THE NOVELIST. A Colonial MAdian

Otago Witness, Issue 1715, 4 October 1884, Page 24

THE NOVELIST. A Colonial MAdian

— ; *— : A STORY OF LAKE WAKATIPU. WrUtai'for the. Otago Witness, ... BI "SAGITTA," Anthn* o! "The Fate of a Pioneer," &c. ' \ ; Ghaptbb XII.. OLTS' position, with a lamed leg, five or six miles from camp, without any provisions, was not a pleasant one for him to con template. There was no absolute' fear of starvation, for even in Bolts' helpless condition he could always manage' to kill a Dative hen or two a day — a bird which 1 is very tame and easily knocked down with a stick or a stone. But to Bubsißt ,on these oily birds without salt, to Bleep at nights under the blue sky upon damp ground, and, above all, tha dreadful solitude, tried Bolts' tempsr and patience. Like Jim he had thought of crutchea, which were easily procured by uprooting saplings or young trees, whose branching roots provided ready-made supports for his arm 3. To travel on crutches, however, requires practice even on level, clear, and firm ground ; none of these conditions obtained m the valley of Pyke's Greek. Everywhere the ground was strewn with broken branches and trunks of large trees and stones ; everywhere it was more or less soft and yielding. Sometimes his crutches would suddenly sink into the ground up to the handles, bringing Boltn down violently,l s arid injuring the sore log more and more. At most he could only make a little more than a mile a day, and that only with great pain and < inconvenience to himself. He saw it WQuld take him four days at least to reach his camp, and he almost despaired' of ever putting into practice the good resolutions which he began to formulate. He would give up serving Lord Stamboreugh ; he would take no more money from him ; he would go back to London and make his living by peddling or by working — anything else than employment to which danger was attached. While resting on the second day of his journey to bis camp he thought of the letter he had abstracted from the post office, whore no postmaster was in charge. That would while away the time. Looking at the, address, he said : "Horn! 'Mies E. Tregenning, 'Sunny Cove Farm, 'Lake Wakatipu. But it wouldn't be right to break hopen the letter. 'Allo ! it's hopen already ! 'Ow did it get hopen? It must have got vet vhen I vas in the river, and then again in that confounded 'ole where I hurt my knee: Very likely the writing too is spoiled." And he proceeded to take the contents out of the envelope. " No, it's hall right. 'Allo !' My darling L : zzy.' It can do no 'arm to < read what I can vhen the letter vas hopen already. I'll put all back into it again, just the same has it vas." He then began to read in a hesitating manner, with many corrections of his readings, the letter, which ran as follows : . • ," Pyke's Creek, March sth, 187— . " My darling Lizzy, " The first rainy day, and wo cannot go out, so I dedicate it to you, darling. During the past wedk I have roamed far and wide through these mighty solitudes, and everywhere have I met you, dearest. I have climbed the highest peaks, and when standing upon the uttermost edge of the world and nearest the heavens, you surrounded me with your influence. I have penetrated 1 the deepest and most abyssmal gulohes, where neither sun nor moon ever shine, ' and have been cheered on by your dear face. I have passed along the edge of dread precipices, and your presence has supported me. I have crossed swift and dangerous rivers, and memories of you have followed me through the floods. Vast as these valleys are, and high as those snow-capped mountains towored, they are no measure of my love. You fill out my days and my nights, and neither time cor Bpace has any existence 'apart from you. You only are both to me. You only are my life, and its sole object. " I feel, dearest, as if I nevor loved you until I came into this beautiful wilderness. Here nature smiles upon her children with the kind beneficenco of a mother, and here, under her loving eyes, man may daie to bo human. O, darling, I wish I could find words to tell you all I feel. I never understood what 1 Paradise ' meant till I came here. I fancied

that its meaning became clear to me' when I began to hope you loved me ; but that was only tho first glimpse of a happiness which now has taken posaosson of my whole being. . " But, dearest, it often happens that when we raise the cup of happiness something: occurs to dash it from our lips. Honour demands of rao that I desist from my selnsh talk. As it is iff may be read by one leSa generous and true than you as bribery. I know, datling, that you will net; take it as such. Dismiss the openiog of this letter from your mind while reading the portion which is to follow, and in weighing your decision do not consider the outpourings of a heart which perhaps presumed too much. I had' to give vent to my feelings in order to present to you a fair and unvarnished account of myself. You have already, when I prepared to tell you of my parentage, stopped me, telling me that you did not wish to hear anything of it from my own lips. Alas ! there Is no one else to tell you. It is I who will have to be a witness for or against myself, as you may decide, and I shall strive to be as impartial as possible; "My own recollections of my parents are few. Ido not remember that I have ever seen my father, and have only indistinct impressions of my toother. I reim>mb6r a bright and sunny home, with trees and flowers all round it, and no other house or anything else in View. I remember to have seen only three faces in this home : my mother's and two others', whom I now know to have been servants. I know it was my mother because she would press me to [ her bosom and call me her boy, and- smile upon me with such sweet eyesj which always made me feel happy, and that have not yet lost their influence upon me. I know it was my mother because she learnt me to say my prayers, and told 'me stories of angels and of heaven — stories tho words of which I have long since forgotten but which I fed as vividly as if they had been told me yesterday. I know it was my mother because she was good, and pure, and in sorrow; she would not, and Bhe could not, feign. Her dress was -always black, but her face, when looking at me, was alvvayß bright and smiling, though I remember at other times having seen it sad and in tears. Her face was oval and pleasant to look at, framed with curls of sunny golden hair, I 'l so much loved to play with, and which in their softness wore always a puzzle to me. I cannot describe the face to you in detail, but it was in so far like yours, dear Lizzy, that it expressed all men lovo to understand, by the name 'woman.' It was soft, and kind, and good, and pure, and wise. But I distinctly remember her eyes. They were large and of a velvety violet blue, and had something of mild sunshine in there ; their look was always pleasant and refreshing. " I next remember my mother crying a great deal, and being much more left to myself than usual, until one day ehe and I went away in a carriage for a long journey. I also remember being put to bed in a strange place by my mother, who kissed me ' Good night ' with tears in her eyes. When I woke next morniDg I vrsui amongst strangers, and since then never saw or heard of my mother again. , " I was kindly treated in my new home, and when I grew older 1 was told that the gentleman at whose house I was staying was the vicar of Dieyholm in, England, who was a relation of my mother'p, and whose name was Mr Howard. He was a bachelor, of independent means, and seemed to take a great interest in me. In order to provide for me suitable ■companions he took in pupils of the b3et families in England, and I was treated by them, as well as by Mr Howard, as their equal. '• 1 made good progress in my intellectual training, as well as iv my physical development. At thirteen years of age I was a fair Greek and Latin scholar, spoke French and Italian fluently, and could read and understand any German book. I was well advanced in Mathematics and its leading branches, and especially fond of History and Geography. In fact I was looked upon as phenominal in acquiring knowledge. lat that time also was a terror to all the boys in the village and for miles around, even those older than I reflected before entering into a quarrel with me, especially as they knew that my guardian always paid a deaf ear to their complaints. ' Come to me,' he used to tell them, ' when he does anything mean, dastardly, or malicious, and I shall attend to your complaints, but your quarrels you must settle amongst yourßelvee,' I was very much attached to Mr Howard, and I believe that ho was both fond and proud of me to an uncommon degree, but as he was not a demonstrative man he never made any show by which I could gauge "the amount of his affection. '• When I was nearly sixteen years of age an incident occurred which sowed tho first seeds of a bitterness that has impaired the happiness of my life. I was visiting at the Earl of Bridgeman'p, whose son had Bbarod my studios at Mr Howard's. There wore a number of young people stayicg at the place, in fact it was a birthday party. We wore playing a game of forfeits on the lawn, while several of the older people were promenading on a terrace above. Amongst the players was a lively brunette, who delighted in teasing mo. While in the heat of a romp the shrill voice of her mother called her in rather an abrupt manner. My tormentor blushed scarlet and ran to her mother, bul did not return. Later in tho evening, when I had the opportunity, I asked her why she did not come back to finish the game. Instead of a reply she gave me a look of disdain and freezing contempt, which provoked my hearty laughter. She was not a favourile with any of us young people on account of her reserve, which during our play had so unacoountibly relaxed. That eveneng, when I went to say * Good nigbt ' to* the lady of the house, she treated me with a marked coldness, which struck me the more because she had always been kindness itself to me. She told me that I and Charley, her son, would return to Mr Howard's in the morning after breakfast. I said, I am afraid somewhat hurt-, that I would be ready. Arrived at my room I found Charley, with whom I was on the best of terms, waiting for me. ' Hallo,' he said, ' what can ba tbe matter ? We are ordered back in limbo again, before our customary week expires. What on earth can be the matter ?' ' I cannot tell,' I answered ; ' but, somehow, I fear that lam tho unoffending cause.' 'It is that prudish minx who has done it all,' Baid Charley. 11 Mr Howard was no less surprised when he saw us come back, days before he had expected us. I allowed Charley to give his explanation of our premature return, but waited until I could see Mr Howard alone, and then told him all that had happened. I darkly surmised what the cause was, for whenever I had asked Mr Howard about my father or my mother ha had always answered by evasions. I therefore told him boldly that unless he could give me satisfactory information about my parentago I would leave his bouse, i>ni as by birth I was entitled to no name, T v/ould go out into the world aud gain ono for my?elf. AU tho answer Mr Howard made wan, 'l)ra,vo boy ! wait till to morrow ; this, is too Midden, for you as well as for me.' "Next day Mr Howard called mo into his atudy, and in bin benign and calm mannor raid, * You have proved yourself to be a brave boy,

and I trust you will bear with fortitude what I have to tell you. The truth can no longer be concealed from you, though it is a dreadful thing that at your age, when the youth buds into the man, you must 'commence life with a burden for which you are not responsible. Do not let any bitter thoughts rise in your mind against those who gave you life, at, to you, so dear a price, for you may possibly wrong them. My conviction is that your parents were married, that dark treachery has deprived you of your birthright and of your parents at once. Your mother was my cousin, and our family h a branch of the ducal family of Norfolk. Your father was Lord Stamborough'" Here the letter dropped from Bolts" hands ; fearfully he looked round to see that he was not observed. Of course Bolts knew all this perfectly well, but what frightened trim was to read of it in this wildernesß. Who else knew of it ? How much more did Disbet know of his father? He had to see and find out. He hastily gathered up the loose leaves, and, taking the one he was reading when he let the letter drop, he continued : " 'Your father waß Lord Stamborough— not the present lord of that name, but his elder brother; and yoUr father fell' at one of the bloody battles fought at Ramnagar in India, in 1848, shot through the heart by a shot that entered his back.' " Bolts trembled violently when reading this ; he could scarcely see to decipher the words, so terribly wore his hands shaking. His bre&th came short and quick, yet be was impelled to •read oni "'The present Lord Stamborough was 83rving under your father, and had an illfavoured servant in his employ, who was noticed firing at the engagement, although he had no business to.' " Here Bolts' eyes refused duty, the writing appeared to run into one blur, and the trees and the hills all seemed to run round him in one bonfused mass. He believed he heard the trees whispering hia crimes through the air, and thought that the stones were crying out for vengeance, and demanded his blood. Where could ho flee to escape from hiß torments ? He, the boastfully successful criminal, waR at last reaping the reward of his misdeeds. The deep solitude about him became unbearable ; the letter in his hand burned like fire ; and his eyes, which had read the damning words, were scalding his brain with hot tearß, which refused to find vent and give him relief.

He writhed on the ground, racked by mental and physical agonies, from which he felt theie was no escape. He decided to read uo more of the letter. What would he do with it ? Should he burn it ? No, he would see what more it contained before he did. Wiping the cold penpiration from his bead, he again collected the loose leaves, handling- them as if they were deadly vipers. Finding at last the place where he had left off he went on : " 'It was rumoured at the time that this man was bribed by the present Lord Sfcamborough to do the dastardly deed, and tho same individual is concerned in other dark affairs, which affect you deeply, William Dtsbet. " ' The reason why I believe that you : parenta ' were married ia because your mother told me your name was Disbet — tbe family name of the Lords Stamborough — which is only the title of the representative head of the family^ There were also reasons why the marriage, if it has taken place, should be kept secret, and it has resolved itself into a Becret but too well kept, as you may suffer unjustly by it. You know now sufficient of your parentage, and I have •decided to resign my charge, give up my pupils, and move to London, in, order to Bee you fairly started in life.' So ended my private interview with Mr Howard, in which I played the part of a silent listener. " Accordingly, we removed to London in due course of time. I had a repugnance againßt the army on account of having no name with which to enter it, and Mr Howard's advice was not favourable to the church. My own hobby was literature, and I soon discovered that Mr Howard was busy in the same field. My first effortß were successful, though they fell short of my expectations. Mr Howard was anxious that 1 should enter one of the English universities, but I declined, not relishing the idea of meeting with any additional slights. He suggested some Continental ones, but I preferred to remain under his tuition, and so the matter dropped. " After several years of incessant work Mr Howard, though still a man in his best years, began to fail. He sank rapidly, and one afternoon called me to him. Takinpr my hand, he said : *My dear boy, I shall not bo much longer with you. I fael very weak. Indeed I shall be thankful to God if he gives me strength enough to tell you all I have to say to you. In order to make everything clear to you lot me tell you at once that another tie than that of mere relationship linked me to your mother. I knew her from her earliest years ; we were much in each other's company, and as children were much attached to each other. She grew up an ornament to her sex, and, highly accompliuhed, was the sought one iv every company. I watched her development with mingled feelings of pain and admiration, and saw that as she became more beautiful every day, and as her graces unfolded themselves one after tho other, she receded from the Bphere that was marked out for me. I Through all theso changes I remained to her the dear and cherished friend of her childhood. She had no secrets from me. Oh ! the tortures I endured when, in the first ecstacy of discovery of her influence over men, she innocently recountad to me her conquests, in all the simplicity of unbounded trust and confidence. She did this to make me feel proud of her. She had not the slightest suspicion of the agonies she was inflicting upon me. And yet there was some unspeakable pleasure when I reflected upon the privilege I enjoyed over all her admirers. How could I destroy this mutual happiness, and by uncovering my heart to her raise a barrier between us which would for ever cast a darkening shadow upon her life as well as mine? It would be to murder friendship and confidence. . I could not do it. I beat down all selfish motives, and enjoyed a blisß, derived from my self- command, that no other earthly joys can give. She. continued to be my idol, which had disappointed all that was of worldliness in me. I worshipped her.' Mr Howard paused, and upon hi| features played signs of rapture, which to define would be profanation. After a while ho resumed : ' I am so happy, dear boy — forgive my tears. But I must not indulge too much — it is selfish. " ' Suffice it to say that one day, after her first London season, she came on a visit to my parents, where I was then staying. She was not changed in her behaviour to me. Sho was the same frank unreserved girl I had always known. A few days after her arrival Lord Stamborough— your father, mv boy— made his appearance upon the scene. She had met him in London, and they were very intimate. With that event Alice— your mother'a name, as you know — altered, and I soon discovered the reason. I felt hurt. But tho feeling did not last. Ono day Alice — you must not be offended at my calling your mother by that namo, my boy — came to mo and confessed her lovo. Slio wa3 aware that your father had led a wild youth — spent his fortune, and was absolutely poor. On tho uther ho had shown groat courage, and by numerous acts had proved. that ha

bore his heart in the right place. He had only failed after the manner of the young men of his day, and his shortcomings were due more to a defective education than to any inherent moral deficiencies, ' '"Mr Howard — your mother's father — also was far from being rioh, but had great expectations, and Alice being his only child he was naturally anxious for her happiness. He would have preferred a quieter, and, as he argued, a less brilliant match for his darling. He was studious and unacquainted with tho world, and considered quiet happiness the highest aim of life. ( He strongly opposed the match. By what moans I know not, but Lord Stamborough gained such a hold upon your mother that she turned a deaf ear to all advice. To complicate matters Mr Alfred Disbet, Lord Stamborough's younger brother, also became a suitor for your mother'a hand. -This Mr Disbet was the very opposite to your father ; he affeoted studious habits, but was a deep, cunning, and designing man. When he found that Alice preferred his brother he tried to ingratiate himself with # her father, and easily succeeded. An evil antipathy appears to have been inbred in the two brothers, although the most remarkable resemblance in personal appearance existed between them. When they found that they had crossed each other in love it only aggravated the pre-existing ill-feeling. Mr Howard tried to turn his daughter's attention towards the younger brother, but without success. "'So the years passed by. Mr Howard saw less and less of his daughter, and being too indolent and too much occupied with tho compilation of a scientific treatise, began, I am afraid, to care less, when suddenly the news that he had become a grandfather startled him into action ; but it was spasmodic and illadvised. He committed one blunder after" another, and ultimately washed his hands of the whole affair by writing a severe letter to his daughter, forbidding her ever to appear before him again, and vowing to disown her. Only I .know how deeply, how terribly your mother was grieved at this unexpected treatment from her father, who, I have no hesitation to say, was influenced by Mr Disbet, your uncle. At the time of your birth your, father" was serving in India with distinction. The papers glowed with descriptions of hiß brave deeds, and his namo was mentioned in the House of Commons « ith honour and respect, as a man valiant in battle, sage in council, and beloved by hiß men. Shortly after your advent your uncle, who held some nominal appointment under your father, went out to India, and a few weeks after hiß arrival there . the news of the battle of Ramnagar came to band, accompanied by tbat of the death of your father. It was I who broke the sad news to your mother, who bore it with the resignation I expected of her. She was as brave as your father. Rising to her feet and pressing you — a babe scarce three months old — to her bosom, she said :' I hope that ano leas glorious career may be instore for my boy.' Tears flowed from her eyes in floods, but her voice was calm and full of courage and meek submission. ■ "'ln less than four months your uncle returned from India, having resigned his appointment. Before his return I had met the doctor who attended your father after being wounded. He had noticed your father's fall ; his name is Dr Alexander B. Harret, and you will find his address in my papers.' " Here Bolts became intensely interested, and read on 'eagerly: " 'His evidence — I use the word advisedly ; it' was not merely hiß opinion,. but he is prepared, to state upon oath — is that your father was fbully murdered, for the shot which killed him entered his back while his front was turned to the enemy, and there was not one man in his regiment but who would willingly haye laid down his life for him. More than this, suspicion even points . to ona man, who was your uncle's servant.'" Bolts, although rendered very uncomfortable by what he read could not desist from reading the letter to the end. After altering the position of his injured leg he resumed : " ' 1 cannot 'understand why your mother did not put in your claim to the title, and why she allowed your uncle to take pos- ' session of what would be yours by right of birth if she had been married to your father. When I spoke to her about it she refused all, explanation, and simply said that y/>u were a true Disbet. I noticed that the new Lord, Stamborough always referred to you as ' the young Howard,' mentioning you by your mother's maiden name to imply a defect in your birth. " * Shortly after his return the new Lord Stamborough persecuted the young widow with his advances, offering her marriage and reconciliation with her father as a bribe. Har husband had been more than a year dead, and she continued to live in the house which he had settled upon her. . The persecutions of your uncle became 'unbearable to your mother, and she employed me to sell the house and select another in soir«e retired spot, where sho could live in peaco, until Lord Stamborough had forgotten her. Tho house, of which you have somo faint recollections, I selected for her, and there she lived for several years in mournful quiet. One day an attempt was made at your abduction, but was prevented by the courage of your mother, • who was busy hoeing some flowers behind a high hedge, and was therefore not seen from the road, while you were sleeping on the lawn under a garden umbrella. Your mother attacked the marauder with tho hoe and compelled him to give you up and flee.' " Again Bolts sank into a dark reverie, but Boon went on : " ' This induced your mother to place you in some safer keeping than her own. Imagine my feelings when one day she unexpectedly appeared with you, a blue-eyed little boy about four years old, tolling me what had happened, and asked me, to take care of you. You — who were dearer to her than her own life; you — who were her happiness and consolation upon earth ; you — for whom and in whom she lived ; she confided you to me, you who were to her all the world. Oh, what a reward for my selfiah devotion to her ! The measure of my bliss overwhelmed me. I raised you, her child, in my arms, and baptised you with my tears, vowing to love you no less than she did, thus making you both my own. Heaven only knowß how I have Btriven to fulfil my vow, and some day all this will be clearer to you than it is N uow.' I gently pie3sed his hand, which still was clasping mine, and he feebly returned the pressure. After a \ auae ho went on : ' I am nearing tho end of my revelations, and they, like the room, are growing darker— very dark. A few days after your mother's visit one of _ her servants arrived at my house, makiDg inquiries for your mothor. She one day after her return home had gone on a charitable visit to an invalid in her neighbourhood, but never reached her destination, nor did she return home. She had disappeared without a traco. lat once suspected Lord Stamborough, and made every possible effort to find out her whereabouts. I gave information at Scotland Yard, tothe proper authorities, of the- unaccountable disappearance, and set private jetodivßH to track Lord Stamborough. All was in vain. Alter many years of wearyiug auxieliga wo got tracer of your mother at a private luaalic asylum. We diecovored that not only was she kept in the strictest confinement bul she wan also watched by a special attendant in the pay of Lord Stamborough.

Before we could obtain the necessary order of entry she was removed, and since then all trace of her has disappeared. , I have Bpent all my means in the attempt to find her, and when we moved to London I was compelled to do so in order to gain by literary labours enough to support you in a position to which your birth entitles you. My impression is that your mother is still alive, and in tha power of Lord Stamborough, who I believe seized her in order to coerce her to marry him", believing no 'marriage to have taken place place between. youi father and mother. I cannot advise you, my boy, how to continue .the eearoh for your mother. I haye done all that mortal man can do, and it has proved fruitless. So far as I could learn none but she possesses the proof of her marriage, if it did take place, and none but Lord Stamborough, and perhaps another, know of your mother's fate or of . her whereabouts. This other person, is the man who is supposed to have murdered your father,.. who tried to steal you from your mother, and Who watched her at the lunatic asylum. His name is Uriah Crooks, but he goes by. the name of Bolts.' " The reader, of the letter ' sat like, pn© petrified. The earth and all around him seemed to sink away beneath him, and a choking sensation made itself manifoßt in his throat. Did his crimes, like living devils, pursue him* to tho uttermost ends of the earth ? . Was, the,wilderness no protection against them ? Where, no human voice was beard did their orios for, vengeance fill hiß ears ? Was there no escape? He sank back in a swoon, racked with mental anguish. It took some time before he re^' covered himself. When at last he collected hitr senses and became again conscious of his posi- 1 tion, his first act was to burn the letter, but an irresistible desire made him read oa to its last word. The letter went on as before: '''The. little property which is left me is willed to you as my dearest relative. There is also tho.housa' your mother lived in, to which you may prefer your claim when you are of age. I wouldadvise you to do so, for possibly your -action i may lead to gome discovery which may give the t key to your mother's fate.' , ; . ', i A "When Mr Howard had proceeded 'so faif he was nearing bin end, and in ft little nityre" than an hour after he finished speaking he fell asleep — to wake no more. ■ ' 7 ■' • • - " I was now alone in the world, with few" friends. When I came of i%e I followed "MrJ Howard's advice, and claimed my mbther's' house. Thanks to Mr Howard s solicitors this, business was easily arranged ; but certain .diffi/ culties placed in the way,' which f I need ' riot, particularise, pointed to antagonistic action 1 proceeding from an influential quarter. ' I'iqok-, possession of the houso, and spent w.eqks in', examining the furniture and, exploring every corner which might possibly contain' 'any' papers or letters which could be of service to me. But without success. I discovered no-^ things I again locked up the placo and ret'ii'mf d to London. GrowiDg tired of literary" drudgery I turned my attention to emigration,' and ultimately decided to go out to New"Zes-> land. * , •. ' '.' \ " You, dearest I/zzy, know now every/ par--' ticle of my history I can' supply you with., It is for you to say whether, the .fond* hopes, which I have nursed, and whioh'no doubt, you have shared — with certain restrictions, — shall "be realised of not. From fear that my feelings may overcome my resolution,' I conclude— -excuse me if you think, it abrupt, —awaiting your reply; Whate'veY it may, be, be assured tbat it will not alter niy feelings 1 'towards you." , ,■..■'• •< So ended Disbet's fetter. ' * _ When Bolts had read to the end he. folded, the sheets again as they had been; and carefully replaced them in the envelope, saying t'dt him-, self, with a sigh of relief : .( ( ' -^' :■•>.•>■'> ; "What a clever trick for me. to '-.take -that i letter from the .box ! If it had come to Miss Trege'nniDg's hands vhat a rumpus there would 'aye been, with Lord Stamborough staying at. 'er 'ouse ! And all to no good. "...These thoughts consoled him considerably;, and though tho.; letter was a load for him to .carry, and-fre-s quently aroused uneasy reflections, hVdeter-; mined to deliver it into Lord Stamborougb's hands as soon as he was able to resume the rectum journey. ' •"',,- ■-« ' Wearily ho dragged himself along, and' had done "O for some days now. He could, acoording to his calculation, be not more than a milefrom bis camp, and Bhould roach there that! night before dark, and refresh himself with bread and tea, and would have salt tohisna--tive hen, a tomahawk to fell trees for a fire, • and a tent and blankets to sleep in. In fact he ■ would live in ease and luxury compared with • his past sufferings and privations. After a few - days' rest and gocd living hia leg would im- , provo, and hia bodiJy strength, now. almost ioduced te nil, would, return, and he could then go back to Lake Wakatipu by oasy stages. ; He trudged on feebly.' He did not wait todelay catching liens ; ho was tired of them, having no salt. He would shortly be at; hia ' camp, where there was good cheer 'in galore^ He was getting very weak, and his journey seemed to lengthen. The sun had already sunk behind the hi Is, and dusk was doming on. ' Darker grew the shades, and wearier the traveller. The rough'crutchrs had made bis arm- ' pits sore and raw, until it was almost 'more ' painful to leaii upon his sticks than use his"' in- ' jured leg. It was petting dark, and "yet ho. sign of his camp. Yes, ' here waß the stump 5 from which he had cut the poles to support ihe ; tent. Where could it be ? ' He ought to be now ; in sight of it. ' ' ' ,' What bare poles ? Thore had been no wind * to blow away tha tent. A few paces eqo'ht through some scrub revealed to him tho awful fact. Everything gone ! Everything ! No ■ tea, no bread, no matches; no tent, no blankets'! No comfort, no rest. '"' Utterly exhausted and overcome with i remorse, pain, and disappointment, ho sank" down by the dead and saddened, ashes of .the, i fireplace of his recent camp. , ,' Who could have taken the things ? Disbot and Jim, if alive, would not carry them awayj , but would come and live there. If they were alive and had returned to Lake Wakatipu they would not burden themselves with useless weight. No, they were dead, and— he? , How, v long would his misery endure? He had no matches, no tea, no bread, no salt ! But who t could havo taken away the things ? The devils - who had haunted him during his weary journey. Why had they not taken his life ?■ ■ II was at least twenty-four miles to the Government camp. How could he ever hope to . reach it? Thore wore dangerous rivers to ford, \ and ateep saddles to climb. And he had no matches, and no salt, and no bread, and was ' lame, and almost famished. = In hopeless despair he lay upon the cold- 1 damp ground until the full portent of his miserable and disconsolate position over- t powered hia senses. Ilia right nand, inserted 1 into his coat pocket, convulsively grasped Diobet's letter, and closed upon it with a deathlike prip, as if he wero afraid it might be - wrested from him by strangers. Unconscions, he funk into tho darkness, which tho coming night spread around him, penetrated only by tiny gleams of hope, twinkling in the sky above him, but far, far off. ' (To be continued. J