The Loafer's Mission; of, Angles Unware.

New Zealand Mail, 3 December 1896, Page 11

The Loafer's Mission; of, Angles Unware.

BY MEMORY. ('Specially written for the New Zealand Mail.) CHAPTER I. George, I should have Qa/W/T thought you the last person JS on earth to encourage a loafer !’ ‘That is a strong word, Kitty, to apply to the best of all good fellows—and my own particular chum.’ ‘ Good-bye, George, to all privacy when an idle fellow is hanging all day about the house !’ ‘ Well, good-bye to it.’ ‘ George!’ ‘lf it means giving dear old Arthur the cold shoulder, seclusion may be bought at the price of a friend.’ ‘ George, I thought you and I were to inaugurate the perpetual honeymoon ?’ ‘ bo we have, so we will, Kitten.’ ‘Then write and send this English rover about his business.’

‘He may not know how I’m appreciated, Kitten/ cried George, with a delighted guffaw. ‘An idle fellow, who will sneer at your colonial wife ’ ‘ Not he !’

‘A lazy man, who will lie all day the sofa abusing the colonies and our ways and tastes.’

‘Arthur lives in the open air—catch him wasting an hour of the sunshine. No, no, Kitty, poor Atty has had a nasty knock — failed to pass. You don’t know what that means, Kitten, to a fellow proud as Punch.’ ‘ Why doesn’t he try again ? Why does he come out here to bother us ?’

‘ Because his nerves have got the shakos —because that lively brain of his had not the strength to stand the millhorse work of cramming. He’s coming to see me, and my wife must make him welcome.’ ‘ All right/ said Kitty with a relenting smile. ‘ Let him come; he’ll be tired of us soon enough, I daresay. But there is one thing I’m determined on, George.’ * What’s that ? ’

1 He shan’t ride Sugarloaf ! ’ And with this dire threat Kitty ran down the verandah calling to the dogs. George looked after her with an odd smile in his eyes. * Poor little Kitten —she will be the first to tire of this Darby and Joan life, and Arthur carries his welcome with him. Will he know me with this beard ? Will the son of that tremendous swell, his father, be content to eat mutton and potatoes in this wilderness ? What was it we called him at school ? Oh, aye, Gabriel the beautiful! How angry poor Atty was, and yet he deserved the name. Kitty will knuckle down fast enough once he sets those quick eyes of his on her —Gabriel —Gabriel the beautiful. Wonder if he’ll think me the same dull dog as ever ? ’ George whistled 'Home, Sweet Home’ as he walked across the paddock and looked with a newly criticising eye at his country belongings. A pardonable pride swelled his breast as he viewed the rolling pastures dotted with .voolly browsers, the rambling wooden house half covered with passionflower and jessamine, the neatly fenced paddocks, the long stable with its hospitable row of stalls, the dogs jumping and barking with joy round Kitty, whose burnished head shone in the morning sun as George’s approving eye settled on her with happy content. Kitty had Sugarloaf saddled after the early dinner and rode away for a lonely gallop, leaving George at home to receive the expected stranger. Two hours afterwards Sugarloaf might have been descried returning with sobered pace to the homestead. No sign of George about, but Kitty’s quick eve pounced on a chestnut horse grazing in the sacred precincts of the front garden. Whatever feelings of dismay that fact might have roused in Kitty’s indignant bosom melted away on a nearer approach to the intruder. Kitty loved her garden, but she loved a fine horse more. A delighted laugh broke from her as the chestnut raised his beautiful head and watched the approach of Sugarloaf and his pretty rider.

‘ Oh, you beauty! You darling, darling horse! And I thought your master would be glad to ride poor old Sugarloaf’s tail off.’

Kitty slid off her saddle and ran to the verandah. The sound of voices and George’s delighted laughter told her her rival in her husband’s affection was already in possession. Half curious, half resentful, Kitty stood silently listening to the lively concert within, and then, with a slight frown on her glowing face, she walked in her most dignified manner to meet this audacious stranger who had dared intrude on her happy seclusion. ® She never knew exactly what happened after her eyes rested on that slight figure —that bronzed blonde face by her husband’s side. She heard George’s voice saying, ‘ My wife, Arthur,’ she felt her hand enclosed in a cold, gentlo clasp, and

some words of pleasure at meeting my friend’s wife’ —some simple remark, yet, oh ! how enriched by the tone and glance of the stranger. In a second Kitty experienced a sensation of diffidence —a thing hitherto unknown to her free, bright nature—the room seemed to dwindle down to the limits of a cabin, the pictures looked stupid and coarse, the avails smote her with their gaudy colouring, everything seemed suddenly changed—everything except George. Kitty was loyal alone to that dear bearded face that strong, broad-shouldered protector who stood with a radiant smile in his brown eyes beaming on his wife and friend. How Kitty longed to lay her head on that kind breast and say to him, ‘ George, send him away ! send away this stranger who makes me feel like a silly schoolgirl again—who makes me feel coarse and half-trained—who makes me think we are common delf beside the dainty porcelain of his exquisite self. If you and I are only coarse colonial bears, let him leave us in peace to play in our own cave —my own dear brown old bear ! So did sweet Kitty long to cry aloud as she stood impatiently tapping her foot with her whip and answering silently George’s merry glances. And then her husband took the young English dandy for a tour of round the homestead, while Kitty marshalled her household forces—a raw-boned, willing cook and housemaid combined, and Jack, the boy, the genius of the stable and cowshed, who had been impressed by the irate Kitty to help ‘ O’Connor’s fair and lovely child’ in the kitchen. All Kitty’s misgivings vanished, however, as her rival took his seat at the flower-decked table. Something in her husband’s friend’s manner —some touch of gentleness, of exquisite humour, of infinite sweetness veiled in seeming satire — chased away all doubt from Kitty’s mind. George’s friend was a man to like, in spite of his well-cut clothes, his modulated tones, his beautiful face surrounded with its golden halo —no wonder George liked him.

And then followed an evening which made George young again. Kitty, usually so gay, listened in silence to their endless memories of boyhood, recounted with many a laugh. Hour after hour passed, and at last George said, * And what will Gabriel, the beautiful, have for supper ?’ Arthur laughed, and said, ‘Your benediction, Mrs George. lam sure we have tired you with our selfish recollections.’ So the ga.y young guest went to his bed, and Kitty heard George after a prodigious time reluctantly bidding his friend ‘ goodnight.’ ‘ What did you call him Gabriel for ? she asked him curiously, as George raked the ashes of the fire.

‘ Oh, it’s a name he went by at school; looks like a celestial visitant, you know, with that golden figurehead of his.’ ‘ My word ! ’ cried Kitty half jealously, ‘ it’s to be hoped Gabriel will perform some glorious mission during his southern flight. How long does he mean to stop ? ’ ‘As long as I can keep him, Kitten. ‘ George, you like that little English dandy a deal better than ever you liked me.’ ‘ Don’t be an absurd Kitten/ cried George as he kissed the jealous tears from her bright eyes. CHAPTER 11. The loafer belied his race next morning, for ho was early abroad ; even Kitty admitted the young Englishman was a pleasant sight as lie walked about bareheaded in the morning sunshine. As the trio sat down to their early breakfast the lively stranger dwelt long and admiringly on the beauty of the flowering woods and the never-ending vistas of delightful greenery he had witnessed in his morning ramble.

‘ Hum ! ’ said Kitty, warningly, "this is October remember, the month wo are promised all good things by artful nature ; but she’s rather slack in fulfilling her promises. She sends grubs to devour the strawberries we break our backs over now; she sends winds to whirl any extra fruit off those lazy peach and pear trees; she sends scorching days to dry up that stream now singing its silly little song to us; days when the fern even turns brown and dry; w r hen our poor shorn Lincolns lie panting under the manuka.’ ' Enough ! ’ cried her guest, laughingly. ' You will never make me believe those woods are ever invaded by the sun. I know enough of your laud, Mrs George, to know it is the land of peipetual greenness ; I have come out determined to be pleased with New Zealand, end so long as you and George don’t find me tiresome I’m sure this place and I shall agree.’ Kitty blushed guiltily as she remembered her inhospitable thoughts the day before. Against her will she was falling rapidly under the charm of George’s bright friend.

‘ I am goinp for a morning gallop,’ she said, as they stood on the verandah an hour later. ‘ Will you come, Mr Uuntly ? ‘Ride? Well, if you won’t call me a coward,’ he said, laughingly. ‘ Where’s the horse or fence would frighten you ?’ said George, in some surprise. ‘Times are changed, answered the stranger, quietly. 'Wait till you feel every nerve in you wide awake all the time, and then you’ll find out how easy it is to be a coward.’ Half an hour later Sugarloaf carried his mistress along in a long swinging canter, and Arthur on his chest nut kept pace by her side. Kitty never felt .-hy when ritWur. Sugarloaf ami his unstress u riders i • a.-n other well, ar.nl At timr H ant >y appro.f. George’s choice of a wd<- a-.-. im 'go ' :u '“ ' Kitty’s air of good temper ami sp-r.i. _ ‘There!’ cried Kitty, as mm reined up Sugarloaf and pointed wilii her whip to the view beyond. ‘ There is New Zealand pure and simple, Mr Tluntly; solitary, silent, pq poor little wooden hop,so in

sight to break this green monotone—there is New Zealand 1 How do yon like it ? Is it a wild country ? s ‘Wild! No/ said Arthur 1 , as he looked round at the blossoming woods, the dewy grass in the shadow of the trees ; the tiny river creeping in and out, now in light, now in shade, but ever travelling onward. * Wild ? No. This is a friendly land ; no deserts; no bare, angry mountains; no tiger or other desperate traveller to bar our path ; it is the fabled land of peace and plenty, whose hills are clothed with trees and capped with snow, whose {rivers are not a mockery to thirsty brutes in summer. In fact, it is the land of perpetual spring. These tree 3 are evergreen, are they not ?’ < Well, you are the first Englishman who has given unalloyed praise to the country which had the honour of giving birth to myself/ laughed Kitty as they rode back slowly along the narrow path circling the hill and which overlooked an unceasing panorama of trembling fern and shifting leaves. ' Perhaps Ihn too contented, but I confess I have no ambition to travel beyond our own island/

‘ Sugarloaf agrees with you/ said Arthur, as he watched the horse now dancing with impatience to gain the level and gallop homeward. ‘ Where did you find his name ?’

‘Oh, it was George named him. Four years ago he was camping at the foot of Mount Egmont when a thunderstorm came on; George was alone in his tent when this old fellow, then a little foal, rushed right in to the tent and lay down at George’s feet. There he stopped till the storm passed, bnt George took a fancy to him and bought both the foal and its mother. They call Egmont the Sugarloaf, you know, so the tall white mountain was his godfather, eh, Sugarloaf ? and Kitty, as they reached the level ground, urged on her favourite with voice and spur. Arthur followed that flying figure easily, for the chestnut had wind and speed to mock the willing Sugarloaf, yet Arthur knew a lady likes to lead the way, so on they went, but as they neared the home paddock Kitty disdained the gate and gathering Sugarloaf up cleared the garden fence and looked round to see if her squire folio,wed. To her surprise she saw Arthur quietly leaning down unbarring the gate. In another minute he was by her side.

‘ Why didn’t you follow ?’ cried Kitty in surprise. ‘ I thought that fellow could have cleared anything ?’ , ‘He was willing; it was I who funked, said Arthur, grimly, as he took Kitty’s bridle from her aud led both horses to the stable. ‘What ailed you, Arthur ? said George, who, quietly smoking on the verandah, had watched Kitty’s bold leap and her companion’s caution; “ not really a case of nerves, I hope ?’ ‘ George, if you only knew how often I show the white feather now, you would blush for such a poor apology of a man. Look at me ! I could no more have j uinped that fence than I could fly. A ooward ! Yes, you know what that means to a fellow with my tastes. A coward! I wonder if any woman ever suffered more in vanity at the approach of grey hair and wrinkles than I did when I found out my nerves were gone wrong ? —a coward, I suppose, for life.’ ..... ‘ Not you/ answered George, sturdily. ‘Arthur Huutly may fear his own shadow —not any other man’s I’ll swear.’ * You spare the fallen, laughed Arthur, as they sought the bright shelter of Kitty’s tea-room. CHAPTER 111. Kitty’s unwished-for guest had made a warm welcome for himself in that lady s capricious, but unselfish, heart. She no longer frowned on George’s long absences from the house with his friend, but was always eagor to greet her wanderers with smiles of welcome. Jack, tho boy,, was her constant fotch and carry to piovide dainties from the township to tempt her o-uest’s appetite. Arthur accepted all this spoiling with a delightful candour ; over active and lively himself, be was pleased to find so gay a comrade m George s wife Her constant cheerfulness, her delightful noyousness filled tho lioxxio with, sunshine* and tho young Englishman, watching George’s fortunate lot, wondered why ms relatives could have dared to censure his union ivith sweet Kitty. . . ‘ George/ he said one day to his friend as ho watched Kitty and Jack, the boy, at work hoeing 1 tiro weeds on tho gravel path, ‘ George, 1 congratulate you/ ‘ Yes, the ci ip> promises well, answered his companion as his eyes rested contendedly on his woolly flocks dotting bill and valley. . ‘Sheep? Pshaw! your brains are woolgathering/ laughed Arthur. ‘ No, I mean something you arc muen surer o. m tho piesent anil future than a heavy clip owool/ . , ‘Eh ? ’ murmured George, ‘ v/aat arc you driving at ? ’ “ ‘ You’ve got what many a scoundrel wins, and many a good chap misses. You’ve got a good wife, George; bt. Benedict has smiled ou you, you great hairy bear.’ . , , * Yes, the missus ain’t so bad, answered, with a sweet guiltiness in his eyes, the happy giant by his side. A week slipped by, anotuer, and another, and still the Englishman lingered beside his boyhood’s friend. One .Sunday Kitty persuaded him to ride with her to the primitive little church hiding m the lulls where shepherds and rural swains gathered f-r'tr<>! i v ,v to exchange views regarding ;'7.,;.:,, ,i ' i".’l t.> listen u> wtdl- ;.‘ l . leuei 1 ••• ! h<' ;..<-aeU“r « *1 the tv by Arthur’s side lion the yviing immstei: wno -•m*—*■ •so educated, s<> eloquent a , , ‘ bo you think that fellow u.d ht_ u.uty to-day r’ said tho young Englishman, quietly.

‘ Well ? did he net ? asked Kitty, raining Sugarloaf up in surprise. ‘No/ answered Arthur. ‘How many persons heard him intelligently to-day ? ‘Only you and I, I suppose/ laughed Kitty. ‘Precisely. To show his reading and knowledge off to two people—who deserved little care and thought from him —lie sacrificed the interest of all those hard-working good souls who listened patiently to a man insulting their ignorance by speaking on and of subjects far beyond their simple ken. The greater should not suffer for tho less ’

‘All this means/ laughed Kitty, ‘that he devoted an hour to amusing two people, one of whom has the unkindness to ho ungrateful ?’ ‘ A minority has no right to carry the question/ answered the young Englishman. But Kitty only laughed louder and set Sugarloaf homeward in a wild gallop. As they neared the house they looked eagerly roundforits master, but no George was to be seen.

‘That’s strange/ cried Kitty, as she peeped into the deserted rooms. ‘ George usually lies here all Sunday afternoon, reading and smoking. Where on earth, can he be ?’

Arthur sent his keen glance round in search of the missing one, then rode off down the steep track leading to tho creek. Kitty watched him disappear with surprise. ‘ They’ve both deserted me/ she said, as she took possession of the lounging- chain on the verandah.

Let us now return to George. As he saw his wife and their guest ride away towards the sound of church bells, George set off on a quiet tour uii his own account. First he looked into the stable to see how the oats held out; then he went the round of the homo paddocks, lifting to their feet tho heavy-woolled sheep cast on their backs; then back to the wool-shed to examine his new wool-press; over to tho cowshed to admire the new bail; round the orchard, narrowly inspecting the fence lest any pig should be able to scrape through and ravel in riotous feasting; then back to the stable, attracted by Jack, the boy’s, cheerful whistling. But as he neared tho gate a sound —- faint, distant, but all-arresting—struck bis ear. Again the peculiar cry —of distress, of welcome, of answer-compelling sound : the long, full coo-ee —the note deep charged with sympathy to all dwellers in the isles of the South —smote on George’s listening ear. ‘ That came from the creek,’ he said. to> himself as lie walked with rapid steps up the hill, and took a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding land. In a second his quick eye rested on a. tell-tale object near the creek. A gravelpit, opened the year before, held its scairod side to the hot sun, and at its foot stood a heavy dray, with a horse vainly struggling to release itself from the half buried cart, George understood what that coo-ee meant. In the distance ho con hi see a man running towards a hut near the creek, still shouting for help. George knew the man—a poor neighbour who bail evidently spent his Sunday hours of leisure in trying to get a load of gravel from the hillside. The late rains had left the ground dangerously threatening. The dislodging of the gravel had opened a terrible crack above, and a heavy fall of sand and gravel had broken and swamped the cart, in the shafts of which the maddened horse was struggling to escape from that ominous rattle and roar.

* What folly to attempt carting after the rain we’ve had,’ muttered George as he ran towards the plunging horse. In another minute he had reached the place and cut the leather holding him so firmly in the shafts. As George did so a few stones fell gently round him. It is the quiet laugh of the earth, but there is a menace in it to an intelligent listener. George understood it, but those swift feet and hands thought they had time to work and fly. Too late! In another instant there cams a roar from above, an angry rush of stone and earth. The freed horse leaped into safety, but his deliverer lay half buried on the ground. As ho drew in his shuddering breath, George had time to think of life, Kitty, Arthur, his sheep, his horses, his dogs—all that made up his simple sum of existence. To lose everything like this ! That cruel weight crushing his breath out —his strength out his life out and Kitty and Arthur faraway. His head, had fortunately fallen in front of the broad wheel of the half-buried cart, his hands were free, and yet George lay helpless as a child under the crushing weight of that great cruel lump resting half on the spokes of the wheel, and yet enough on George’s back to seem to squeeze his life out. His legs and feet were buried beneath the gravel, and every effort ho made to free himself of that sickening weight upon his back scorned only to cover him deeper from sight. George bad believed himself as brave as the average man—but such an end as this ! He had time to 'chink of all his simple past as lie lay silent, with tears of terror ancl anguish dropping from his fierce eyes. So this was the end of ail ! No more lift-, no more contented days, no more hopes and fears for him! What would Kitty ray when she found hor husband crushed out of life while she was busy praying to the All-seeing to protect their iivea and happiness? And Arthur? What would he look like when he found his old friend no more to him than those devu’s stones lying on him ? Would Kitty forget him ? No ! At least not soon ; but youth forgers all things iu time. Dear Kitty! Dear kind Kit y ! Kitty e \vi(! w! Ob, wna‘. a i»- ru whispered that ’ '> a. :y n*lv. . a " years uiigiit _ lam J • eU-:.- r. 3 -• why should fcko live d-dab. - : C! God she’ was not k it pom- ams 1 septum id; on others?. No <>nc eouu« re i or through poverty. Po re lit! A Kitty ; y r-. Good-bye ’ indeed ? And Ari hur ? liq n> i ot the kind that forgets—not he. Ho

•would remember bis friend through time unto eternity. Dear old Atty! Must he lie there waiting—waiting—listening for the next rush of earth overhead ? How long could the cart stand the strain of that evergrowing mountain above and around it? Every moment he expected to hear the creaking shaft break above him, and when that happened George knew the end was near. How long had he been lying there ? Hours seemed to pass over George’s shuddering head. Would no one ever come? ‘ Alone—deserted—deserted —alone! * He repeated the words childishly. ‘Alone—deserted—alone !’

So numb was be in his misery that he scarce heard the quick trot of Arthur’s horse coming down the road. He saw as in a dream his friend rear up his chestnut sand give one glance of horror and dismay at George’s half-buried form. In another second Arthur was beside him, on his knees, tearing with frenzied hands the gravel off George. ‘My back ! my back, Arthur!’ moaned ’the bruised man faintly. ‘ The weight is choking me!’ Arthur seized that cruel concrete wedge in his furious hands: it scarce heaved at his touch.

‘Roll it over me/ groaned George, in agony.

It was a desperate expedient, but it succeeded.

Arthur toppled the huge monster from its resting-place on the wheel, it crushed still deeper as it passed over him, but once freed from that killing weight he gasped with relief, and watched with hope in his eyes Arthur’s wild efforts to unearth his feet and legs. Those delicate hands were torn and bleeding, yet he thrust those wounded fingers in the earth and stones, heedless of everything but that George must be freed.

A rattle above, a rush of sliding sand and gravel, and a shower of stones fell on the half-buried George and the delicate and form of his rescuer.

George gave one upward glance of rage and dismay. Again the horrid rattling began, and he cried out : ‘Get out of this Arthur, run while you’ve time; we’ll have all hell about us in another minute ! ’

But Arthur only tore with frantic hands the gravel off his friend. ‘ Curse it all, Arthur ! Get out of this, man; I’m done for,’ cried George in an anguish of rage. He looked up as he spoke into that beautiful face bending over him. To his life’s end he never forgot the magnificent daring of that eager face. Remembering Arthur as he saw him then he knew why his boyhood’s friends had called him Gabriel—the angel, the beautiful. Yes, Arthur had vindicated himself at last. Was this the man who started at a bird whirring through the fern yesterday ? This hero facing death to save his friend ? Yes, this was the real Arthur ; not that nervous outcome of overstudy who had laughed yesterday at his own cowardice. Nature had reclaimed her favourite. Arthur was his own man again. With desperate and unceasing toil he had freed George from the gravel and strove to make him rise ; but the strength had died in those crushed limbs.

Shower after shower of gravel fell around them, threatening to entomb, yet the young Englishman did not waver before that deadly hail, but dragged George’s numbed form slowly, slowly, yet surely, out of danger. Suddenly a crack sounded overhead—a ripping, tearing noise heralded some new danger. ‘lcis a slip! Save yourself cried George; but Arthur only answered with another tug at his friend’s half-paralysed body. ‘ Save yourself; it is coming!’ again cried' George. Arthur looked up. As he did so a huge block, as though flung by some unseen Titanic hand, fell with a thundering noise beside the shuddering men. It halted a second to send a shower of fragments in the air, and then rolled onward to the gully, down which it rushed with dreadful impetus.

George felt his heart stand still as the mighty traveller passed by; he hoard Arthur’s voice encouraging him. to try and creep further away from that threatening cliff above; he began to feel life returning to his tortured legs and feet, and like a man released from the rack he tottered forward, upheld by Arthur’s care. As they gained the secure road beyond, Georgo sank to the ground with a groan of relief. He lay there for some time trying to escape from the remembrance of tho dreadful nightmare he had recently experienced. Ho looked round at last to speak to Arthur. Then George rose like an unwounded man from the ground, with a curse on his lips and a prayer in his heart, for Arthur Huntly lay fainting beside him, the blood pouring from a wound in his temple. A fragment of the falling block had struck him and his life seemed pouring out of that gaping wound. George looked at him in despair : Arthur bleeding to death and ho helpless as a child to cure him. With a cry of thankfulness he heard the sound of approaching voices. He leant over his rescuer and lifted him against his shoulder. He felt the heart; it beat faintly, and hope leapt into George’s eager eyes as he gathered his friend to his heart. ‘You hero!’ he murmured, as he put his lips to that dear wounded face. CHAPTER IV. ‘ So you must really go ?’ said Kitty, regretfully. ‘ Really and truly,’ Arthur answered, as with his bridle on his arm he stood beside Kitty at the entrance gate ; for Kitty was loth to lose sight of her darling gnest—her George’s saviour—so she had put off the moment of parting, first at one gate, then at another, and now here she is at the outermost post of all, reluctantly saying"* good-bye ’ to Arthur Huntly. •' JBut you must you shall return I’

cries Kitty, in tears. ‘ How cruel of you to come here and make us love you, and then to leave us like this. It is too horrid! Yes, too cruel! No, you shan’t go —I won’t let your hand go till you promise to come back to us!’

‘ Come! come ! Kitty, we must be off !’ cried George. ‘ You’ll make him miss his boat, you foolish woman—there, let him go !* ‘You will return?’ pleaded Kitty, through her tears. ‘ George, only half belongs to me now ; you will return ?’ ‘ Is England so far away ? ’ said Arthur, tenderly. ‘As the crow flies far enough, as our friends fly, beyond the edge of my world/ mourned Kitty. ‘ Let him go, Kit/ cried George. ‘lf he returns not to us we can go to him.’ ‘Yes, we will follow you, Arthur, and now I see you mean this is “good-bye” indeed.’

A last swift farewell, and Kitty stands alone watching her husband and friend ride out of sight. ‘How lonely George will feel now/ she said, as she took her solitary way homOi ‘ And I was once vain enough to think a woman could rival a man in getting his heart. But what a man! What angel hand directed him to our poor home ? As though George would ever have loved him if he had not known he was a man —a real man, though I thought him such a swell at first. How on earth is George to get along without him ? ’ The house looked desolate as she entered it—no Arthur there to welcome her with laughing jest. The garden seemed to droop as though regretting the light foot which loved to haunt its shades. The dogs whined uneasily as they watched Kitty sitting on the verandah in lonely regret. A great tear slid down Kitty’s cheek, and fell upon her idle hands. ‘lt’s a horrid thing saying " good-bye ” to some people/ said Kitty, in confidence to the dogs. ‘lt’s like tearing a necessary little piece of our hearts out ! We won’t forget him in a hurrjr, if that’s any comfort to his vanity. He has taken too jolly good care we won’t forget him, hasn’t he?’ stroking her dumb sympathiser’s rough head. ‘ He’s not the sort to be forgotten—is he ?’ and the ijdogs howled in answer. Kitty in tears was an awe-inspiring sight to her canine followers.

‘Well, has he really gone?’ she asked her husband as he rode up to the gate. ‘Don’t say he really is gone ?’ * He’s gone, Kitty/ he answered in a dull way, as he walked slowly to his home. Kitty looked at him with an aching heart. George dull now ? What would he be in a week ?

Kitty did her best to cheer up her husband ; she rallied him on the loss of his other self, she declared the house looked quite as dull as any cruel tourist could wish it in his absence, and finally she announced her intention of not giving George a moment’s peace till he had promised to sell out of the place where she had so nearly lost her husband and dearest friend.

‘ Would you ? Would you sell out, dear ? Let us try our luck in England,’ said Kitty, in tears.

‘ Don’t be foolish, little woman,’ answered George; but there was a new look of speculation in his eyes. ‘ Did he seem sorry to go, George ?’ she asked, as they sat by the fire. ‘Do you really think he will remember us ?’ ‘Arthur won’t forget.’ ‘ How strange your old friend should have been the best friend we both ever had. He had a mission which sent him South to us,’ sighed Kitty. ‘ Poor little woman, so you’re not sorry I’m still by your side ?’ ‘ George, my own, own dear old beai’,’ cried Kitty, dissolving into grateful tears. ‘ But we’ll never, never have the chance of entertaining an angel unawares again !’ ‘ He was worth liking, wasn’t he, Kit ?’

The traveller remembered his friends, for letters came like welcome doves to the forlorn ark Kitty declared no longer seemed ‘ home.’ News from Tasmania told that Arthur Huntly had not forgotten George and his bright mate. ‘ I’m looking forward,’ he wrote again from Australia., ‘ to seeing you both with me in the land of our nation’s history, of time-worn landmarks and large associations. Como nearer the red deer of Scotland, the fishing of Norway, tho laughter of France, the music of Germany ; let your wife see the big busy world while her eyes are young —solitude silences joy. Come home to me George. As for me, I look forward to meeting you again though I “ bear up through the foaming girdle that circles the flying earth.” ’ And - o on through pages of friendly counselling and nonsense; bright, airy messages which carried content to their readers.

One day a letter came bearing an Italian postmark. It was written in a strange hand, and curtly announced that the young English traveller Arthur Huntly had died of spasm of the heart in Rome, and that, being conscious of his danger, ho had requested the writer to send his watch and telescope to his ‘ friend, Georgo Martin, of , New Zealand ’; that the doctor, thinking his distant friends might wish some token of remembrance, had cut a lock of the Englishman’s fair hair, wnich he enclosed with all kind condolences on the loss of so interesting a friend as Mr Arthur Huntly.

Joy is a beautiful thing, yet it perishes in its own fire. A. dazzling morning makes a cloudy day. Love and friendship knock at our door ; wo welcome those delightful companions; but when they go they tear away a piece of our hearts, though they smile adieu. Silence rolls its great stone upon the dear memories we hide in our hurt hearts. Silence, which chides the sound of shallow grief silence, which marshal's its hosts of memories to defy the

cruel present—such silence sealed George Martin’s lips as he sat by the fire holding that bright lock of Arthur’s hair m his hand and wondering if the game of life with its cruel surprises was worth even its poor flickering candle.