[SECOND PRIZE.—FIRST SECTION.] The Divided Way. A NEW ZEALAND TALE.

Otago Witness, 5 December 1900, Page 21

[SECOND PRIZE.— FIRST SECTION.] The Divided Way. A NEW ZEALAND TALE.

By N. E. A

I.—OU PUKETOTARA.

O Love builds on the azure sea, And Love builds on the golden strand, And Love builds on the rose-wing'd cloud, And sometimes Love builds on the land. — Isabella Valency Crawford. 'IV IJ lgr , P, up, up clambered two patient horses, |l*l '* j x>£j£tfi steadily, sturdily. Behind them the J,^^^^^Mc§? rough zig-zag track stretched away to «• marge of glistering sands, upon which @» <^y^B£&T , merry little waves frolicked in sun- ( /C^L^jP*> JJ^rjrji shiny mirth. Before them the path jr- ■;, ■_ ■ ; . TTNUj rose, steeply and grandly, until it found its zenith on the summit of a mountain. A giant among its fellows was Puketotara ; from its top the ranges around looked as the wavy tops of a forest might look to an angel floating above it, or as the waves of the tiny bay below might look to a sea-gull skimming over them. The last corner traversed, the last height gained, and the riders came sharply upon a wondrous view. They drew rein, and gazed around. The horses looked for grass, the man observed the woman ; the woman saw only the sky. After a moment of silent absorption she spoke : "' How glorious! We are at the top of everything!"' " Not quite," replied her companion, and taking her i whip-hand in his, he pointed out to her, away ahead of them, | a wedge of solid whiteness, gleaming against the blue of a j

New Zealand sky, above the undiilating sky-line of the fur-ther-most of the many ranges around them. To the sublimated imagination of the girl it seemed to be the apex of the marble-polished roof of some gigantic earth-temple. " Ah !" slowly, as the sight sank into her soul, through her eyes — that's better, far better. How good it is always to find something to look up to, however high we be !"

" Ah ! but a man's reach •should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for?"

She quoted. The man made no reply. He was not looking at the distant peak, but at the woman near, thinking she would pass for a bronze equestrienne statue, sitting there on her dark chestnut horse, the sun-rarys bringing out all the latent glow in her warm, brown hair, her head poised as though drinking in the very Logos of the scene, and the fine symmetry of her form moulding the lines of the brown habit. Feeling his gaze, she turned and asked quickly : " You agree with me, don't you V "Agree with you? Oh, yes, of course, always; but as to what just now? lam afraid I was not listening." " That it is good always to have something in view to look up to, to stand on tiptoe for, to strive and stretch towards "

" No," he answered, seriously enough, " I cannot say I do agree. Standing on tiptoe is an unsatisfying, uncertain, and uncongenial position. I like to have things in my grasp — ' to have and to hold/ you know. ' Portable property,' as Mr Wemmick would say." She shook her head. " I don't believe you are like that. I believe you are much nobler and better than you profess to be. I believe I know the real you better than you know yourself, else you would not be my friend." " Your inveterate habit of idealising will probably lead you into difficulties some day, Miss Grant," he responded. " I shall not quarrel with you for it, because it is solely owing to that tendency that I enjoy what I so greatly value — your friendship. But, I assure you, lam not the man you think me, nor the man I ought to be perhaps, but, after all, I'm

used to being the man I am, and he's a fairly easy fellow to get on with, I find. Come ! it's time for iis to be moving down," he ended.

The girl sighed ; the glow faded from both face and hair as they entered the shadows of the long descent. Their path now led through close, creeping bush. Many a glossy-leaved lawyer flung its sharp-spined, cruel, and delicate stems athwart the track. Here and there, near some little gully, the great, graceful heart of a tree-fern revealed itself to the careful, beauty-loving eye. Ever and anon, out of the bush, would wander upon the track half-wild mountain cattle, observing, with curious and investigating eye, these trespassers on their great solitudes. A turn of the road or a dip of the bush would give — fleeting, but focussed — a vivid sense of green-blue ocean, brown rocks, white surf, and blue sky. The man rode ahead, flinging back a word of warning about a hole, " a bad hole," in a jerry-built bridge, or " a slip" where the track was narrowest, and the fall of the mountainside steepest. As the eyes of the girl rested on his well-set had, sqxiare shoulders, straight back, and well-knit frame, her approval of his outer man increased. So they rode on, almost in silence, until, midway in the long descent, the track emerged from the clinging bush, and passing over hilly slopes — short-grassed, became wide enough for more sociable travelling.

Soon appeared their first broad vision of a great, full bay. Bounding and riotously rolling came the waves ; dashing over broken rocks, and boisterously hugging, wearing, and wasting the pale sand. There it stretched from the foot of Puketotara to a bold headland forming the further horn of the crescent.

In the middle of the arc nestled a little township — their destination.

" What a dayful of beauty we have had," breathed the girl. " This morning the sweet freshness of everything, the glint of the sun on the leaves and on the water, the birds bubbling over with happiness and song ! The river cutting, and the long canter through the manuka scrub, with the trees so high above our heads that we could only see a narrow-

ribbon of blue sky through, the tiny grey-green topmost twigs, and then that lovely baby of a bay we left behind us, when we came up this wonderful mountain ! Do you know, I feel like an ' Idylls-of-the-king ' person riding through the land on a day like this ! Do you remember Enid and Geraint — " I will ride forth into the wilderness, and thou — Thou ride with me. And Gareth and Lynette : "So, till the dusk that followed evensong, Rode on the two. And Lancelot and Guinevere, you know : " So Launcelot got her horse, Set her thereon, and mounted on his own, And then they rode to the divided way " " ' There kissed and parted weeping/ " he ended it — much to her surprise. She turned merrily. " I did not imagine you knew your ' Idylls ' so well," she laughed, " or I would not have made the quotation. However, we will not travel further than ' the divided way ' together, if you please. What nonsense we are talking," she continued, " and what very wise persons we seemed to be when we set out this morning. Let me see, what have we talked of? First, horses, of course (you being a man); and then we talked of Gordon's horsey poems, and Browning's ' Last Ride Together ' : " Then we began to ride ; my soul Smoothed itself out, a long, cramped scroll, Freshening and fluttering in the wind. and from Browning to Whitman. What came after Whitman?" " Figs," laconically he answered her. " To be sure, and the water melon you stole from the Maoris, and which we could not eat. Do take care, next time you steal a melon, that it's a ripe one. As you are certain to be credited with stealing one, it's as well to eat it too. And then we talked vegetarianism and theosophy and spiritualism right up to the top of Puketotara. I was just beginning to feel myself a spirit and nothing but a spirit, and was thinking how I could sympathise with those people in the Bible who wanted to ' Luild tabernacles ' and stay there, .

The wreck of the ill-fated "Wairarapa" ii 1891 on its locky shore, has rendered the "Great Bamer" an histoiic and tragic name in i ur annals.

when they found themselves on a hilltop in congenial company, when you said 'We must go down.' Ah, well ! the day is nearly over. What shall we talk of now?"

" Ourselves," he answered, instantly. " I have been waiting my chance all day ; but you have been in cloudland, where I could neither climb up to you nor wile you down. I want your help, my friend; I'm in a difficulty " She became serious and interested at once. " Go on," she said, giving him a frank, encouraging look of friendship, " I will do my best." " I know it ; you always do your best. It's in this way : I got word from my chief, two days ago, that I am to be moved in a couple of weeks to take charge of a ' run ' about 60 miles south of Rangirewi. It's promotion, more pay, a house (small enough, but a house), and absolute loneliness. The run extends over the extremity of the peninsula ; the only other inhabitants are Maoris. I have told you before about the lady lam engaged to marry. Her people are gay folk ; she is used to any amount of society and life and fun. What I want to know is this : Have I any right to accept a billet where I should condemn Kitty either to break her word to me or to exile herself from all that makes life worth living to her ? And this for the sake of my companionship ! " There's another point : If Ido not take this opening I cut myself off from all chance of work under my present employers, and so make the prospect of our ever being able to marry very remote. Another man has been appointed to my place at Wainui." " Why should he ask me?" the girl asked herself, and, in the minute of silence that followed, she sent up a little telephonic message to her Invisible Helper to guide her aright. Then she spoke, but slowly as if feeling her way in the dark:

" I can only tell you what comes into my mind to say. It seems to me that if you and she love one another truly, she won't mind a bit ' giving up ' (as you call it) all that fun and gaiety. She won't want that when she has someone to love and someone who loves her. Don't you see?" she went on eagerly, " all that is only a makeshift for love, just to keep us from realising ourselves and being miserable; but

Takauuna Lake about whose mysterious source many interesting conjectures have been formed, is a favourite pleasure resort with the pleasure-loving Auckland**. Our illustration shows the little wharf at which the busy ferry boat? W their papers Premiere a short walk takes one to the lovely little lake, where an excellent hotel provides rest and refreshment for tounst, traveller, or picnicker.

when one has love, it's superfluous — like scaffolding when the house is built. It will be no self-denial to leave it behind. Simply, the fun and gaiety would be tiresome when her heart is filled with love. So, I think; yes, I'm sure, you should write and tell her all about it, and you will find she will write back and tell you just what I've said — and, there being a house and an income, there will be no need for long waiting for happiness for you both." She turned to him, held out her hand, and, with a true, full look into his eyes, said, " I hope that you may be very, very happy," and their hands clasped. " Thank you, my friend," he said, " I'll do exactly as you say, but " — his voice changed — " you don't know Kitty, she's not like you ; she won't do it." " You men," laughed the girl, " you men ! You think you can say beforehand what a woman will or will not do ! And she never knows herself till the time comes what she will, may, can, or must do. But "—" — seriously again — " you must show her that your love is great enough to compensate for what she forsakes to obtain it." " Ay, there's the rub," muttered the man. But here their talk was ended by the crossing of a river mouth well into the breakers. Its shifty, sandy shallows and its deeper bed safely traversed, they found themselves on firm sand left by a receding tide. The horses tossed their heads, sniffed the salt breeze, and stretched their legs for a glorious bloodstirring gallop after the constraint of the long descent. The glory of the day had passed ; shadows came down on surf and sand ; the mountain-top, which had seemed so near the light of Heaven, gloomed darkly behind them. And so they came " to the divided way." lI.— LETTERS. To thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. — Hamlet.

(Tc Vernon Grant, from Donald Lang.) Peninsula Run, Sunday. My Dear Friend, — Do you remember the advice you gave ma, a couple of months ago, as we rode up the coast together? When I got back to Wainui after that trip, I found a letter telling me that the manager in charge of this run had suddenly cleared. So had to ride off without delay (and, what was worst of all, without seeing you again), for things were all at sixes and sevens here: no one looking after the sheep, and all that sort of thing. When I found myself in this God-forsaken spot, I could quite understand the other chap bolting. A drunken Irishman (the shepherd), and a dozen Maoris are the only fellow-sufferers I've encountered yet. When you have read the letter I enclose, you will understand that I'm not exactly gay. If I'd not had Mickey's company and a frequent whisky with him I should have cleared too or gone melancholy mad. But there, I've no business to be writing to you in this way. Forgive me. You have called yourself my friend before this, and have proved yourself one. Write to me now. I want your help. — Yours ever truly, DONALD LANG. (Veronica Grant to Donald Lang.) Wainui. My Dear Friend, — It is Sunday afternoon. lam sitting on the verandah behind the passion vines, in that most comfortable chair you so kindly left behind for me. I thank you for it. I have been listening to the songs of the birds and to the rustling of the blue gum tops and to the sough of the waves across the bar. Besides which, Wainui makes no sound. If you were coming (as you so often did) to have tea with us and a chat on the verandah before going up to the school for the evening service, I might try to tell you something of all I have felt for you since your letter came to me. Even then I should find it hard to express to you how sorry I am because of what the past months have brought you. I can imagine how miserable you have been, with no one to whom you could speak, and a hot, angry pain in your heart against her and against circumstances, and — I expect — against God. And yet, my friend, it is trouble of this sort that cuts so deep, which makes the characters of those men and Avomen whom we most reverence and admire and love, and to whom one instinctively turns for sympathy and strength — that is, of course, when the trouble has been conquered, and we rise to the noblest in us, and forgive. I wonder if I shall lose your friendship if I go on to say what is in my heart. I have tried to persuade myself that there is no necessity for me to say it, that you may regard it as impertinence, but there rings in my ear, "To thine own self be true." To be true to myself I must ask you to write to Kittie again — to answer

her hasty letter with loving words. She was vexed by something" in your letter when she so wrote to you, you allowed her to doubt your sincere desire for her. Now, I expect, she is anxiously waiting for a true, kind letter from you, and your silent acceptance of her letter will be terribly hard to bear. You must have drawn the picture too darkly, forgetting that what may be misery for one may be paradise for two who love one another. Love greatens and glorifies, Till God's aglow to the loving eyes In what was mere earth before. It, has been so hard a task to write to you in this way that I feel I am earning my right to be called — Your sincere friend, VERONICA. Ill— A PROHIBITION MEETING. Indeed, indeed, repentance oft before I swore — but was I sober when I swore? — Omar Khayyam. Waimii is alive with excitement. It is a few days before the general election. A prohibition meeting is to be held in the schoolroom. Speakers have come from Rangirewi to advise noble electors to " Strike out the top line." The speakers — a reverend gentleman and a Rangirewi runholder — are seated in the easiest possible chairs on that ' shady verandah where Veron Grant had penned her letter a week earlier. They are resting their aching bones after the unwonted fatigue of the 40 miles' ride up the coast. On the tennis court, walking up and down, smoking and talking, are Donald Lang and an enthusiastic young Englishman, who, bent upon investigating New Zealand manners and customs, has seized this opportunity of accompanying his friend, the runholder, upon his temperance (?) mission. Donald Lang had overtaken this queerly-assorted party on their journey; had pioneered them safely through the dangers of the road, over unbridged rivers, across slippery papa rocks, and past the publichouses. Seven o'clock ! A move must be made. Regretfully the visitors leave their lounge, and, with Veron Grant and her

•elder sister, saunter up the wide, grass-grown, gorse-pocked -space which constitutes the main street of Wainui.

They find the schoolroom already well-filled. In the back seats, against the wall, are the respectable matrons of the place, their sympathies entirely with the object of the meeting; many children (Miss Grant's Band of Hope youngsters), young men and maidens (hailing any meeting as an excuse for that " walk home together "), strong, wholesome, muscular, young men, cadets or bushfallers; three or four of the " boat's crew " — stalwart, steady men, whose responsible work it is to pull the great surf-boats over the dangerous bar to meet passing coastal steamers; whilst in the front row sit six weak-faced, irresolute, shamed old men, the confirmed topers of the township, come to support prohibition as their forlorn hope of salvation from themselves and their enemy — drink. Only the hotelkeeper's smart wife and daughters are missing from their acustomed place. Veron takes her seat at the organ, and the voices badly blend in singing a doggerel hymn, supplied for the occasion, " Strike out the top line." The children shout it lustily (they have learnt it at the Band of Hope) ; the men's strong voices overpower the few voices of the women, but they are used to that in the Wainui School. The effect, unmusical enough, is curiously blood-stirring. The speakers speak rabidly and unadvisedly. Their motive may be good, but their methods are inartistic. ' " More harm than good," thinks Veron. Suddenly the meeting is startled by a voice shouting loudly, " Who charged for the brandy ? Ask him what he got for his brandy." The offender, quite drunk, well dressed in a broad-cloth suit, is suppressed and turned out by the boatmen, self-constituted guardians of law and order in Wainui. But the runholder, who was speaking, has lost his point, and his confidence, too, and his speech tails off like a broken kite, and he soon resumes his seat. A tale had reached Wainui that the gentleman thus interrogated had recently docked a shilling from the wages of one of his men for brandy supplied to him when fainting from an accident between his fingers and a chaffcutter. The publican had circulated the rumour, dressed in one of his own suits, and primed, a frequent customer, and had sent him up to the meeting to prosecute an inquiry on the matter. The meeting is then thrown open. Two or three of the less respected members of the community speak against prohibition; another speaks against so few licenses, instancing the vile quality of the Wainui whisky, because there is only one hotel; and Donald Lang makes a brilliant little speech out of the well-worn " liberty of the subject," freetrade, freedom of conscience, and the uselessness of negative measures, and so the meeting closes. The lads and lassies walk home together, the young men get their horses and start on their long Tides, the veterans retire to the hotel to talk things over and settle the question over a glass of beer, and the Grants and their guests return home to a pleasant little supper. " Play something, Veron, something good," said her sister, when coffee and cakes were a pleasure of memory only. " Something to make one forget the horrible jingle of that •' Top line " thing !" Veron obediently sat down to the piano. " Play my bit of Beethoven," said Lang, quietly, as he established himself close to her ; and the firm touch of hei fingers brought from the insensate keys the soul of Beethoven as he revealed it to us in the adagio cantabile of the " Sonata Pathetique." Then Donald sang, his pure tenor making tender and thrilling the words of the song " True till death " : Here will I pledge thee, dearest one, For I must leave thee all alone ; Dark is the forest, dark is the shore, Loud beats the storm, and the waters war. True, true till death! Bear it, 0 Wind, on your lightning breath, Bear it, 0 Stream, on your bosom's tide, Echo it, carry it, far and wide — True, true till death! As the final chord died he bent over Veron and said : " Come out with me. I must speak to you." Veron rose and walked to the open door. " What a perfect night," she said, " and what a pity to waste it indoors !

Let us sit on the verandah, and watch the stars above the bluegum tops !" Her invitation was general, but Lang only accepted it. The reverend gentleman felt that bed would indeed be the happiest place for him ; the gentleman who had charged for the brandy was most energetically arguing a theological question with old Mr Grant; the young Englishman cast a longing glance after Veron as she disappeared into the starlit night, but courtesy to Miss Grant (who was telling him local facts of interest) prevented his flight.

Veron led the way to her favourite corner, sheltered closely by the exquisitely-formed pentadactyls and delicate

tendrils of the passion vines, which made a filmy lacelike screen, through which the deep blueness of the star-gemmed sky was visible. She seated herself in the low hammock-chair which Lang had sent to her home as a parting gift. He flung himself down at her feet.

" So, this is where you wrote that letter to me," he said. " Veron, what a woman you are ! I did not imagine there were women like you in the world. Veron, dear, good, woman, I want you — want you for my wife ! I must tell you now what I used to long to tell you as we sat here together, in the old days, talking of so many things, while my heart was saying, ' I love you, Veron.' I was not free to speak then, but I am free now. With you beside me I could be anything you would have me be — for I love you, Veron."

His hands went up, sought and found hers, clasped about her knees. He drew thorn down to his lips and pressed hot kisses on them.

She rose to her feet, not knowing how to speak. She was hungering for love. She was very lonely; she was a woman.

" I must tell you the truth," she said, with difficulty. "I am not like other women. I cannot love. I can be your friend, but I cannot love as men desire love. I have no passion in my nature ; at least I think not, and others have said not." As she was speaking, Lang had moved along the path and through the wide, white gates ; she walked beside him automatically. They crossed the sandy road and were treading the loose shingle of the upper beach before she was aware that they had left the garden.

" Let us go down to the shore," he said, and, as on many a quiet evening before, the two walked slowly down to Where the waves, with little, white hands, Wash remembrance from the sands. They looked out over the three great breakers of the bar, out to where the vastness of the ocean melted into the vastness of the heavens. " This," pointing to the heaving waves, "is passion," he said, " but the ocean beyond is love." Then, turning suddenly, he clasped her in his arms, pressed her to his breast, kissed the unresisting woman hotly, fiercely, passionately. Veron's head sank upon his shoulder, her eyes closed — she was trying to feel. Instead of being thrilled and shaken by his passion, she was analysing her emotions, and wondering what any other woman would have felt in her place. His arms dropped to his sides. Her passivity repulsed him more than any resistance could have done.

" Was that love V she asked. "Do you love me like that? There, I will tell you one thing: I did not dislike it. Other men have wished to marry me, but when they wished to kiss me I disliked them, and could not let them. That is why I have not married. I wonder, I wonder, if I could love you," she pondered. "Do you think I could? "

Donald Lang was confounded. He had thought he knew women, but this was a new experience. He went back to the safe old path of friendship. " Well, be my friend ! I am pledged to you, for I love you as I could love no other woman, you strange, incomprehensible woman ! I cannot unlove you. You awaken all that is best in me. With you I should be the man I was meant to be. Veron, I must get away early to-morrow; I ought not to have come up now, but after getting your letter I could not rest till I had seen you. I will come again at Christmas, nearly two months hence. You are not bound to me, but lam bound by my love to you. I want you to think of me, not as your friend only, but as your lover — as the man who would marry you. And when I look on you on Christmas Eve I shall know in an instant if you love me."

They turned back to the house in silence — he in the silence of suppressed passion, she in the silence of mental conflict. As they neared the gate he drew her under the shadow of the eucalypti, but her coldness froze his caresses. "Mr Lang, I must say something else before you go away. I want you to make me a promise." " What do you want me to promise? I will promise anything you ask if you will only love me." " I want you to promise not to drink any spirits until you come again. If you cannot promise I shall not dare to think of you as you wish." He hesitated, and she resumed :

" Don't be vexed with me, Donald " (using his name for the first time). " You know you spoke to-night as if you were on the side of those who are against temperance, and it made me sad. I'm not a prohibitionist. Like you, I don't believe in negative virtues, but I believe you would positively be a nobler, better man if you let it alone."

"Of course, I'll promise, dearest ; it's nothing to me ! I will not touch wine or beer or spirits until — shall I say until our marriage, Veron?"

" No, say until our parting, Donald. For if you can do this I feel sure you can win my love," and she held up her lips for a kiss.

" Good-bye, dearest ! Good-bye till Christmas," he whispered. So again they parted.

"Kakahi" in the Maori tongue, and "Bell" in the Pakeha, bin equally beautiful in either.

IV.— CHRISTMAS CAROLS. 0 what is this that in my heart is -singing, Like sweet bird caged there — carolling all day? 0 what is this, such gladness to me bringing, That life is b'J&s and work is merry play? And round my steps, lo ! sunny flowers are springing, As I go singing, singing on my way — 0 Love, glad Love ! Ah, what is this that in my heart is sighing, Like captive, vainly moaning, moaning to be free? Ah, what is this, so heavy in me lying? No rest there is, nor any work for me, And leaf and flower are drooping now and dying, As I go sighing, sighing wearily — 0 Love, sad Love! —Walter C. Smith. One and all had accepted Miss Grant's kind invitation for Christmas Eve. She and her trusty maid had been very busy concocting all manner of delicacies for dinner and supper — cold turkey, ham, chickens, trifles, fruit salads, custards, and jellies reposed upon the pantry shelves in delicious readiness for the hour of consumption. Three o'clock of December 24 found the thermometer at 98deg in the shade, Miss Grant in her room indulging in a well-deserved siesta, and Veron in soft, white, silken garb lying in her hammock-chair. She had been "no use at all " (so her sister said) in the manifold preparations now completed. Truth to tell, her whole being was suffused by the " coming of love/ Her absolute trust in the promise of Donald Lang had led her to rest her thoughts upon him as Uie one who would lead her to love. And now he might come at any moment. The bundle of yellow roses upon her breast rose and fell as the thought quickened her heart beat. She closed her eyes to the beautiful outer world, and with her inward eye she saw into an earthly paradise. She saw herself a woman, no longer lonely, apart, outside the warm realities of living, but a woman, loving and beloved, satisfied and complete. Silently she spoke to the Great All-loving : —

" Teach me to love. Make me worthy of his love; make me holy, high, and true ! Keep me close to Thee. Let me see the right, and do it." Even as the cry went up from the depths of her soul . Donald Lang was crossing the last river and riding up the bit of road to the gate where their last " Good-bye " had been said. His horse's footsteps were inaudible on the soft sand : it was the click of the gate, followed by the sound of his voice speaking to his horse as he flung the bridle over the gate-post, that told Veron of his approach. His steps drew near, — stopped as he perceived her through the foliage. In an instant he was beside her, his head bowed down to hers. She felt his breath upon her cheek. Icy coldness clutched her heart as she recognised the taint of spirits in his breath. Ah, but she must open her eyes, and what will he see in them? Not love — but what? Contempt ! disgust ! He thought she was sleeping. He laid his hands upon her shoulders. He was about to awaken her with a kiss. His head came close. She opened her eyes and looked into his, long and steadily, looked into the very heart of him. She saw lurid passion, hot emotion, no truth, no love. " Veron ! Veron !" came a voice from a door near. The voice was Miss Grant's and, on the instant, she followed it. "You here, Mr Lang? When did you arrive? So glad to see you ! Why did you not tell me, Veron ?" " I have only now come," he answered, as they shook hands. " Miss Veron was asleep, and I was wondering if I dared wake her." " Really, Veron, how very inhospitable of you ! I'm sure she cannot be tired," turning to Mr Lang, " for she has done nothing — absolutely nothing, but sit here and moon for the last few days. Now, if I had fallen asleep after all the work I've done, in this terible heat, too, one could understand it," and she rattled merrily on, as her manner was, bringing all around her on to her comfortable every-day plane. There was no quiet after that. Guests on horseback, guests on foot, guests in boats arrived in quick succession.-

Afternoon tea was served under the shadow of the trees, a couple of tennis sets arranged, and life and laughter stirred the old garden.

Veron moved among the visitors, her manner as usual, and the usual old ache at her heart, the ache of loneliness amidst society. " How pale you are, child !" her sister said, as she approached the table with an empty cup. " Come and sit quietly here, and have some hot tea, and I will talk to the people." Veron did as she was told, and felt better. Tennis lasted till dinner. As they sat upon the verandah drinking coffee, talking or listening to the music of the bar, Donald again approached Veron. "Do you know you have not spoken one word to me yet?" he asked, his fine eyes resting on her, conqueringly. " And I have so much to say to you. Have you forgotten what I was to tell you when I came again, dearest?" He spoke very quietly, but someone else came up to her, and she said, hurriedly, "We cannot talk here. Wait — wait till later."

But later there was little opportunity. Soon friends (resident in the township, who had not needed to be asked to dine) came. Merry games were played — blind man's buff in the big kitchen, music and songs. Veron's place was on the piano stool playing accompaniments. " Would the evening never end ? " she wondered. But, at length, came 10 o'clock, coffee, and cakes.

'' I am going to make a surprising suggestion," said Miss Grant. " Let us all go and carol sing I" "What fun!" "Just the thing!" "Where shall we gof Everyone approved. Wraps and caps were sought. Old Mr Grant stood at the door giving each " Good-night " and good wishes — and " looking ridiculously like a beneficent old Father Christmas," so Miss Grant said.

" You carry the lanbern, Mr Lang, and we will go to the school and sing things over, and get some hymn books," commanded Miss Grant, as they sallied forth. " Living in this benighted land it is so long since I heard ' Christians awake ' that I've almost forgotten it, and I don't believe the rest of you ever kn.ew it I So to the school they went, and

sang through the old familiar tunes, " While shepherds, watched," " Hark the herald," and " Christians awake."

Outside again, .they walked cautiously, lest they should; blunder into clumps of gorse or over a belated cow asleep on the main road. Windows and doors were opened by strangely clad and unclad as the carollers waked the silent village with laughter and song. They sang their final hymn under Mr Grant's window %at midnight. Never a word had Donald Lang yet gained with Veron. Amidst the general hand-shak-ing he spoke : "May I leave my dogs in your stables? I will come across for them in the morning. About 5 I must leave.'' Then, taking her hand in his, he breathed :

" Veron, you must see me then. Promise that you will come out to me ?" " I promise " said Veron.

At 4 on Christmas morning a girl with wide, weary eyes, rose from sleepless restlessness. She dressed and went without on to the side verandah; she seated herself upon a hard bench. Very soon her head was leaning against the unsympathetic weather-boards and her eyes were closed. She was asleep.

When the fierce glare of the sun at length reached that corner of the verandah it beat upon her and played about her, and awoke her. Her head throbbed, her limbs ached; she rose, went within, took up her watch from the dressing table.

" Seven o'clock !" she said. " Then he has been gone two hours. And I? Was it only yesterday I prayed that I might love him?" " We, ignorant of ourselves, Beg, often, our own harems, which the wise powers Deny us for our good : so find we profit By losing of our prayers."

At 7 o'clock Donald Lang was striding into the bar of the hotel halfway between Wainui and Rangirewi. He called for a whisky — " another " and " another." His dogs lay panting and foot-weary without. His heated horse shook him-

The Remarkables are well named, and draw attention to the interesting falls which constitute the only outlet to the enormous area of Lake Wakatipu.

self till every buckle rattled. They had travelled fast. As Lang remounted, he said to himself : "No more standing on tip-toes for me. I'll stay in Rangirewi for the night, put up at the Crown and go to the dance that's to be given there. I'll have a bit of a fling all round, I think." V.— THE NEW YEAR. For ignorant hopes that were Broken to our blind prayer, For pain and sorrow sent Unto our chastisement, For all loss of seeming good, Quicken our gratitude. — W. D. Howells. New Year's Eve found Veron again on horseback, riding over the same road which Donald Lang had so quickly covered on Christmas Day morning. She was on her way to visit friends whose station lay four miles out of Rangirewi, the little post town which formed the shopping centre for the district. She had written Donald Lang, telling him how she had risen at 4, and had fallen asleep, only waking after he had left, and how sad a day it had been for her as she thought of him riding away, angry with her for her broken promise. She told him, too, that she would be in town at the New Year, and asked him to meet her at her friends'. There had not been time for any reply. Ten o'clock on New Year's Day found Veron in a hammock under a cluster of trees which protected a quaint little homestead. Her position commanded a view of a long road, rising from the stony bed of the creek at the foot of the home paddock, and winding up a steep hillside till it lost itself at the summit in the direction of the town. The heat made a shimmering haze over the scene. Hot, high noon came, the mid-day meal was served, but still no horseman broke that long, curving road. Veron was wondering if it was to end here, if this was the parting of their ways, when she saw two horsemen almost at the foot of the hill. Her friends had seen them, too, and brought out afternoon tea and spread it near the hammocks on the ground, softly carpeted with

pine needles. The riders proved to be Donald Lang and a friend of his, unknown to Veron. Greetings and tea over, the inevitable cigarettes were lighted, and the group adjourned to the orchard, straggling about under fruit-laden trees, eating plums and peaches and a]Dricots. Veron and Donald sauntered on through the paddock to the shady creek in silence. She waited for him to speak. " Miss Grant/ he began at last, " after seeing you at Christmas, I came to the conclusion that I had made a huge mistake. We are utterly unsuited to one another. You would not be happy with me; I do not come up to your ideals, and I—lI — I cannot marry you. When I marry I want a woman who can love." Whose words were those which crossed Veron's brain as he spoke : Yet she could love (those eyes declare), Were men but nobler than they are. Was Matthew Arnold or Donald Lang right? " No ; we should not be happy," she answered, sadly, v and yet- — I was beginning to love you, and I could have loved you if " but she broke off. What use to tell this man that, in her nature, love could only grow out of respect; that his broken word had fallen on the tiny shoot of love and had broken it? They talked commonplaces after that, and the friends soon took their leave. Veron's tear-filled eyes followed them up the long road, which this day's watching had stereotyped on her brain. As they were lost to sight over the crest of the hill, memory whispered to her, And so they came to the Divided Way, And parted, weeping. A month later thb rubbishy little local newspaper announced the mariage of Donald Lang and a lady whose name was unknown to Veron. They had met first at a public dance on New Year's Night, a gossip said. VI.— A YEAR LATER. GOOD-BYE, MY FANCY. Heartily know, When half-gods go, The gods arrive. — Emmerson. We needs must love the highest When we see it. — Tennyson. The- river at Rangirewi moves sluggishly down to the sea. Over it, across the long, narrow bridge, throng thickly buggies, horses, cyclists, and pedestrians. It is the Saturday before Christmas and the countryfolk are crowding into town bo do their Christmas shopping.

Against this stream, moving out of town, are two riders

One, a woman, with gleaming bronze hair, happy, loving eyes, and contented, trustful expression ; the other, a man, the refinement of whose countenance confers upon him an air of distinction.

On foot, pressed to tb.3 side of the bridge, out of the way of the horses' hoofs, is another woman. She is worried, weary, and cross; the baby on her arms cries noisily. Behind her walks a man, his cap pulled down to his eyes, his dress careless, his face coarse with fast living. As he passes the

These Cosmos Peaks are really the most beautifully picturesque of all the magnificent Lake scenery,

■

riders, his hot eyes glance up. Their moody expression changes to one of malignity as he sees Veron Grant and the man she is soon to marry.

To both it is a " might have been." Him it stings with the memory of a forsaken better self, a lost ideal. To her it brings a great heart-swell of pity for the woman, the slave of his passions. Then the saying of the old divine comes to mind, " There, but for the grace of G-od, goes — Veron Grant/ she thinks, and a great wave of thankfulness sweeps upward her whole nature towards the "Divinity that shapes our ends."

An illustration of the rough mountain tracks which lead to the great commonwealth of gold.