ERNEST HARRINGTON'S REWARD.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume IX, Issue 11, 12 March 1892, Page 242

ERNEST HARRINGTON'S REWARD.

BY

THOMAS COTTLE,

REMUERA, AUCKLAND.

AUTHOR OF ‘FRANK MELTON’S LUCK.

CHAPTER V. MAGGIE GIVES DICK A LESSON IN PARROT-SHOOTING—THE SEARCH FOR THE MANIAC. A .T this juncture a hungry kaka flew into the dense branches of the tree above them and jllxg commenced its evening meal. A berry dropped -y ?BssK|fy at Maggie’s feet. To seize her gun was the work of a moment, then standing on the spot VIX where the berry had fallen, her practised eye pierced the interstices of the thick dark green foliage, and descried the brown plumage and busily-engaged beak of the bird as it pecked at the ripe berries far overhead. Notwithstanding the fact that her hand shook from her late struggle with herself, the bird fell fluttering to the ground, badly wounded and uttering piteous cries. She did not stoop to pick it up, nor did she attempt to put it out of its pain, but quickly reloaded the empty barrel. Dick ran forward to secure the bird. * Let it lie,’ she exclaimed, ‘its cries will attract others. ■Get your gun ready. We shall have some sport now.’ She was right. From all quarters with swiftly swirling Hight and angry grating shrieks came wheeling overhead dozens of sympathising comrades, ready to light or die, if need be, in its defence. And in truth death was the reward meted out by a rattling hail of shot from the two guns to many of them for their instinctive devotion. The screeches of the dying only added to the furious disregard of danger of the survivors. The bags were at length filled, and the carnage ceased. ‘ There you see, Master Dick, if you had despatched that bird we might have missed the chance of all these. Did you never try that dodge before ?’ ‘ < >h, yes, often, when we weie out prospecting, and it was my week to be cook and provide for the camp, but I must sav I always considered it cruel slaughter, not sport. It’s all very well for pot-shooting. I hardly expected, I must admit, to see one of your sex adopt it.’ * Ah, well, mine is all pot-shooting, as you call it. I would never shoot for sport. Both brother and father are very fond of kakas and pigeons, and I have so little time for shooting, I cannot afford to lose such a splendid chance of bountifully replenishing my larder. I suppose it is cruel as you say, but one sees so much cruelty in Nature that one gets hardened, and is apt to ask what does one little bit more matter? Does not God allow thousands—nay, myriads of the animals He has created, to die lingering deaths of agony from wounds inflicted on one another in fights? He does not trouble to cut short their fearful sufferings by so much as one weary moment. Why, then, need we care ? We are not allowed to shorten the life of one of our suffering brothers or sisters, even when they beg and implore us to do so, because every moment is a hell of torture to them ! No ; that would be murder ! Why, then, need we be so very particular to do so in the case of animals if it suits us for any reason to do otherwise? What have they done to deserve such consideration—such an incalculable advantage over us ?’ Dick did not know, nor did he care to inquire particularly into the matter, so he quickly changed the subject into a more agreeable channel, and spent a very pleasant afternoon, even although he did not get the nap under the trees that he proposed when he set forth. On his return to his host’s hut the latter congratulated him on his well-filled bag. , * Yes, I have had good sport. Ido not know that I ever enjoyed a day’s shooting more. This Gatlin’s River isn’t half a bad spot after all. I’m not sure whether I won’t look out for a farm here myself.’ * Do, old man. I should like nothing better than to see you settle down near us. There are several places for sale that might suit you.’ Dick did not reply. He did not feel quite comfortable. Notwithstanding the arguments which he had advanced to quiet .Maggie’s scruples, he felt that he had behaved very scurvily to his old friend. The fact that many other men would have done the same did not comfort him. He had always prided himself on his nice sense of honour, and it cut him to the quick when he reflected that he could do so no longer. ******* Three years passed by, and we find Dick married and settled down on a large farm he had purchased in the district. It was pointed out as a model. It is not difficult to make a model farm if you have the means and the ability. Dick had the former and his wife the latter. Her early training stood her in good stead, and the farm owed much to her careful supervision and suggestions. Dick knew more about quartz reef and alluvial digging than crops and cattle, but, unlike mankind in general, was very willing to learn even from his wife. Ernest was generally reported to have taken his loss much better than could have been expected. But, after all, what could report know about it? lie did not show much grief or disappointment, but often the exertion of concealing a trouble augments it tenfold. At first he made up his mind to sell the farm and leave the district, but after due considelation he abandoned the idea. Maggie had been very humble before him when she ac knowledged her defalcation. She laid great stress on the point that she was deceived in her own sensations, otherwise she would never have deceived him ; that she had not won his affections for pastime, and then Hung them ruthessly from her as many do ; but that in her heart she honestly believed at the time that it was real love she felt

tor him Her heartfelt pity for him somewhat eased the blow, as being single minded and truthful himself, he believed every word she told him, and they parted friends. To Dick he told ais mind in a few words, to which Dick listened abashed, not attempting defence, seeing that he was rather short of it. ‘ You might have left me to my happiness, Dick,’he said, ‘and gone elsewhere —you who could pick and choose where you pleased. It was cruel of you, very cruel. I would to God it had been anyone but my old mate who had dealt me this blow ! But it is done, and I must bear it as best I may. Be kind to her, Dick, and do your best to make her life as bright as she deserves it should be. • You owe it to me to do that as well as to her. If any harm should come to her through you, you will have me to reckon with. But, pshaw ! what avail threats ’ You could not possibly ill-treat her loving her as you say you do.’ ‘ 111-treat her ! I’d sooner cut of! my right hand ! God bless you, old man, for taking it all so kindly. Remember always though that I used no artifices to draw her love away from you. I did not steal her from you. I merely took what she could not help giving. Still Ido not justify myself overmuch. I acknowledge that I ought to have left the district directly I saw what might be, but I miscalculated my powers, and hers too, perhaps, till it was too late.’ ‘ That will do, Dick. I’d rather dismiss the subject,’ said poor Ernest, turning abruptly away. He watched anxiously for a time to see if Maggie was happy in her new life, and was compelled to admit to himself that she was. It was very evident that she loved her husband more dearly than she could ever have loved him. This consoled him somewhat; for if they could not both be happy, it was surely well that one should be, he reasoned, thus vainly trying to reason away his ■ grief. But it stubbornly refused to be so summarily dismissed. It oft times came back forcibly to its old quarters, especially when he happened to meet his old sweetheart with her husband. Still, strange as it may appear, he preferred this occasional renewal of his trouble to the obviously easy escape from it by leaving the district and never setting eyes on the fair lady again. He could not divest himself of a curious presentiment that he might yet be of great service to Maggie at some future time. In what manner he had not the slightest idea. There was also another reason for remaining where he was. While paying his attentions to Maggie, he had with his considerate, kindly manner greatly endeared himself to the rest of her family. They liked him much better than they did the careless, easy-going and somewhat selfish Dick, and after his rejection they often allowed him to see that they deeply regretted Maggie’s conduct, and wished she had remained true to him. Although Dick provided his wife with the means to pay a man to work on her father’s farm as Ernest had proposed doing, Ernest undoubtedly did much more. His wise counsel and ready assistance at any hour, day or night, either by the bedside of the invalids or in the bush after cattle, were always at their service. At odd hours he assisted greatly in clearing and fencing a large paddock for the milking cows, thereby saving infinite labour hunting them up night and morning in the bush, and increasing materially their milk-producing powers. It was he who kept the wages man up to the mark ; it was his ingenuity that constructed a handy go-cart, whereby Davie could cast aside for a time his crutches and propel himself along the smoothest of the roads in the vicinity. But it would take far too much space to record all the advantages the Martins reaped from their friendship with Ernest. And so time wore on. Hard work is an excellent specific for trouble. It is ‘ the labour we delight in ’ which physics pain. That sort of labour, however, is sometimes scarce. With many of ns in truth very few descriptions of toil come under that category, and those few are not always obtainable. Still, the other sort—that for which we have no inordinate affection—is far better than none. Ernest was lucky in this respect. There were any quantity of acres of primeval forest on his section which required clearing, and bushfelling was his delight. He went in, he would tell you, for the science of the thing. See how carefully he chooses his axe from the easeful at the store. Its weight must be right to an ounce ; the handle must have exactly the correct amount of swing in it. There are perhaps two in the whole case which please him: the rest he would hardly take at a gift. Fortunately, the storekeeper has other customers who are not so particular and could not discern a shade of difference in the tools. As he enters the bush with his axe in his hand to commence the new clearing which he has planned for the season’s operations of himself and man, Ernest pauses awhile and reflects. Here before him stands a mighty forest which has withstood for centuries the dread forces of nature —the blinding storm, the blasting lightning, the raging tempest. But to what avail ’ It is undeniably and majestically grand, but it cumbers the earth, and therefore it must go. In a few short weeks with the keen little tool in his hand he will level it to the ground where it will lie a tangled mass of broken dead wood, hoary trunks, tender saplings, and scrubby undergrowth mingled together in the general destruction, till the time shall come when dried and withered, he deems it fit for burning. A good breeze is blowing. The match is struck ; a tiny tlame arises which in a moment or two the wind fans into a raging and terrible contlagration. Flames leap up amid showers of meteorlike sparks, till they are lost in the lurid pall of smoke overhead. The roar and crackle, as they curl their scorching tongues round the objects before them, are appalling. In front is a wall of quivering, all devouring fire, behind will shortly be the blackness of desolation, smouldering stumps and charred trunks too massive for consumption, alone

showing where once stood the evergreen luxuriance and cool shades of New Zealand bush. Some people doubtless would greatly deplore this devastating ruin, but Ernest did not. He laughed gleefully io himself as lie contemplated it. To him it was no mournful sight. In its blackened heaps of ashes he saw but the w ell prepared seed bed for the grass and clover seed he meant to sow broadcast, which would presently burst forth and transform the ruin of the bush into a luxuriant grass paddock, producing succulent herbage and ample sustenance for increased flocks and herds. And truly Ernest’s way of looking at it was the better one. It is ever best to work for and look forward to what may be the bright outcome of present destruction. It is awful to contemplate the time which is lost in mourning and whining over what we regard as ruin, whether of our own working or that of others. Our hopes in life are perchance shattered, it may be unavoidably, but what boots grieving overmuch. The time will be so much better employed in sowing good seeds on the ashes—seeds sifted clear of evil weeds ; then when the harvest comes, as come it assuredly must, we may regard the past desolation with as little concern as Ernest did the destruction of the bush. My simile does not seem exactly to fit, but the lesson I seek to teach from it is nearly as hard to beat as to learn. ‘lt is as old as the hills,’ says one. True, but age has not rusted it, and when you have learnt, and, what is more to the point, applied all the old lessons, my dear reader, we will try and teach you something new. But that will not be just yet. I do not pretend to say that Ernest dreamt of likening his trouble to the work he had in hand, or that he reflected that there might yet be for him, as for it, a blossoming forth of smiling, sweet-scented verdure which would hide for ever the ugly, ash-strewn surface—one which, perchance, he would not for worlds exchange even for the pristine beauty of the native bush. Still, the possibility was before him ; but there was a proviso, the right seed must be sown.’ Would he stretch forth his arm to sow it, or would he withhold his hand, saying, • There can be in the future no good thing for me.’ We have yet to see. Be this as it may, it is very certain that this pet work of his prevented him from thinking too much over his loss. It will be remembered he was slight of stature and but poorly endowed with physical strength, but he was, nevertheless, a splendid axeman. He possessed the knack, the perfect swing of his axe, compared to which mere brute force is as nought. The merry ring of its keen edge against the hard grained timber was music to him. The resonant creaking groan and crashing thud as the heartstrings of a hoary big-limbed birch gave way, and it quivered, tottered, and fell exactly as he had intended, knocking down with it, like a row of nine pins, several others which he had previously cut half through, thus economising labour made him laugh gleefully. The scent of the flying, freshcut chips was sweet in his nostrils. Life even without Maggie was really not to be utterly despised after all; yet with her it would have been But of this it was best not to think. About this time he had occasion to visit Dunedin on business. He was absent some weeks, and on his return he was surprised and deeply pained to hear it currently reported that Dick Porter had lately shown signs of being a little queer in his head. That was the way the neighbours expressed it. It appeared that about a fortnight previously he had been thrown from his horse, but was judged at the time to be little or noue the worse for the fall. Now, however, it was stated that the accident had left serious results. As yet it was not deemed necessary to put him under restraint. A complete change was what the doctor recommended, together with constant care and supervision. Maggie was only waiting till Ernest returned to ask him to secure someone to look after the farm, so that she could carry out this recommendation by taking a . ri P the North Island. It was reported that he occasionally talked of suicide, and that Maggie never allowed him out of her sight if she could avoid it. A neighbour had at first been engaged to assist in watching him, but this so irritated him that it was discontinued. Ernest soon found a man to act as overseer at the farm, and everything was in order for their departure on the proposed journey, which was to take place in two days’ time. But suddenly news r ? u . th® settlement one evening that poor Dick had eluded his wife’s vigilance by some means, and had been missing since the morning. A few of the nearest neighbours had been hunting for him, but had not found him. It was too late to organize a regular search party that m ght, but at daylight next morning every able-bodied man ana boy in the settlement turned out. The ladies, it is said, acted even more promptly, for not one of them, from the youngest to the oldest, retired to rest on the night they received the intelligence without searching ever conceivable and inconceivable erink and cranny of their respective homes, in no way forgetting the weird and ghostly spaces beneath their beds, but Dick was under none of them. When Ernest first heard the news he was human or heartless enough—which you will, it matters little—to feel some sort of a sensation of pleasure at it. It flashed through his mind that if the man had destroyed himself a “ d , ™! e chances would appear ten to one that he had—might he not, after a decent period of mourning had elapsed, '° rt the sweet young widow in a manner which made the blood dance in his veins even to contemplate. The 1 . 1 ca " .h* n ’ l, y his ordinary name, and leave others to invest him fulsomely with the rank and title of majesty—the devil, I say, is popularly credited with putting such ideas into men’s heads when they happen to be piematurely entertained, as in the present case. That makes all the difference. With reliable evidence of his successful rival s decease before him, Ernest’s ardent desire to administer consolation to the poor widow at the cost of his own freedom could not but be regarded as meritorious in the extreme (save perhaps by a few single girls, whose opinions being prejudicial do not count), and far, verv far from being an emanation from the evil one ; but he had not that reliable evidence. I might here remark, bv the way, that, if the generally conceived opinion quoted above is correct, the devil is about the hardest worked old fellow of his age about. Whoever put this *nto Ernest’s head, he very soon drove it out at all events temporarily, and was the most untiring and energetic of the search party. He went first to the house to gather every particular which might aid them in their labours. The sight of the woman he still loved in her dire distress, with her little one crowing on her arm, unconscious alike of his mother s sorrow and his father’s peril, would have made a far worse man than Ernest vow within himself to do his utmost to save the life of the man who was so

necessary to her happiness—if so be that he was not yet past all saving—even although it would assuredly be to the further annihilation of his own. The search proceeded. The day was dark and lowering. The scene was sad and sombre. Grim horror was depicted more or less on every face as they crashed through the rank tlax and rapu that lined the swampy creek, which wound its dull, sluggish course down a dark valley a few miles from the homestead, and probed with extemporised drags its slimy bottom. The ever present ghostly fear that at any moment they might bring to surface the sudden, distorted remains of what was so short a time since a man in the prime of life, and more than that, their comrade and their friend, haunted them. This fear was intensified a hundredfold when, as was often the case, their clumsy tools became entangled in a straggling root or dead niggerhead*. To find him alive was more than the most sanguine dared hope. Evening drew near. The creek had been dragged and redragged. Every inch of the tangled underscrub in the dark recesses of the bush near at hand had been thoroughly searched, but no trace of the missing man could be discovered. CHAPTER VI. IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT —A FEARFUL STRUGGLE. Darkness set in, and the weary searchers departed to their various homes, arranging to meet again at daylight. At the distracted wife’s special request Ernest entered the house ere he returned to his farm. He tried his best to comfort her by assurances that he would yet restore to her her husband alive. But his tearful eyes and broken tones, which strive as he would, he could not control, prevented the poor woman from taking consolation from his words, for she knew that even as he spoke he had no shred of hope. She pressed him to take some refreshment, tor he had partaken of nothing since his early breakfast. He tried to swallow a few mouthfuls, but it was no good. It choked him. A crumb had gone down the wrong way, he said, but it was not the bread. Pressing his old love’s hand, he hurried from the house, and when fairly out in the dark gloom of night, he sobbed as he had not done since he left his mother’s knee twenty long years before. Should he go home? No, he felt that he could not. There was one direction in which no sufficient search had yet been made. He would at least ride along that road before he returned to his farm. He had ridden three or four miles when the clouds which had obscured the sky all day suddenly cleared off. The moon, until now scarcely visible, had risen in all her calm, still beauty. Her silvery rays rested alike on the dense foliage of the mighty forest and the verdant clearings, lighting them up with an almost unearthly loveliness. At any other time Ernest would have enjoyed the scene intensely, but now he was not in the mood, nor had he time. What was that dark spot in the centre of the clearing away to his right? A charred stump ? No, for it moved rapidly towards the bush. It was human. At that time of the night, who in their senses would venture into that densely-timbered swampy bush ? No one ! The tall figure before him could not but be poor demented Dick. In the twinkling of an eye Ernest threw himself from his horse, for on foot he could take the shorter cut. The dark deep creek which skirted the road was too wide a leap for the best horse ever foaled. It was in flood, but a slender stemmed tree had fallen across from bank to bank. The centre of this frail apology for a bridge swung low, and over it dashed the swiftly flowing turbulent water. Ernest heeded it not, but dashed across. In his hurry and excitement he performed the feat without a false step. In his calmer moment he would not have attempted it for worlds. Was it possible for him to reach the further side of that clearing before the dark figure entered the bush and became lost to his sight? He would strive his utmost. He did, and overtook him on the very verge of the sombre-shadowed forest. As he had anticipated, it was Dick, but how pitifully, woefully changed since he had last beheld him. He was hatless ; his hair stood up in a tangled mass ; his eyes were bloodshot, and starting almost out of their sockets ; they glittered like sparks of fire in the dim light under the trees ; his cheeks were sadly white, worn, and shrunken. One hand was pressed wildly to his forehead, while the other swung aimlessly at his side, as he strode along utterly regardless whither he went. His mouth and beard were bespattered with a foul mass of foam ; his teeth chattered as he ceaselessly muttered meaningless words, and his usually neat attire hung from him in rags, besmirched with mud and mire. Ernest’s sensations may be better imagined than described as he beheld bis old comrade and successful rival in such a plight. He paused for a moment to consider what steps to take. He had not tasted food all day, and was not aware that the maniac had fasted twice as long. He knew that Dick was by far the most powerful man of the two at any time, and was now endued with the strength and desperation of a madman. It was the dead of night. Dick had not yet seen him. What should he do ? He was sorely tempted in this weak moment to refrain from this fearful encounter, which would haidly fail to end disastrously to him. Not a soul could ever knovz he had seen the madman. Once in that murky bush the poor fellow would assuredly never come out again alive. Old bushmen in broad daylight and in their sober senses found it most difficult to retrace their steps when once in its wild swampy entanglements, if the sun their usual guide, was not shining. A more dangerous piece of bush could hardly be conceived, for were there not in its wild mysterious depths hideous pitfalls even for the wary, bottomless swamps of soft yielding mud cunningly concealed by the rank overhanging masses of surrounding vegetation ? For the moment, of a truth, Ernest was sorely tried. The attempt to save the maniac’s life appeared so utterly hopeless, the danger to his own so plainly palpable, and the devil-prompted thought of what this man’s death might eventually mean to him, so vividly, temptingly clear. Yes, he would yield. He turned aside to do so, when suddenly, like a flash of light, there appeared to him, as it were, the vision of an angel. With woe-stricken face and blinding tears there seemed to stand before him in spirit the poor madman’s wife, his own lost love, and the promise he bad made her was instantly recalled to bis mind. He gave one big, gulping sob, which shook his whole frame. His indeci- * A swamp plant, which from its thick, black, fibrous stem, surmounted by a tuft of coarse gruss, has received this name.

sion was gone. He determined to save her husband or die in the attempt. He cared little which now. Two or three swift bounds brought him to Dick’s side. * Hold on, old man,' he cried cheerfully. ‘lt’s too dark to venture into that bush to-night. Come along home with me and have a rest and a yarn. I’ve got a lot to tell you about my trip to Dunedin.' With one tierce swing of bis powerful arm Dick cast his would-be preserver from him with a force which sent him reeling to the ground. He had not recognised Ernest, nor understood his words, but tramped on muttering to himself. In no way dismayed by this repulse, the brave little man picked himself up, and again following Dick, grasped his hand to try and detain him. Dick turned furiously round and raised bis arm to strike with all his cruel force the man who thus dared to arrest his steps. Suddenly a sense of who Ernest was seemed to come to him, and again clasping his brow with his upraised hand, as it were to clear his waudering brain, he strove to speak as of old. ‘ Ernie, old man !’ he commenced ; the rest was but raving. The slight spark of returning reason was already quenched. Again casting off his pursuer as one he knew not, he hurried on through the dark gloom of the thick forest, through which no smiling ray of kindly moonlight could by any means pierce. Ernest followed through scrub and swamp, through thicket and morass. Weary, faint with hunger, and wellnigh exhausted as he was, he pressed manfully onward, though he well knew the chances were a thousand to one they would not get out that night, even supposing they ever did. Repeatedly he strove, by one means and another, to check the madman’s headlong career, but he might as well have tried to fly. Again and again he was hurled ruthlessly aside by the superior strength of his self-constituted foe. Ever and anon as they blundered on, pursuer or pursued tripped and fell over fallen logs or protruding roots, but only to rise again and pursue their reckless terrible course. And now by the changed nature of the rank undergrowth, which Ernest felt rather than saw, he knew that a horrible, fathomless morass lay right in front of them. A few more fierce stridesand Dick must plunge headlong into its hideous depths. The thick overhanging growth of matted vegetation on its precipitous brink would not stop him. He would all the more determinedly crash through it, as he had hitherto done through every other obstacle. Again was Ernest sorely tempted to give up this seemingly superhuman task, and allow the poor maniac by his own unconscious act to abruptly end an existence which at best could scarce fail to be a living death, a prolonged agony. Would it not be in reality kindest for all parties that he should do so? Dazed and sick at heart as he was with the hopeless struggle, he thought that it would. He turned aside that he should not see. He pressed his hand wildly to his ears that he should not hear the dull splash of the foul black waters as they closed round his old comrade. In doing so once more before his aching eyes flashed that bright halo, and in it he beheld again the pale, imploring, woeful face, surpassingly beautiful, it seemed to him, even in its abandonment of grief ; the glorious eyes bedimmed with bitter tears, the wealth of glossy raven hair, free from its bonds, shrouding the fair figure to the waist. It was a magnificent personification of heartrending sorrow, a sight to make angels weep. One moment, and it had vanished into the thick darkness. Ernest was not an angel. It affected him differently. He turned sharply round, concentrated all his remaining strength, overtook poor Dick, and with the bound of a tiger was on his shoulder. The suddenness of this unexpected onslaught brought the madman down on his back in the tangle of prickly bush lawyers on the very verge of the chasm. Ernest was under him, and well content to be there, holding on like grim death to his adversary’s collar, regardless of ought else. Dick made frantic but futile efforts to rise. His mad yells of furious rage at being thus baffled were terrific. The startled night birds added their shrill cries, and the bush, usually silent as death at this hour, re-echoed with a hellish discord. Ernest held bravely on. If he could but shift his grasp so as to temporarily choke the maniac there might be some hope, but his position was as yet too cramped. It was a struggle of life and death, with the chances a hundred, nay, a thousand to one on the latter. The giant strength of poor Dick, augmented by his maniacal fury, would have made short work of the wiry little fellow if he could but have got at him ; but he was still underneath, and there he meant to stay if it were but possible. The slightest move in one direction would hurl them both into what must inevitably be a watery grave. The overhanging, slimy banks of the abyss precluded all hope of escape to anyone once engulfed in its cold oozy slime. Ernest had seen the spot in broad daylight, and his dread of it was well-founded. He never for a moment now hoped to leave it alive ; but his presence of mind did not desert him. There was now another brief glimmer of reason and coherency in Dick’s fury. He wildly accused the man who was risking bis life to save him, of a wicked desire to murder him and marry his widow, and, as he did so, he gave another frantic struggle to free himself which caused him to hang right over the hellish hole. Another fierce temptation assailed the poor little fellow to let go his hold. In any case he could but retain it for a very few moments. The pain in the strained muscles of his arms was fast growing intolerable; his endurance was all but exhausted. There was no hope of saving his old comrade now. It was but to unclasp his hand to avoid being dragged in also, and all would be over. Not a soul could blame him. There was no help for it. But wait—what is that? Eor the third time that sweet, sad face appeared, and for the third time our hero put forth almost superhuman effort. The madman’s screams and struggles simultaneously and suddenly ceased. Ernest had attained his object. The man was half strangled and temporarily senseless. He still lay on his preserver, but was limp, and to all appearance lifeless. Ernest lost no time in creeping from under him and rolling him to a safe distance from the horrible hole. It was no light task for a man thoroughly worn out, but it was achieved. Dick soon recovered consciousness, and now Ernest tried another plan. By himself feigning madness, and by teasing the half-stupi-tied, but wholly subdued man into pursuing him, he was lucky enough to get him safely out oi the bush and back to his home. It was sheer luck he afterwards atliimed. By his own knowledge or skill no man could have extricated himself from such a bush as that at dead of night, for by this time the moon had set, therefore no guidance could be obtained by securing a glimpse of her now and again.

As they neared the house Dick sank down from sheer exhaustion, and Ernest hastened on to secure aid and inform the poor wife that he had kept the promise so rashly and hopelessly given. He had brought back to her her husband alive. They speedily had poor Dick safely housed. And truly Ernest had his reward. To see the sorrow-stricken expression on the face he had loved so well turn to one of great joy and gratitude to the brave preserver of her husband s life : to see her tears of bitter woe turn to those of glad thankfulness ; and to hear her murmur amid them the simple bnt fervent prayer, ‘God for ever bless you, my noble fellow,’ was enough, Ernest felt, nay, more than enough to compensate him for all he had undergone. Dick was forthwith taken to the asylum at Dunedin, where two eminent medical men, after careful examination, due deliberation, and a lengthy consultation, pronounced him to be insane. There was something about his case, however, which evidently puzzled them. It was unparalleled in their experience. Yet they found words unpronounceable enough to explain the peculiar nature of the malady to one another’s satisfaction if not comprehension, while the uninitiated, as Ernest afterwards said, had to ‘ stand off the grass.’ It could not have been much more than three months after Dick was taken to Dunedin that two of the young damsels whose gambols I described in an early chapter, but with whom we have not since had to do, were standing chatting together opposite the old wooden building which bore the title of the Catlin’s River Hotel. After failing utterly in their attempt on poor Ernest, they succeeded in drawing two young men, who were engaged at the saw mills not far from the township, out of their selfish shells of bachelorhood, and on the night in question were vainly endeavouring to draw them out of the hotel. That one last glass had yet to be discussed, and everyone who knows anything at all about it is aware that it takes longer to dispose of than a dozen ordinary ones. The girls had in no way im6 roved in dress or appearance since their maiden days. Lather the reverse in fact. They beguiled the weary hour of waiting by talking over Mrs Porter’s trouble, after having duly discussed their own, past, present, and to come, particularly- the latter. ‘ I always said there was something queer about Dick Porter,’said one. ‘ There was a wild look about his eyes that used to scare me. If Maggie hadn’t been such a hardworking, stick-at-home little idiot, she’d never have been taken by his Hash manner. I don’t envy her her fine match that they all talked so much about. Though I detested the girl, because she seemed to look down on us, I can't help pitying her. It must be awful for a woman to be married to a lunatic. They say he’s a very bad case, and that he’ll never get out of the ’sylum. Brought on by drink, I heard too. They say he used to soak at home. Not like our men do, have a bust, and then have done with it.’ As a matter of fact she had never uttered a word regarding any peculiarity in Dick, and would have given her ears to have stood at the altar in Maggie’s place. Her companion knew it, but having herself entertained a similar ambition, and being also disposed to ignore it, she allowed the statement to pass unchallenged. In fact, on Dick’s first appearance this feeling became quite infectious amongst the marriageable girls in the district, and not only amongst them, but two or three eligible widows were also afflicted. Their sufferings, though considerable, were borne for the most part in silence, but very few caring to own that they were martyrs to the epidemic. But lam digressing. Let us listen. * I quite agree with you in all except about Dick’s drinking ; that was only a wicked lie (as indeed it was). I pity poor Maggie, though, more than I can say. But it was her own fault. If she’d mixed up with us girls in those days we’d have put her up to a thing or two, and taken care she wasn’t a prey to the first handsome fellow that came along. Of course she’s well off, but what amount of money would make up for being bound for life to a lunatic who’s mewed up in a 'sylum ’ What do you get married for if it isn’t to have a man about when you want anything done. I’d just like to know ? Men have all got their faults. Yours and mine get on the booze sometimes, as you say, but then we have the satisfaction of knowing they’re sane, ami of having them with us ; while she only sees her precious Dick once in a blue moon, and only through a grating at that. That there divorce law ought to be altered so as a poor woman could get married again if her man goes mad, same as it is in Ameriker, I hear, for what use is a lunatic to a woman I’d like to know? You’re tied to him and can’t get another, if you want to ever so ; not by good rights leastways. It would have been ten times better for her if he’d died right off. She made a lot of fuss about Ernest’s bravery in saving him that time, but that was all my eye. But what a ninny he was to do it! Some men are such idiots ! Why if he’d had the sense to let Dick drown himself, as they say he tried his best to do, there’d have been the widow and that fine farm right into his hands, for whatever she said, I always did believe she loved Ernest best, but married Dick for his money. And this is a judgment on her, no doubt, poor thing !’ TO BE CONTINUED.