Eustace thought he had never seen anything so wicked as the chief's grin when he looked down into his astonished face. The black-fellow's teeth gleamed like a wolf's. His whole expression seemed to say, "Ha, ha! so I've caught you in the very act. You don't escape me so easily, you see." He evidently felt an exultant satisfaction in frustrating his departure, or he was rejoicing over having found him again.

With an overwhelming consciousness of Bob's helplessness, Eustace moved back quickly to the prostrate figure, as if to shelter it.

"What's up, old man?" questioned Bob, who from his position could see nothing. "You're not shirking, are you?"

The chief came rapidly within range of the sick man's eyes, and Bob's face fell most unmistakably. There was disappointment in every line of it.

"Phew!" he whistled, "we've lost our chance this time."

Exactly how crestfallen the pair was it would be impossible to describe. Not that Bob had harboured any hope for himself. He knew the natives would come to him before Eustace could possibly get back with assistance, and finding him no longer an amusing spectacle, would probably dispatch him. But he had been bent on saving the boy's life and sending his message home.

The native chief said something in his rapid, unintelligible language, then turned, made a strange call, and began gesticulating violently.

Eustace dropped on his knees and hid his face on Bob's tattered shirt.

"Buck up, old chap," Bob said softly; "one can only die once. Let's show these black-fellows how a Christian and an Englishman can do it. You'll get the strength right enough; I'm not a bit afraid of your funking."

There was an advancing tramp, a crashing of branches: the chief's summons was being rapidly obeyed. With a long shuddering sigh Eustace raised himself and knelt upright, gazing down on his hero.

"That's right," said Bob steadily, with his own genial smile lighting up his whole face, "keep your eyes on mine; hold on to me if you like. I shan't think you a muff, because I know you aren't one."

But the boy did not touch him; he kept his hands clasped tightly together in a supreme effort to be worthy of Bob's belief in him. He heard the new-comers halt. The native spoke and moved aside. Then—

"Both of them!" exclaimed a familiar voice. "Thank God for that."

Eustace sank back in a heap on the ground and stared up."Father!" cried Bob in astonishment.

It was Mr. Cochrane indeed, and with him Mr. Orban—as haggard a pair as could be met with in a long day's march.

It seemed little short of a miracle that they should appear at such a juncture, yet the explanation proved simple enough. The native chief had fetched them straight to the spot. There was no sort of nobility in the act: the man knew enough of white men's ways to expect a big reward. Bob he did not know; but when Eustace appeared on the scene he recognized the boy as belonging to the master of the neighbouring plantation, whom he had seen many times from a distance as he rode through the Bush. Mr. Orban was out with Mr. Cochrane making a frantic search of the entire neighbourhood when the chief arrived, and he would communicate his business to no one else. Not that it is likely any one else would have understood him or followed him as Mr. Orban did the moment he arrived home. The language was unintelligible to both men; but putting two and two together in their great anxiety, they made out that the chief could lead them where they would find something of interest to themselves. They had not dared to hope he knew the whereabouts of both their sons, or to speculate which they should find; they did not even know whether they were being taken to the living or the dead.

"I'm afraid you'll have a bit of bother getting me home," said Bob; "I'm as stiff as a board, and can't move hand or foot."

Then he told his story, and how Eustace had found him, and to all intents and purposes saved his life."And you, Eustace," said Mr. Orban—"how did you come here?"

When Eustace came to the description of the answering coo-ee on the banks of the creek, Mr. Orban interrupted him.

"That was only an echo. I knew there was one there, but I never thought of telling you."

"Thank God you didn't," said Mr. Cochrane, "and that he made the mistake. We should never have found Bob but for that."

"Father," Eustace said anxiously, "you won't forget poor old Bolter, will you? This black-fellow has got him in the camp over there."

"I had quite forgotten him," Mr. Orban said; "and we shall need him too."

Their own horses were quietly waiting a little distance back. By means of much gesticulation—pointing towards the horses, and then in the direction of the camp—the chief was made to understand what was wanted; and after a little demur he went away to fetch Bolter, but certainly most grudgingly.

The journey back to the plantation was one that none of the party could ever forget. The difficulty of conveying the helpless Bob, the suffering he so bravely tried to endure, and the terrible time it took, were indescribable.

It had of course been necessary to tell both mothers of the loss of their sons. Mrs. Cochrane and Trixy had gone immediately to the Orbans' house as more central for obtaining news.

Mr. Orban dispatched one coolie from the plantation for the doctor, who lived fifteen miles away. Another man he sent up the hill as fast as he could go with a note preparing his wife for their arrival, and the whole white-faced party was out waiting for it as the slow procession—Bob on a stretcher in the midst—wound its way to the house.

The joy of the meeting was lost sight of in the anxiety, for Bob was by this time delirious with pain, Eustace so weak that he was nearly fainting.

For the next ten days the house was no better than a hospital—its central interest the condition of the two patients within its walls; but the first day Bob and Eustace were brought out on to the veranda—two white-faced shadows of themselves—Bob laughingly called it the convalescent home.

Up to that point everything was, as Nesta expressed it, horrid; but when Bob was about again, even if his voice was weaker, his laugh a ghost of itself, matters at once began to improve.

They were all sitting together enjoying the cool of the evening.

"What I can't understand," said Nesta meditatively, breaking a long pause, "is why the black-fellows wouldn't let Eustace answer father's coo-ee."

"It is quite simple," said Mr. Orban. "The chief had evidently given strict orders he was not to be allowed to go in his absence, and they were afraid we should come and take him away. Then the chief would have got no reward."

"What I can't understand," said Peter, who never remained long in the background, "is why the black-fellows didn't cut Bob down. It was wicked of them."

"That's what I think," said Nesta. "If they left him because they thought it funny, I wish they could be tortured.""Nesta, Nesta, my darling!" said Mrs. Orban warningly.

"I suppose," said Miss Chase softly, "the poor things have no knowledge of mercy."

"None," said Mr. Cochrane, who was over spending the evening; "and they wouldn't understand it if you showed them any, either."

"No heathens ever do," said Mrs. Orban, "and how should they? They have no Great Example to follow as we have. It is the people who have the chance of knowing better, and still are cruel and heartless, that I would have tortured—if any one."

Mr. Orban gave a soft laugh.

"If any one, indeed, wife," he said. "You know as well as I do that you wouldn't have a spider hurt for torturing a fly."

Every one laughed with him except Mrs. Orban herself. Her tender heart was as good as a fable in the household. But she said quite gravely,—

"You have chosen a bad example for once, Jack. A spider is as ignorant as a heathen. It has only its own nature to follow."

"Got the worst of it there, Mr. Orban," said Bob in an amused tone.

"Talking of cruelty," remarked Miss Chase, "what do you do to your unfortunate cows here at night? I never heard such a dismal noise as they make."

"Cows!" exclaimed every one in astonishment.

"Yes, cows," was the answer. "If you listen you can hear them now."

There was an instant hush, followed by renewed peals of laughter.

"Those aren't cows I advise you to go and sympathize with, Miss Chase," said Bob. "We call them alligators hereabouts, and at the present minute they are lying on the banks of the creek wishing a nice, tasty supper would come strolling along."

"There are alligators in the river, and yet Nesta says you boat on it and bathe in it!" exclaimed Miss Chase. "What extraordinary people you are!"

"There are alligators one side of the bar and sharks the other, and one often upsets going over it in rough weather," said Bob cheerfully.

"How horrible!" said Miss Chase.

"When Aunt Dorothy saw a tarantula strolling round the table towards her the other day she nearly had a fit," said Peter.

"Don't tell tales out of school, Peter Perky," said Aunt Dorothy. "A poor, ignorant Englishwoman isn't expected to be brave when she sees a spider as big as a penny bun, with furry legs in proportion, trying to sit on her knee."

"Then, so far, Miss Chase," said Bob, with a twinkle in his eyes, "you are not infatuated with our Bush life?"

"Have you and Eustace given me much chance to be?" she asked. "You must confess you did not give me a very good first impression by both running away and losing yourselves. We don't think that sort of thing necessary for the entertainment of our friends in England. Spiders are spiders there, too, not animated penny buns, and our cows don't want to eat us."

"Oh, of course," said Bob, "everything is perfect in England—isn't it, Nesta?""It has some advantages," said Mrs. Orban. "I think the absence of these excitements is amongst them."

She was looking very worn out after her recent experiences.

"Well, it's my opinion, my dear," said Mr. Orban, "that with your little family you would have excitements wherever you went. It has seemed fated to give you one shock after another."

"Only just lately, Jack," was the gentle response, for Mrs. Orban caught a contrite expression in Eustace's eyes.

"It was the coming of the witch that did it," said Bob. "As soon as she started for Queensland queer things began happening over here. She wanted to make you out of conceit with life here, so that she could more easily bewitch you over to England. That was her spell."

"And the queer thing is," said Mr. Orban quite gravely, "that it has acted. She is going to take them all away from me when she goes—wife, and sons, and daughters."

"Father," exclaimed Nesta, "what are you saying?"

"Is it a story, daddy?" demanded Peter.

"No, the solemn truth," said Mr. Orban.

"I don't understand," said Eustace blankly.

"How should you when so much nonsense is being talked?" said his mother. "But the fact is, father thinks a change of air would do us all a great deal of good; and as grannie wants us, and has sent us our passage money—"

"Oh! oh! oh!" cried Nesta, "don't go on, mummie. You make it sound just as if it were real, and it will be so disappointing to have to un-fancy it again."

But Eustace said breathlessly,—

"Mother, is it true?"

"Quite true," was the grave answer. "We sail the end of next month. It is all settled."

"What did I say?" said Bob in mock despair. "She'll take you away, and you'll never come back any more."

"Oh, there you are quite wrong, Bob," said Mrs. Orban. "If Dorothy is a witch, Jack is a wizard, and he will magic us all back again in a year and a day at latest."

"Well, I simply can't believe it," said Nesta.

"It's the queerest thing I have ever heard," said Eustace.

But Peter set up such yells of delight he had to be repressed by the early-to-bed threat—always a useful one when Peter became rampageous, for he hated going to bed at any time.

That evening no one could talk of anything but this trip to England. No matter what subject was started, everything harked back to this wonderful plan, which Mr. Orban had been thinking out for some time, only confiding in his wife and Miss Chase as long as the matter was undecided. Bob kept up the appearance of being utterly woebegone, and Nesta and Peter seemed to have turned into machines for asking questions.

Of the party only Eustace was silent, and presently Nesta noticed the fact.

"Aren't you most awfully glad?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Eustace slowly."Goodness!" said Nesta in a bustling tone, "you've always said you wanted to go."

"That was when I knew we couldn't," replied Eustace, scarcely thinking what he was saying.

"What a funny thing to say," said Nesta. "But you do still want to go, don't you?"

"I don't know," said Eustace.

"Well, you are a queer boy," said Nesta in rather a disgusted tone. "I call that silly."

"I think I know just what Eustace means," said Miss Chase quietly. "He wants to get there without going—to be there without leaving home. It is how I felt about coming here."

"I don't understand a bit," said Nesta, with a shake of her head.

"I do," said Bob. "One knows what one is leaving, but one doesn't know what one is going to. It is a toss-up whether there is to be any happiness in the venture. But I prophesy the witch will see to it you don't want to come back in a hurry. You'll enjoy yourself no end."

"Why, Bob," exclaimed Nesta in astonishment, "how you have changed! That is all the opposite to what you have always said before."

"Is it?" said Bob lamely. "Well, I suppose I must be bewitched too. What do you expect when you will import such things into the country?"

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