiety.

He jots down each circumstance as it presents itself to him, until he makes a consecutive narrative. " The wish is father to the thought- ''— perhaps that is why he is so sure that the picture of the shining nuggety gold is no delusion. Thenceforth his dream by night, his thought, by day, is to find the locality. Maida must not know ; it would unsettle her, and she is too much of a dreamer already. If his hopes are realised she must not be told until she has learnt to estimate the world truly, which she can only do by going into it poor. So he searches patiently, hopefully — searches until he finds the cradle, the pick, and shovel. He knows then it is no dream, and he goea to work with a will. What is Miss Glennon going to do with this odd-looking new pupil who has been left on her hands tonlay? Will her appearance scare away the ultra-fashionable boarders from this hightoned establishment ? Her father was so different, creating quite a favourable impression on Miss Glennon in the two interviews he had with her. He dressed well, carrying his gloves and cane with the air of being quite .accustomed to those superfluities. He did net say that he had been only a shepherd. He merely stated that he had brought up his daughter in an isolated spot, where >he had not the advantage of womanly care, neither had she young companions. Her habiLs and manners would be different to those of the other young ladies in the school. Still her education had not been neglected. She had good natural gifts, which he hoped Miss Gloiit non would cultivate regardless of expense. He placed a cheque for a sum considerably larger than the annual charge in her hands, because Maida should spend her holidays in school. He was going away for some time, and they had no friends in town. Maida, fresh from the dressmaker's hands, was not so prepossessing as Maida in the bush. Her close-fitting garments were evidently a restraint. Her hat was awry, and the elastic had left several red marks round her face. Her collar chafed her. She had one glove on ; the other, rolled into a soft moist ball, she carried closely shut in her left hand. She was dreadfully sunburnt and awkward-looking, without being at all timid. But there was a charm in her restless black eyes, her vivacious mouth, her warm eager manner, which Miss Glennon was not slow to acknowledge. Before they had exchanged many words three of the pupils entered. " Our new boarder, young ladies," said the teacher, with a stately inclination, watching covertly the impression the stranger would make. Maida's face became radiant. Clasping her hands, she cried : " Oh, how pretty you all are ! Up yonder I used to feel like a princess among the piccaninnies ; now I'm like a piccaniny among princesses. And you," extending her hands to Miss Darcy, " are lovely enough for a real princess. Oh, I do hope you'll like me, though I am so ugly ! " "You dear impulsive little girl, who could help liking you ? " said the young lady who had been so heartily complimented. " You shall i share my room if Miss Glennon allows it. J Everyone here has a sister only myself. I'll just fancy yo.u are my sister, and help to teach you." It was an immense relief to Miss Glenuon to see so good an understanding established at once between Maida and her most distinguished pupil. The other young ladies took their tone from Miss Darcy, so Maida became a general favourite, and formed one friendship which lasted for a lifetime. Four years have passed. A large party assembled at Mordialloc, the home of Miss Darcy, now Mrs Argyle. Among them, and the centre of attraction, is Maida. But how unlike the Maida of Lonely Ridge. Strictly speaking she has no pretensions to beauty, but she is fascinating in the extreme. When in repose her face is thoughtful, intellectual ; when in conversation it reflects her every mood. Hef merry, artless nature is unaltered. She enjoys herself thoroughly, though she has one trouble, and that is that she sees and hears so little of her father. Only for a few days each Christmas have they been together. He is away in the interior, where he tells her the delivery of letters cannot be depended upon. Lest anything should occur to make writing necessary, he gives her the address of a storekeeper, who will find him. This storekeeper she knows lives in the direction of, but many miles distant from, their old home. His work is light ; he ih liberally paid, and has plenty of leisure time. When her education was completed he spoke of taking her to England. His beloved book was finished, but he could not find a publisher courageous euough to wade through the huge pile of manuscript. At Home it was so different. His book would be glanced over before it was rejected. If once read by a capable critic he had not a doubt of its success. So Maida was paying a long-deferred visit to her, old school friend. Among the guests, and victims to Maida's charms, were Horace Clayden and Maris Griffis. The former yielded his allegiance without recognising in her the daughter of his father's shepherd. He felt terribly humiliated when he made the discovery. Maida told them both, when in a bantering mood one day, of the amusement they afforded to the " little savage," whom they had expected to be amused by. Greater still was his chagrin when his feelings of admiration refused to be affected by the knowledge that his lady love had once filled such a lowly position — and, worse still, was not at all disposed to feel honoured by his preference. She was doing him a double injury. He had long looked on Maris Griffis as the one eligible match for his haughty sister. Lo ! this girl had turned his brain also. He and Maris were no longer friends, but rivals. • Miss Clayden's envious dislike was constantly finding vent, but it only had the effect of making the rest of the company kinder and more attentive to its object. " We cannot picnic at the Falls to-day," said Mr Argyle, as his guests assembled at an early breakfast. " Hart was the only one amongst us who knows the exact road, and he got his ankle hurt at the cricket match yesterday. He's not coming." "Oh ! we cannot give up the Falls, Mr Argyle. You will have to fiud us a guide," cried Maida. «- " You ought to be able to guide us yourself, Miss Mervyn. I believe it is not many miles from the shepherd's hut at Lonely Ridge." . Miss Clayden was the sjjeaker. "When I lived at Lonely, Miss Clayden, I never travelled far from the hut. I did not keep a horse then." " I know ; you only kept dogs then. You can keep a better horse and dress better now than I can. I wish my father had been a shepherd instead of an employer." " Had your father ever been a shepherd. Miss Clnydeu, he would have remained one. Men

like my father may be xtttdsv « clond for a while, but they cannot be kept always- in thebackground. They will eventually come to the front." "Ib strikes me Mr Mervyn is keeping, or being kept, a very long time in the background. Perhaps he prefers sending his charming daughter to the front. I would be sorry to accept such a sacrifice on my father's part." An angry retort was on Maida's lips, but Mr Argyle intervened. " I propose that we go to the Bend instead, and afterwards visit the scene of the encounter with Morgan." It was agreed on. '■ There lies Peeshelba," he said, when after an hour's ride they gained the summit of a hill. " We get a good view of it from here, but it is in a flat country so densely wooded that you might be within coo-ec of the house without suspecting there was a habitation within miles of you. Morgan bound all the inmates except the servant-girl, not suspecting harm from her. She managed to get outside, took a horse out of the stable, and rode fourteen miles barebacked for assistance. Twenty men quietly surrounded the entrance. Morgan rode right into their midst, and was shot down before he thought of danger." " How will the reward be apportioned ? " " Tliat is not decided yet. It is a relief that; the miscreant's reign of terror is at an end. It is astonishing that one man could defy the police so long. He had no confederates, yet he dropped on people with money in a manner that would lead one to suppose he was receiving information from twenty different sources." " I believe that he had a confederate, Mr Argyle — that he was in league with a cleverer man than himself, who reaped the benefit, and allowed Morgan to run the risk. It was a pity he did not live long enough to make a confession," said a gentleman named Hailes. " The whole affair was a great pity,'' said Maida. " That twenty men should feel compelled to encircle one, and unperceived shoot him from behind, without giving him one chance for mercy. The odda were terrible." "Is it possible you can feel any sympathy with such a wretch, Miss*Mervyn ? Would you, out of mere sentiment, expose one of those twenty honest men to his murderous aim ? " asked Clayden. "It is with those men I sympathise, Mr Clayden, not Morgan. lam assuming them to be honest, and as such I am sorry they found themselves in such a position. There was nothing in it they could feel an honest prido in. I would like to see them quietly retiring from the business now, and leaving the reward to the servant-girl. Hers was the only cou- [ rageous act in the whole affair. She was a true heroine." Here Maida dropped back, not caring to continue the conversation with Clayden. " Why do you think he had a confederate, Hailes r1"r 1 " " My father and Morgan lived near each other when they were young men. I don't know why, but it appears there was always bad blood between them, and when Morgan took to t/he roads he vowed revenge on all his enemies, ranking my father chief among them. When he died mother heard that the bushranger was horribly disappointed at losing his revenge, but declared he would have satisfaction out of the widow and children. She became frantic with terror, and tried to sell out, but could not get a buyer on any terms. Then she advertised the stock for sale, trying to raise sufficient to bring us all to town, though what she would do when she got there I don't know. There were seven of us, the eldest not ten- years old. However, she was determined to go, though she knew that abandoning the place meant rnin. The morning previous to the sale she received a mysterious letter, bearing no signature, telling her that Morgan would not molest her. It said : ' I have exacted a solemn promise from him that he will forego his revenge, and he will not break faith with me. Should you ever encounter him show him this letter ; it will be a better protection than a bevy of policemen.' The letter restored her courage ; she withdrew everything from sale, and Morgan never troubled her." "It is very singular. I thought such a desperado would keep faith with no one. He must, as you say, have had a confederate, or been a mere tool in the hand of some clever, unscrupulous person. I would like to see the letter; perhaps the writing could be recognised." " I'll bring it over to-morrow, Mr Argyle, if mother will part with it. She quite treasures it. She says that little missive prevented her from sacrificing her home and plunging herself into poverty." " Drive your mother over to-morrow. She hasn't been to see us for an age. Bring the letter, too." When Mrs Hailes arrived at Mordialloc next day Maida had gone for a solitary walk. Miss Claydeu's taunts of the day before had made her very unhappy. She kept asking herself was her father really making a sacrifice for her — could he afford to let her enjoy such a butterfly existence ? and resolved, when she again met him, to ascertain his position and circumstances. She loved her father dearly, and looked for no greater happiness than working for and ministering to him. On her return she found all the visitors in an eager throng around Mrs Hailes, a letter beiug passed from one to another. " Come, Miss Mervyn," said Maris Griflis, making room for her, " look at this mysterious letter. We are trying to identify the wrii ing. Do you know it ? " And he handed her the envelope, addressed " Mrs Hailes, Borrondarra." " Know it," said Maida, with beaming eyes ; "of course I do. I'd know my dear father's writing among a thousand. I didn't think you knew him, Mrs Hailes. Does he write to you often ? When did this come ? Perhaps you have a message for me." There was an ominous silence, broken at length by Maris. " Haven't you made a mistake, Miss Mervyn ? I don't think Mrs Hailes knows your father at all. This was an anonymous letter." "No mistake at all, Mr Griffis. Father writes a peculiar hand. But what is it all about V When did it come ? " Mrs Hailes explains. She is so grateful to the writer that she sees in him only a benefactor ; she does not dream that she is stigmatising him as Morgan's confederate. Maida listens, a curious feeling of terror taking possession of her. She never heard her father speaking of Morgan. She falters : " I don't quite understand.'' " Of course not, Miss Mervyn,"' said Clayden malignantly. "If you quite understood you would not make suoh a damaging admission. Fortunately for your father yon have spoken in the presence of gentlemen, who would scorn to do detectives' work. I think we are all morally certain now of who reaped the benefit of Morgan's crimes." " Clayden, you'll answer for those words In me. You are aspersing a man T have knowr for years — for whose honour I would answer a'

?or my own. If there was a spark of true manliness in you, you would not sj)eak so in *hs presence of his daughter,"' said Maris pas■sion&tely. Miss Clayden drawled : " That accounts for the milk in the cocoanut. I'm awfully sorry for you, dear. Perhaps you knew nothing about it, but everyone knew a .shepherd's savings could not have kept you at Miss Glennon's and supplied you with finery since.'" Maida fainted. "Father! you here, dying in this lonely hut, and I in luxury away from you. Oh ! how •could you be so cruel to me ? how could you make, such a foolish sacrifice ? " ** Hush, dear child ! I have made no sacrifice. I knew you were safe and happy with your friend. I too was happy, in my own way. I could not endure the excitement of the society that you found so congenial. Here I worked times nt my book, times at something else, as I felt inclined. Last week a fall of earth caught me ; I did not think then I was much hurt, my faithful black boy Tony tended me so well. You must not forget him, Maida. Give me a drink, dear. Yesterday I felt worse, dear, and I wanted you. I sent for my darling, and you aro here so soon. I thought Tony had not time to be at Mordialloc yet." " Neither had he, father. I met him. I was coining in search of you. Providence directed me to the old hut at Lonely Ridge, where I met him." " In search of me. dear — why ? " " Father, are we rich or poor ? " " Rich, my child," drawing her closer to him. " Thank God ! I can leave my dear one provided for. It was the one secret I was keeping from you, Maida, until you were older and wise enough to know the value of money. What did you want me for, dear ? " " Father," she asked hoarsely, " how are we rich ? Is it through Morgan the bushranger ? " "Yes, dear, I owe it all to Morgan. Don't move away, child. I can't turn. Sit where you were, where I can look at you till the last, my own dear little girl ! How it' would grieve me if I had to leave you poor. Tell you about Morgan ? I can't very well, dear, my memory is so treacherous. You'll find it all in my diary He's shot, they tell me — shot like a dog. I knew 'twould be his fate, poor wretch ! Yet he was not all bad. He kept faith with me. and the widow's home was not broken up. How was I associated with that woman ? I always fancy I did something for her." I can't remember." "You wrote to her, father, telling her she had nothing to fear from Morgan. The letter was supposed to have been written by a confederate. Father, how do you owe your wealth to Morgan ? " " I am so tired, dear," he answers faintly. " Your voice sounds so far away. Let me sleep, but stay with me. Keep your hand in mine. My diary will make it clear. Take care of Tony " His end was peaceful. Maida was not aloue at his death-bed. After directing her to the hut Tony had gone on to Mordialloc, returning with Mrs Argyle, her husband, and Maris Griffis. The diary fully Explained the source of his wealth, and exonerated him from suspicion. The period of his separation from his daughter had been spent by him in alternate writing and digging. He amassed a considerable fortune. Maris Griffis led a wealthy bride to the altar, though he would have loved her none the less if the foul' stigma had never been removed from her father's name, and Maida had been penniless.