CHAPTER XXIV.—(Continued.)

Tuapeka Times, Volume XXIV, Issue 1904, 11 June 1892, Page 1 (Supplement)

CHAPTER XXlV.—(Continued.)

" Are you going away again, Te Cora?" "Yes, I am sorry to say, for I had been looking for a quiet rest in this dear, dull, gloomy, old sea bound prison, where you and I were cradled, Hilton Fernbrook, and where I intended listening to your wonderful experiences in other lands. Kiti Tuoi Meri. 1 must now postpone my pleasures for a more convenient season." "Why, pray?" *' Mrs. Gayiand is my patient. The physican did me the honor to ascribe my friend's recovery to my excellent nursing rather than to his skill. Complimentary rather, bub scarcely true. We are ordered a change of scene, and I am pledged to accompany my friend. Tete, I must go sir." "Where do you intend going ?" he asked. "To the wonderland of this wonderful country—the hot springs of Wairoa," Bhe replies laughing. "Forsome months we intend to throw off the usages of civilisation, and become wand^flp and pilgrims round Rotomahrig||r We shall scale the Fire Mounf.( jjffigraa and bask in the sunny ripplesajßHke Tarawera — our eyes shall bejHvthe Maori War God, who standj^^Hf his flaming meri at the rugged j|^V of the Pink and White Terraces^Bgwonder and envy of all the gr^Kround world the — " Pray pausefml take breath," he in- " Sir, you wTJj'have to do penance for interrupting me," she cried. " I want a boon." " Ask, and it.is granted, Te Cora." "You are not wise." "Why so, Uni?" "Because I am a woman, and I may want the moon." "Say rather the man in ib, To Cora," he rejoins, gaily. " That is certainly nearer the mark,"sir. Bosco,. the Maori, was my father's foster brother. Can Bosco accompany me to Wairoa ?" "Certainly." "Then, I will say good-bye," she replied, rising. "I see you are impatient to get back again to the Times." " One moment, that reminds me. This struggle between the rebels and our men appears to be drifting round to the vicinity of Rotomahana. Will your trip be free from danger ?" There was a flush in the girl's magnificent black eyes. "Tut!" she says. "Am I not a Maori, the daughter of Te Papa ?" Fernbrook smiles. "Weft, uni, I hope you will return soon. Be good enough to tender my regards to your fair friend, and a wish for her speedy recovery." Te Cora has her hand on the door, when her companion remembers something else he has to say. " Did I mention to you that a gentleman named Dusk accompanied me from England ?"' he asks. ."No." " Write the name in your book beside that of Victor Mauprat. Mr Dusk ia somewhere in the neighborhood of Mount Tarawera, and you may meet him, possibly." Te Cora obeys. " Has you friend decided to view the wonders of wonderland?" she enquires. "I think not. The man is a detective. His mission is to find our friend, the convict, and take him back again to gaol." The Maori shudders, and retires noiselessly. The great wheel of life moves round slowly for Victorine Gayiand. Each revolution has its pain and its tears for her—spite of all her pride and her philosophy. The elite wend the even tenor of their way as heretofore, and do not miss their leader. They marry, and are given in marriage, and dance, and jig, and amble, and lisp, and nickname one another, just the same as if the poor • weak, suffering worm of fashion, had never queened it over them. Poor Victorine Gayiand, rest thy sorrowing head upon the sofb bosom of the Maori, faithful until death for thee.-Let the lights gleam upon fair women and handsome men. Let diamonds sparkle and soft music roll amidst all the splendour that money can produce. It is only dead sea fruity after all' a hollow sham. Amos Ward calls often to see the patient, but he knows now there is no hope for him beyond her friendship. Love is dead within the soul of Major Hargrave's daughter. Ah ! How she longs for her old life again in that poor cottage by the seawall. The needy griping penury that made her sour and dissatisfied would be thrice welcome now, if it could bring with it her dead father, and that one love which was lost to her for ever. She had played for riches, and lo ! they were hers in abundance. Heaven help her— how powerless they were ! Save Te Cora, no one knew —or would ever know, for the matter of that—how near this woman of the world had been to self-destruction. From the contemplation of the awful act, the unhappy Victorine recoiled with horror. Henceforth she would think of it no more, or the cause thereof. Out of the darkness had come to her a glimmer of light and hope, the hope which often •stimulates the world-weary who have discovered that ail vbieh glitters ia not gold. Not at the shrine of saint, or the footstool of priest, but to ** Our father who art in heaven," did Vicfcoriue Gayiand vow to devote the remainder of her life

The poor was to be her field, and her mission charity. Get well quickly, lady, and begin thy good work.