CHAPTER I

The sun sank like a bird into its nest. A pink flush spread upwards and melted in the deep blue; the dappled clouds caught the warm glow and spread themselves out to bask in the lingering rays. Soon a rosy red, deepening every moment, shot higher and higher, then suddenly began to pale and shrink, until the sun had drawn every bit of colour after him and said "good night."

It was a quiet, peaceful spot. Hills all around—east, west, north, and south. A mountain, in a sheet of ghostly white, stood afar off. A valley filled the foreground with grey mist, creeping down. A burnt-sienna track wound about "One Tree" hill like a snake, and led to Borombyee homestead, which could be seen on the banks of a little creek.

The soft footfall of a horse was heard behind some boulders. A merry snatch of song floated on the still air. A horse and its rider came round a bend of the track. They were on their way to Borombyee. The rider was Alec Keryle of Glengo Station.

Alec was in love, as any one could see at this moment. The mask was off. When not alone the visor was down. There are times when a face can be read like a poster on a hoarding. At other times it is a blank wall. He gazed long and fondly at the homestead: a light streamed from the dining-room window. "There sits my darling Elsie!" he said, as he patted his horse's neck.

He was a laggard in love, and had never told her that he loved her. He had shown her that he cared for her when they had once or twice been alone, and he thought she cared for him—that was all the length he had got on the "primrose path"; but he had screwed his courage up to-night, and was going to tell her that he loved her and would ask her to be his.

He was a shapely young fellow, and sat his horse to perfection. He had a long, straight nose, firm mouth, solid chin, black eyes and hair, and an olive complexion. He was about six feet in height, and carried all his inches without a stoop.

Elsie McLean was the elder daughter of Donald McLean of Borombyee Station. Her father was a dark, gloomy Scotchman, with never a ray of sunshine in his nature. She was fair, with golden hair, blue, dancing eyes, a rosebud mouth wreathed in smiles, a Grecian nose, and with a dimple in each cheek. She was born under Australian skies; he among Scotia's grey, frowning mountains.

They had been coloured by their surroundings. Her mother was dead, and she had one sister, named Maggie, aged fourteen.

Meanwhile, during this digression, Alec was guiding his horse down the gravelly track. His eyes were still on the homestead, but they ranged from point to point when the dining-room window became hidden from view. As he turned into the main road which ran up the valley, he saw a light streaming from the kitchen door and a thin column of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney. When he opened the home-paddock gate a light in Elsie's room caught his attention, and he threw a kiss in its direction. Just then her ears began to tingle and grow red, for some one was surely thinking of her. Shutting the gate, he went off at a quick canter, and did not draw rein until he clattered across the sapling bridge, which spanned a small dry water-course within fifty yards of the house. Four or five dogs rushed out, barking furious defiance, until Alec said, "Down, Rover," to the leader, who began to caper and wheel with his tail in the air in a whirl-wind of welcome; and the younger dogs followed suit when they were assured, on the best of authority, that the new-comer was a friend, and not a stranger to be barked at, and bitten if need be, or at least sworn at as a trespasser. They accompanied the horse to the stable door, and when Alec alighted Rover jumped up and put his nose under an outstretched hand which patted the rough head. Then the other dogs made themselves acquainted with Alec's trousers, so that they might know him again, anywhere and everywhere.

A man came out of the shadows.

"Good evenin', sor," said the groom, or man-of-all-work, whose duty it was to attend to the stable, milk the cows, chop wood, and do such odd jobs as were required.

"Good evening, Pat; all well here?" said Alec.

"All well! Glory be to God, masther Keryle, an' Miss Elsie bloomin' an' gay, an' wishin' to see somebody I don't mane to name for the wurld."

"Now, Pat, none of your blarney!" said Alec, as he slipped half a crown into the man's hand. Pat took the reins, and led the horse into the stable, where a munching of teeth soon followed.

Alec went round to the front of the house, turned the button of the little gate at the end of the verandah, and knocked. The McLeans were at dinner. Maggie jumped from her seat, and opened the door.

"How do you do, Mr. Keryle?" she said, taking his two hands, and pulling him into the room, which opened on the verandah. Her father rose solemnly, with the expression of a mute at a funeral. He squeezed Alec's hand with a warm grip. That was his one sign of welcome. He had not a word for it in his dictionary, or he could not find it at a moment's notice, so he left it unsaid and sat down.

Just then Aggie, the housemaid, whispered to Elsie that Mr. Bond, who was a neighbour, had just ridden up and was coming in.

Meanwhile, Maggie, who had been sitting next to Elsie, hurriedly shifted her plate, and motioned to Alec to take her place. He, nothing loth, did as he was told, and sat down.

Elsie was not pleased with Maggie, and she thought Alec was too presuming. He had no business to sit down beside her at the invitation of a mere girl. He took it for granted that he had a right to sit by her, and she resented it. Besides, what would Mr. Bond think? She would teach Alec a lesson. Her smiles vanished, as sunshine before a thundercloud. She retired within herself, and answered him in monosyllables. He did not know where the machinery had gone wrong, but he saw there was something out of gear. A knock was heard, and the housemaid opened the door. She looked over her shoulder, and said, "Mr. Bond."

McLean rose as before, dumb as usual, but he gripped Bond with two hands, and held him as in a vice. This was his warm welcome, for Bond was a great favourite, and the eldest son of an old friend.

Aggie, out of pure mischief, placed a knife and fork for him on the other side of Elsie, and he sat down. She shook hands, and entered into an animated conversation at once. Alec's spirits fell to zero as Elsie's rose. Her face flushed, and she seemed brimming over with pleasure.

"Confound Bond!" thought Alec; "what business has he to come here interfering with me? I'll give him a piece of my mind on the first opportunity."

Maggie came to the rescue, and talked to Alec. She saw that the team did not pull together, and were kicking over the traces. This was her way of putting the case. She knew a good deal about horses, and thought they had much in common with men and women. Her own pony always shied at a particular tree on the track to the woolshed, but when grazing in the paddock she would often be found rubbing herself against its rough bark. Elsie was shying off from Alec, whom she liked, and giving all her attention to Mr. Bond, whom she did not like one bit. Maggie would coax the pair into better behaviour, and see if they could not pull together.

Aggie, on her way to and from the kitchen, could be seen stuffing the corner of her apron into her mouth, and swallowing a burst of laughter which was just about to break out.

"When did you leave home, Alec?" said Maggie.

"About four o'clock."

"A.m., or p.m.?"

Alec made no reply. He was listening to what Elsie was saying to Bond. Jealousy was rioting in his heart, and he had no ears but for the woman he loved.

"Morning or afternoon?" persisted Maggie.

Alec turned a perplexed face to her, and said, "It's night, of course."

"Oh, I know that," she said, in a low voice, "and very dark and gloomy."

The sarcasm did not hit the mark. He confined his attention, apparently, to his plate; but his ears were lent to his right-hand neighbours, whose conversation never flagged. They rattled on at a good pace over the familiar tracks of station topics.

By-and-by dinner was over. The room in which they were seated was dining-room and drawing-room combined. The McLeans had primitive ways, and money was scarce, so the old house had not been added to. Everything was plain and simple. McLean would not allow anything to be changed. The whole place reminded him of his wife, and he would not alter or add to the house.

The front door was thrown open; the family and the two visitors trooped out on the verandah. Elsie sat on a short seat, and Bond placed himself beside her. There was only room for two. Alec had not bargained for this. He had thought that Elsie would relent, and, when they were out of the glare of the lamps, return to her old manner with him. He could not imagine what had offended her; but evidently something had started up between them—some misunderstanding on her part, some rumour; some busybody's poisonous tone; something he had unwittingly said or done. Just now it was plain he was not wanted. He was out of the running. He wasn't in the swim. He was out of his reckoning, and among the breakers. He thought all the billows were going over him.

McLean retired to a corner of the verandah, and spun his own troubles out of himself, and wound them about him in solitary companion-lessness.

Maggie put her arm into Alec's, and drew him to the end of the verandah, and pointed to the Pleiades, which were shining with their ghost-like light.

"Father was reading to us yesterday in the Bible where Job said, 'Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades?' and I asked Elsie to show them to me last night. Are they seven sisters, do you think? Elsie says they are. I wonder whether they are happy. We are only two sisters, and I am not happy."

"Neither am I," said Alec.

"Elsie is not happy either. She does not like Mr. Bond one little bit."

"She seems happy enough. Canst thou bind the sweet influences of a laugh? They are sweet to one and bitter to another. I can't bear to hear her laughing like that with Charlie Bond. He and I are not very good friends. I have a good mind to saddle my horse and ride home in the starlight."

"Oh, do not do that!" said Maggie in alarm. "Elsie would be sorry. I am sure she would. I won't let you go. I'll hold you tight. You are angry, and you will require to be answered out of the whirlwind, like Job."

Alec shook his head. He was calming down under the spell of wise little Maggie. No, he would not saddle his horse and ride away just yet. That would be too much of a telltale. Elsie would understand, and gloat over his trouble. Bond would triumph, and take his scalp. He looked upon himself as wiped out, and not fit to cumber the ground any longer. He would go away somewhere, anywhere, and make no sign. He would henceforth be dead to Elsie, but not buried. He would get over it. He would not let any one dance over his grave, or jeer at his tombstone.

The morbid thoughts that flit through the brain of the slighted lover are amazing and wonderful. The figments and pigments are all wrong. It is a mad world! and love is akin to madness.

There was a little bedroom at the end of the verandah, which the local clergyman occupied when on his visits to Borombyee. It was called the "prophet's chamber"; partly for this reason, and partly because Elsie pencilled the name on the door after hearing her father read in the Bible about the woman of Shunem, who asked her husband to make a little chamber on the wall for the prophet Elisha.

When the clergyman was not at Borombyee Alec always had the "prophet's chamber."

He could not stay on the verandah any longer, so he cudgelled his brains for an excuse to get away. He would go to bed; that was the best place for him.

"I have a dreadful toothache, Maggie," he said. "Please make my excuses to your father and Elsie. I can hardly speak. I shall come to prayers when the bell rings, if I am better; but do not expect me."

"I am so sorry," said Maggie; "and I hope you will soon get better."

"Good night, Maggie," he whispered.

"Good night, Alec."

He went into the "prophet's chamber," and shut the door.

CHAPTER II

Alec, having lit a match, found the bed, table, stool, and candlestick as Elisha did in Shunem. He sat down to think. Yes, Elsie was a flirt, and had cruelly slighted him. He had done nothing to deserve such treatment. A girl who could act as she had done was not deserving of the love of any man. There was a false note in her character somewhere, and she could not be the true and gentle girl he had fondly imagined. To be warned in time was lucky, for to be tied to such a woman was not good. Better to be free than bound by a chain; and so on his thoughts ran, shooting hither and thither with the speed of summer lightning.

How long he sat thus he could not tell. An opossum called to its mate in the gum-tree that overhung the room. The "swish, swish" of a native cat came from under the floor. A koala, or native bear, roared from the clump of timber near the creek. A dingo howled on the hills, and a hawk wheeled overhead. One of these sounds made him start to his feet. The candle was burning low.

A bell rang. It was ten o'clock, the hour for "worship." He could hear McLean clearing his throat in the dining-room, which was only separated by a thin wooden partition from the "prophet's chamber." Then he heard Elsie's light step, but thought it sounded sad and slow; then came Bond's hateful creaking boots; then Maggie's quiet tread. Aggie came from the kitchen, three men from the hut, and Pat, though a Roman Catholic, came too, "to plase Miss Elsie. An' sure," he used to say, "there's no praste widdin fifty moiles to give a curse to me sowl, pinnance to me body, an' a hole in a big cheque to pay for absolution from the sin av it."

When they had all sat down McLean opened the big family Bible, apparently at random (but with intention, as he had been studying the passage) at the twelfth chapter of the Book of the Revelation. He read, with a deep, sonorous voice, to the end; then gave a long sigh, and plunged into a commentary on the "great red dragon," which he said was the Roman Catholic Church. He proved this, to his own satisfaction, seeing she had shed the blood of saints and prophets, and that the popes, cardinals, priests, and all who had the "mark of the beast" upon them, were to be thrown into the bottomless pit. He drew a gruesome picture of their writhing and torments in the true Calvinistic fashion of forty years ago.

"Holy Moses!" said Pat in a loud aside. "The saints defind us!"

Elsie nudged her father's arm, but he would not stop, for he had got on his favourite topic—the one subject on which he could be loquacious.

Pat could not sit still another moment. He glared at McLean, and made a gesture as if he would like to throttle him; then, apparently thinking better of it, jumped up, threw down his chair with a clatter, flung open the front door, and stamped up and down the verandah, vowing vengeance.

Alec had heard everything. He had forgotten his troubles. He laughed and rubbed his hands, and even capered about the room. It was all so ludicrous and absurd, and he had to let off the steam by rolling on the floor for a minute or two.

Some one knocked at the door, and he called out, "Who's there?"

"It's me, sor."

"Well, Pat, what's the matter?"

"Fwat's the matter? Everythin's the matter! I'm goin' to brek every bone av' the boss's body before I say me prayers to the Vargin this blessed noight!"

"Whist! I'll come out to you, Pat."

"Do, sor."

When Alec came out, he said: "Not a word here. Come to the hut, and tell me all about it. What is the matter?" He pulled Pat away by sheer force to the hut, and pushed him into a seat.

"Now what is it?" he said.

Pat told him what had happened, in his rich oily brogue, and with such queer antics and gestures, Alec could not help going off again into a fit of laughter.

"You'll be the death of me, Pat, if you say another word. It's too funny!"

"I'll be the death of ould McLean, the bitter, black, Presbyterian divil's own favourite son. Och! he'll be roasted for this loike a herrin' on a gridiron! Och! the divil will toast him on a pitchfark. He'll be basted an' hauled over the fire till he roars blue murther! Och! the thafe! I shpit upon yees as I would upon Judas who was wan o' the same kidney!"

"Here, Pat," said Alec, "is half a sovereign for you; don't say another word about it."

Pat winked, and pocketed the money.

"Spache is silver, an' silence is goolden. Mum's the wurrd. Love ye're inimy is a goolden rule. I'll obsarve that same, as I've got the Queen's countenance for it in me pocket."

He seized a stick which was lying in a corner, whirled it round his head three times, and brought it down with a whack on the table.

"What's that for, Pat?"

"That's wan for me inimy. It's that same he'd be afther havin' if yees hadn't intervaned wid de gospel av paice. Sure, I repinted av takin' de money, so I let de divil go out av me through de shtick. I feel betther after that, bedad!"

"Well, go to bed, Pat. I hear the men coming." So saying, Alec slipped out of the door, and crept under cover of the shadows, until he reached the back of the house; then he paused to listen. On tiptoe he reached the "prophet's chamber," went in and shut the door, then flung himself on the bed. He had been a fool he thought. He should not have allowed Elsie to see that he cared one jot whether she showed attentions to Bond or not. But why should she so markedly slight himself? He could not understand this, unless she had wished to make him jealous, or unless she was a flirt, and deliberately flung away one who loved her, for a brief amusement, pour passer le temp. In this case she was cruel and heartless. Unless he had seen her conduct he could not have believed she would have acted as she did.

What was to be done now? He could not face Elsie and Bond next morning. He could not endure to meet them at breakfast. The air was full of electricity. The explosives were stored, the train was laid, and a chance spark might cause a blow-up which he would ever regret. He felt like a volcano which might burst forth at any moment. Discretion is the better part of valour; he would cool down before morning perhaps.

He heard low voices in the dining-room.

"Good night, Mr. Bond," said Elsie.

"Good night," said Bond.

Alec heard her footsteps and the shutting of her door.

"Good night, Mr. McLean," said Bond.

McLean shook hands in silence, and both men went to their respective rooms.

Alec peeped out of his window, and saw a light in Elsie's room, which was only a few feet away. If he could have seen her at that moment, he would have perceived her lying on the bed, with her face buried in the pillow, and sobbing bitterly.

She had discovered she had treated Alec badly, and was afraid she had done irreparable mischief. She felt as if she could almost go down on her knees and ask his forgiveness. She saw what a mistake she had made, but it was made on the impulse of the moment, and her pride would not allow her to acknowledge it, by word or look, until it was too late; but in the morning she would make amends for the temporary eclipse by shining all the brighter when she saw him, and, poor fellow! he had toothache too! She was so sorry! She had arranged everything in her own mind. There would be no more unhappiness between them. Then she went to bed and was soon fast asleep.

Alec saw that her light was out. "Heartless!" he said, "and here am I tossing undressed upon my bed, a prey to unrequited love, and torn by a thousand bitter thoughts, vainly regretting what might have been. It is all over. There is no more happiness for me in this world. Love is dead."

He lay for hours rolling from side to side, and felt as if sleep had fled for ever. He could not close his eyes, and he longed for daylight that he might get up and ride away from this now hateful spot. The sight of Bond would madden him; better they should never meet.

He could endure his thoughts no longer. They were fevering his blood, parching his tongue, and setting his brain on fire. He jumped up, put on his hat, and let himself out by the window, which was wide open, as he feared the door would make a noise if he attempted to leave by it.

He felt better now. The morning air cooled his cheek; the fresh breeze chased away his distempered fancies.

He went quietly to the stable. No dog barked, for they all knew who was moving so stealthily. A faint flush was tinting Pepper Hill. The rosy dawn would soon outline the picture, and colour hill and vale with a flowing brush.

He saddled his horse and led him out, then mounted, and rode slowly away.

The soft footfall of a horse awoke Elsie. She started up in alarm, and looked out. What she almost feared had come to pass. In the dim light she saw Alec riding away. She had mortally offended him. She would never see him again. The dream of love was ended. She dropped on the bed, and gave way to a paroxysm of weeping.

CHAPTER III

The sun was glinting in the tree-tops. A flock of yellow-crested cockatoos awoke the echoes with their chatter. Magpies scattered the dewdrops in the grass, and sang love songs to their mates. Bell-birds rang their morning chimes, and the whip-bird cracked its lash, as Alec rode up the hill with bent head and heavy heart. What a contrast to yesterday evening, when he had ridden down with the air of a conqueror! Now he was going up vanquished. Life is all ups and downs. To make the simile correct he ought to have been going down hill, but the physical map is not laid out always according to the fitness of things.

His horse had a weary climb to the top of the hill, grunting and groaning at every step, while his rider sighed like a north wind on a sultry day. At last the highest point on the track was reached, and the horse stood still to rest, as he gave a snort of satisfaction because the worst part of the road was over, and Glengo, with its cool stream and juicy grass, lay at the foot of the hill.

Alec turned round to take a last look at Borombyee homestead, but he could only see the top of the chimneys.

"Appropriate," he said; "all ended in smoke. Good-bye, Elsie. I shall never see you again."

He took off his hat, and let the breeze, which rustled up from the south, ripple through his hair. The cool air was refreshing, and he felt better. He wouldn't think of his troubles, but let them blow off and be carried away for ever. He felt soothed for a minute or two; but they would come back to roost, and brood, and hatch, in spite of all he could do.

"Confound Bond!"

He had just got the words out, when a snake glided across the track and caused his horse to shy. Alec made a savage cut with his stock-whip at the reptile, and left it writhing in the dust with a broken back.

"Wish it were Bond!" he said.

He dug his spur into the horse, and went cantering down the hill, with a flush on his face; for he was ashamed of his evil thoughts, and repented of his violence to the horse.

"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" he said, patting the beast's neck, "I am sorry."

He felt better now. The fit was going off. He hoped for the best, and trusted time would cure him of the distemper. If only Bond did not cross his path all would be well. He would be as a red rag to a bull, and he would shun him as a mad dog shuns water.

He arrived at Glengo about nine o'clock, glad to be home again. He tried to wear a smiling face, but could not succeed. His mother met him at the door, and threw up her hands.

"Why, Alec! You must have been early afoot. Are they all well at Borombyee? What's amiss that you are home so early? Has pleuro broken out among the cattle, or scab in the sheep, or is the country on fire?"

"They are all well at Borombyee. There is no pleuro, or scab, or fire."

"Thank goodness! I was afraid something had happened." She saw something was amiss—something lurking in his eyes. She guessed her guess, and made a cast with her sweep-net of questions and caught him in the meshes. She knew now; the secret was revealed; it lay in the depth of his eyes. There is not much that can be hid from a mother.

She watched him at breakfast, and kept the conversation going to cover his retreat within himself. He ate little, and said less. His father, good, easy man, listened to his wife's talk, which rippled and flowed like a brook in the sun. He had the gift of silence, like many bushmen who have been much alone—who have communed with the great mountains, the wide-spread plains, the quiet clouds, and the silent stars.

"I can't get a word in edgeways," he said, laughing.

"You've got one in flat, at last," she said, "but it will be a long time before you can coin another;" and she rattled on with her bright talk.

After breakfast Alec's father rode to the drafting-yards, where some fat sheep were on the point of starting for the Melbourne market. Alec strolled down the creek on pretence of going to the killing-yard. He wanted to be alone. He would fill up the day somehow, by "topping up" a fence here, by straining a wire there, and by straightening a post anywhere.

He did not go home to luncheon; he was not hungry. The longer he kept from the search-light eyes of his mother the better it was for him. In the dusk, or lamplight, he would be all right. He could run in under the battery with lights out and masked fires.

At dinner he was more at ease. His mother did not appear to watch him, excepting in the most casual way. His father told him, in the briefest, jerkiest sentences, that he had drafted a flock of sheep for Melbourne, picked out four lame ones, skinned one that was smothered in the yard, and spliced a broken leg.

When Alec had gone to bed his mother had a long talk with her husband. She hinted that their son was not looking well. She thought the hard work of shearing-time had been too much for him, and that he required a change.

"Hoots! do I ever get a change, or need one? No. Alec's all right; right's a trivet. If a man thinks he wants a change, make him work. If he wants more change, give him more work. If he wants a spell after that, more work still. Work never killed a man. Work while it's day is scripture an' sense."

"Yes, John; but all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy!"

"I say, all play and no work makes Jack as bad as a Turk!"

"Oh, John, you are the sweetest and best boy in the world, and the best worker; but every one is not like you. Besides, you know, you have had several changes. You went to Melbourne just before the fat sheep were sold. You went after shearing to see your agents, and Alec has not been in sight of the sea for years."

"Well, wife, you are about right, or as near's may be." Here he relapsed into silence. "I was just thinking," he resumed, "that Alec might get a bit o' a holiday, and do some business as well."

"Yes, John."

"What say ye to him goin' to Melbourne to see the flock o' fats sold at the Flemington Yards?"

"That is a very wise suggestion, John."

"It will do the laddie good; he's sharp enough. There's a lot of hanky-panky about horse dealers an' sheep buyers, I can tell ye. I wouldna trust a wheen butchers an' buyers. They hae what they ca' a 'knock-out' among themsel's—that's lettin' each other buy at their ain price, an' robbin' the seller."

"A good idea, John! It will give Alec some experience and insight into business. Also, you might give him some messages to the agents. The interest they charge you is too high. Ten per cent. is rather steep, as you say, sometimes. He might get money cheaper."

"A grand idea, wife! You've hit the right nail on the head a clapper."

"You might give Alec a letter to your friend the Hon. James McClure. He is a good man, and a leading light in the Kirk. I would not wonder but he would let you have the money at eight per cent."

Mr. Keryle spoke to his son next morning, and told him what he wished him to do in Melbourne. Alec jumped at the idea. It just suited him exactly. He only wanted a decent excuse to go away for a time. Besides, the visit to Melbourne would make Elsie believe that this was the cause of his hurried departure from Borombyee.

This unexpected turn of affairs put Alec in better spirits. The wheel of fortune favoured him. He was more like himself to-day. In a day or two he would turn his back on the country, which reminded him of Elsie, and lead a new life, not thinking of her any more.

CHAPTER IV

When Elsie came to breakfast on the morning that Alec had so hurriedly left Borombyee, she was white as a sheet; all her vivacity was gone. Her father looked at her inquiringly.

"I have a headache, father, and could not sleep; that's all."

Maggie came flying in, with her hair tossing over her eyes. "What do you think?" she said; "Alec's horse is gone! he must have ridden away!"

"What! how's this?" said her father.

"I can only suppose," said Maggie, "that his toothache is worse, and he could not bear to stay to breakfast, so he went away."

Elsie looked into her plate, and said nothing; Maggie's words stabbed her like a knife, and cut her to the quick. She knew that Alec's pain was deeper seated than a tooth nerve. Her own feelings at this moment told her how acutely he must have felt. She blamed herself entirely. She had not known what she was doing; she was mad to act as she had done; she had behaved abominably; her sin had found her out.

Bond was full of sympathy, and said he was sorry and hoped the headache would soon go. A cup of tea would do her good; then a rest in a dark room. He had never known what a headache was, but could feel for others, especially for Elsie. Yes, he was very sorry. Could he send her some smelling-salts, or anything else, from Mountfield. He would ride there and back in four hours. No, Elsie did not need anything; rest would do her good. She drank some tea, then went to her room and lay down.

She heard her father and Bond ride away; then she rose and went to the hut, where she found Pat.

"Pat, please get my horse in, saddle him, and bring him to the door."

"Sure, Miss Elsie! it's a gallop over the hills and far away that'll make the roses bloom on ye'r cheeks. Faix, Miss! ye're loike a wax image o' the Blessed Vargin."

"Thank you, Pat."

She went to her room, put on her riding habit, then found Maggie and told her she was going for a gallop, as she did not feel well.

"Let me go with you, Elsie. I'll be company for you. It is so lonely to go by yourself. I don't like you to go alone."

"No, Maggie, I will go alone, and see whether I cannot shake off my headache. I would be no company for you. I would make you miserable. Besides, if father comes home to lunch he would miss you; one of us must stay at home."

"Very well, Elsie; but do not stay long."

Maggie did not like to see her sister go away alone. She felt that the headache was an excuse, and that there was deeper trouble. She was so sorry for her, and wished she could help her. If she could only send a message to Alec and bring him back, all would be well. She knew instinctively that Elsie and Alec loved each other, but were at cross purposes somehow. A word on either side would set things right. But how was it to be said? She did not know.

Pat brought the horse to the end of the verandah, and Elsie jumped on, with the help of a block of wood, which stood there for the purpose. Maggie held her sister's hand caressingly, and said, with a tear in her eye, "Come back soon, Elsie; I shall be wearying for you till I see you."

Elsie went across the flat, over the bridge, and up the ranges. The breeze was cool and strong. She felt better already. The rapid motion banished thinking, but when she got to the steeper hills she fell back on her troubles again. Higher and higher she went, until she came to big boulders, fern-trees, and scrub. It was difficult to go up, but how would she get down again? She did not care. Up! up! away! as near the throne as she could, to pour out her soul to her Heavenly Father, and tell Him her trouble, and confess her fault.

At last, after the horse had scrambled and struggled by zigzag ways up some of the roughest hills of Victoria, he stopped, fairly exhausted, on a small tableland, surrounded by great rocks, some flat, some piled in huge fantastic shapes, like ancient ruins, with spaces left for doors and windows. To the south there was a gigantic valley, and all round the hillsides were masses of stone, which had evidently been carried there in icebergs in some forgotten age, and stranded on this high sea beach. Stunted shrubs and wild oats drew a scanty subsistence here. A dingo was playing with her cubs at the mouth of her lair, unconscious of human presence; a tiger-snake was sunning itself on a mossy stone; lizards were darting to and fro; an eagle was wheeling in mid-air over its nest of ragged sticks in a shattered tree that had braved many a storm; and white clouds came flying past like ships in full sail.

Elsie noted all these things as the horse stood motionless for ten minutes. She urged him to go on, but he refused to move. She coaxed and petted him, but he would not make a step forward.

"Poor fellow!" she said, "I have pushed you too hard; I was not thinking where we were going; a climb like this was too much for you; I'll give you a rest."

She jumped off his back, and tied the reins to the stirrups. He then began to nibble at the short, dry tufts of grass which shot up in hollow spots where drops of moisture had oozed out.

Elsie threw herself down on a flat rock, and buried her face in her hands, weeping bitterly, and reproaching herself for driving Alec away while she had loved him all the time so much and so deeply. She would give her life to be reconciled—just to be able to meet him face to face and say, "Alec, forgive me!" Then she would willingly die. But to have no chance of telling him, to have no opportunity of asking his forgiveness, was more than she could bear. Oh, the agony of it all! Oh, how she had been punished for her heartless conduct! "Oh!" she cried, "winds and clouds and birds, carry a message to him, and tell him to come back, because I love him!"

Then she prayed, as she had never prayed before, and asked to be led and guided. For answer, a great peace filled her soul, and she seemed to hear the words, "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

She sank back exhausted, and fainted away. How long she lay thus she never knew, but when she came to consciousness she was content to doze, or dream, or sleep for hours. When she came to herself the stars were shining and the moon was climbing the hills. She jumped up in alarm, and tried to walk to where she had last seen the horse. She thought if she could only get on his back, he would be able to find his way home. She felt weak, and stumbled among the rocks with tottering, uncertain steps. She could not see the horse anywhere. He had evidently got tired of waiting for her, and had wandered away, or had gone to his accustomed paddock at the homestead.

CHAPTER V

When Elsie did not come back in the afternoon, Maggie began to get anxious. She scanned the hills with a field-glass, hoping to see her coming home. Sometimes she saw a moving object, far away, but it was only a sheep. Sometimes a stone, or stump of a tree, would attract her attention, and, unaccountably, for a moment, simulate Elsie exactly; but it was only a trick of the brain, a caprice of the imagination. As the shadows lengthened on the flats and the mists came out of the valley, Maggie could contain herself no longer, but ran out to Pat, and told him she was sure something had happened to her sister. She must have been thrown from her horse, and was perhaps lying up the hills, with broken bones; or had lost her way, or been carried off for a ransom by bushrangers.

"Och, Miss Maggie!" said Pat; "she'll have paid a visit to Strathmona, an' been kep' by the young people till the cool av the evenin'. Let me see; it'll take four hours to ride quietly from Strathmona. Sure! Miss Maggie, never fear! they'll come home wid her. They'll come ridin' up like lords an' ladies to the castle walls, an' there'll be a moighty gran' banquet, an' they'll fut it on the flure, dreshed in silks an' satins an' cloth av goold. Or mebbee a fairy prince has carried her away, an' married her beyant; an' they'll live happily ever afterwards."

"You need not laugh at me, Pat. I assure you I am very anxious. I am sure Elsie would never go by herself to Strathmona. I feel sure something has happened to her. Oh, I am so anxious! I wish father would come home!"

As she said these words a horse's hoofs were heard clattering over the little bridge.

"Here's father!" cried Maggie; and she set off running to meet him. She told him that Elsie had not come home, and, in a few words, explained in what direction she had gone.

Although McLean was slow of speech, he was quick of action. What an active verb is in speech, he was among men.

"Maggie, send out every man at once. Tell them that's my order, and not to come home till she is found."

He turned his horse and galloped over the bridge and up the ranges as fast as he could make his steed go. In a few minutes his coo-ee was heard echoing among the hills.

Maggie called the men out of the hut and told them that her sister was lost, and that her father had ordered them to take their horses and scatter themselves over the north-western part of the run; "and be sure you don't come home till you find her," she said.

The horses were run into the yard in a few minutes. In the meantime four saddles were placed on the fence, and four men saddled-up and rode over the rail that Maggie had taken down.

She then went to the strangers' hut, and found two "sundowners," who had just come in as the sun was getting low.

"My sister is lost in the ranges," she said to them; "and I want you to take letters to Mr. Keryle of Glengo, and Mr. Bond of Drumore, to ask them to come and help in the search. I want you to go at once."

"What, Miss! this minute? What'll ye give us?"

"Five shillings each as soon as you come back."

"Won't you give us a bit o' tucker first, an' a mossle o' baccer?"

"Yes."

She ran into the kitchen, and got a plate of bread and butter, which she took to the hut. Aggie followed with two pannikins of tea. Then Maggie went to her room, and hastily wrote two letters to Alec Keryle and Mr. Bond, telling them that Elsie was lost in the ranges, and asking them to come at once and help to search for her. Then she got two pieces of tobacco, and ran to the men.

"Here," she said to the nearest man, "is a letter for Mr. Keryle of Glengo. Give it into his own hand, and run every step of the way. Here is some tobacco." Then she gave a letter to the other man, addressed to Mr. Bond.

The men went on eating and drinking as if no life were at stake.

"Oh, go at once!" said Maggie; "there is no time to eat and drink."

"What, an' leave good wittals?" said the spokesman.

For answer she tore a newspaper in half, and wrapped some bread and butter in two parcels, which she thrust into the hands of the men, who took about two minutes to stand up. Each of them had his hand on his pannikin, lest it should be snatched from him. Then they slowly raised the tea to their lips, and drank it off at a draught. It was boiling hot, and left a red streak from the tip of the tongue all the way down.

"Oh!" they said; then rubbed their chests, rolled their eyes to the bark roof, swung their swags over their shoulders, and set off at a trot, one to the east, the other to the south.

"Be quick!" Maggie called after them.

"Now, Aggie, have plenty of hot water in the copper. Put the kettle on. Put a batch of bread in the oven, and make scones. Put three or four joints to roast. I will send every man I can find to search, and when they come back they must be fed."

The two girls helped each other, and worked hard. In a short time their preparations were well forward. Every now and again a faint coo-ee was heard floating down the valley. The searchers were answering each other, and trying to let the lost girl know that she was being sought for. The cries came mournfully on the breeze, and made Maggie shudder. A coo-ee can be made joyful, hopeless, pathetic, funny—anything you please. It can say in a breath, "lost," "found!" And so the cries went on, in long drawn-out wails, until they died away altogether. Maggie did not recognise one hopeful note; they all sounded like a dirge.

The two girls had a weary, sorrowful time. They watched together, wept together, comforted each other, listened, and waited. The night passed away somehow. Morning broke at last. There was no sign of the search being successful. No man returned.

About eleven o'clock Mr. Bond and two men galloped up. The "sundowner" had delivered the letter about eight o'clock. After getting such information as he required from Maggie, Bond and the two men went away to add to the search party.

In a short time after they had gone Elsie's horse came up to the kitchen door. Maggie ran out.

"Oh, Hector!" she cried, clasping the horse round his neck. "Where is Elsie? How could you leave her? How could you desert her?"

Hector hung his head, and looked ashamed of himself.

"Good boy," said Maggie. "If I get on your back, will you take me to her?" Hector brightened up, as if he understood what she was saying.

"Bring me my hat, Aggie. I am going to jump on Hector, and look for Elsie. I think he will take me to her. She must have got off him of her own accord. She was not thrown. The bridle is tied through the stirrup just in the way she always ties it. She must have got off to rest, and something startled him, and he must have run away and left her. Thank God, she is alive! She must be making her way home. She may have sprained her foot, and is coming slowly. We'll see her soon, I feel sure."

Maggie jumped on the horse, and Aggie tied her hat so as to keep it from flying away.

"Take me to her, good Hector, and be off," said Maggie. He bounded away, and they were soon a dot in the distance.

She was barely out of sight when Alec Keryle rode up with four men. Their horses were in a lather of foam with hard riding.

"What news, Aggie?"

"None, Mr. Keryle. They've all been out searching since last night. Her horse has just come home. Miss Maggie has jumped on him, and has gone out too. She thinks the horse will take her to where Miss McLean was when he left her. Miss Maggie has only a minute ago passed through that gap in the ranges. If you ride fast you may overtake her."

He touched his horse with the spur, and galloped away in Maggie's track, his four men following as quickly as they could.

Maggie's horse went on steadily, and steered for the hill he had climbed the day before; but he avoided the steepest part, and went up an easy place which he had discovered when going home. He walked up and down the tableland as if looking for something. His rider was passive, and let him do as he pleased. He soon came to where Elsie had lain down, and he sniffed the ground. Maggie saw that the moss had been disturbed. "Good Hector, we are on the track," she said. Then the horse, with his nose held low, went on for half a mile, and suddenly stopped at a clump of bushes. Maggie gave a great cry, and jumped off. Her sister lay, pale as death, among the bushes. She breathed! her pulse beat! "Thank God, I have found her!"

Elsie muttered a few words, and Maggie stooped to listen. She distinctly heard her say, "Oh, Alec! I'm sorry. Why did you go away?"

Maggie stood up and filled her lungs, then gave a joyous and long-sustained coo-ee in a high soprano, which reverberated among the hills.

"Dod!" said McLean, "that's Maggie. She's found Elsie, God be praised!" And he rode off at breakneck speed in the direction whence the coo-ee came.

"Holy Moses! fwhat's that?" said Pat, who had been beating along at the foot of the hill on the other side. "Miss Elsie's found herself, bedad! an' here have I been sarchin' all noight, loike a shtuck pig, shquealin' out from toime to toime as if I wor hurt."

Pat gave a wild coo-ee, then whistled through his fingers with a shrill blast. Alec was the first to come up to Maggie, who was on her knees, chafing and rubbing her sister's hands. He knelt beside Elsie, pulled off her boots, and rubbed her feet till he felt a little glow come into them.

Her father then came. He took off his coat and wrapped it round her shoulders. In a short time, under their united efforts, a faint colour tinged her cheeks, and she soon opened her eyes; but only for a moment, for she saw Alec, and shut them. She thought she was dreaming.

She gradually regained her senses, and whispered, "Father! Maggie! Where am I? What is the matter? Am I hurt?"

"No, no, darling! you're not hurt. You are in the arms of your own Maggie, and father is here. See, he is holding you up!"

Bond now arrived, and pressed forward. He had studied medicine for two years, but had never passed an examination, so he abandoned his intention of becoming a doctor.

"I'm a bit of a doctor, you know," he said. "I'll soon tell you all about the case. Let me see—let me see. Pulse a little weak; heart ditto." He moved her arms and legs gently. "How's that?" he said to her. "No bones broken? Any pain anywhere? How are we now?"

"I feel better," she said. "I must have fainted."

Alec could not bear to see Bond bending over Elsie, and pulling her about; so he withdrew behind a clump of saplings, and wondered what he could do. He could make a litter. The very thing! He ran to his horse, and took a tomahawk which swung in a leather case at his saddle and some rope. He soon cut down some saplings, and strapped them together with cross pieces, and piled on heaps of soft fern fronds. He had soon made a comfortable litter in which to carry Elsie home. He saw that she was so weak she would be unable to sit on a horse.

When he had nearly finished the litter Pat came, and looked on.

"Shure it's the most sinsabilest thing that cud be done. It's a foine headpiece you've got entoirely, Masther Keryle. It's as saft as a fither bed, an' as aisy as a rockin'-chair; fit for a princess av the blood, or a fairy queen, bedad!"

"You had better tell Mr. McLean, Pat, that this is the very thing to carry Miss McLean on. The best thing we can do is to take her home as quickly as possible."

"Faith, ye're about right, as ye mostly are, Masther Keryle."

Pat went away, whispered to McLean, and told him what Alec had prepared. McLean came and looked at the litter. "Bless ye, Alec!" he said.

The two men carried the litter and put it down beside Elsie; then, with the help of Bond and Maggie, they laid her gently on the soft bed of ferns. The poor girl was perfectly passive, and shut her eyes; but she was conscious that Alec was near, though she dared not look him in the face.

McLean and Alec went to the head of the litter, Bond and Pat to the foot, and they carried Elsie slowly and carefully to Borombyee.

Bond went to the bookcase and took down the "Family Doctor," and consulted its pages, but could find no reference to any such case as Elsie's. "Confound it!" he said. "You never can find what you want to know in these books. If it had been toothache, scarlet fever, nettle-rash, rheumatism, or even headache, there are full directions; but there is nothing here about a young lady lost in the bush, exposure to night air, fright, or shock to the system. Faugh! These doctors are fools; they never see a case of this kind. I'll fall back on first principles; order complete rest, mustard poultice to the chest, chicken broth, and a couple of Holloway's pills night and morning. I'll pull her through!"

He wrote full directions, and handed the paper on which they were written to McLean.

"I'll ride over to Mountfield, and bring Dr. Rammage. I would like to have a consultation with him. You see, I, who have studied medicine and know as much as most doctors, can tell him all the symptoms from the time Miss McLean was found."

McLean nodded, and gave Bond's hand a warm grip.

"Very well," said Bond; "I'm off as fast as my horse will carry me. Expect me by eight o'clock."

Meanwhile Elsie was undressed, and put to bed by Maggie's loving hands and Aggie's help; then she drank a cup of tea and ate a little bread and butter.

"I feel better already, Maggie. Put your ear to my mouth. Is Alec here?"

"Yes," said Maggie.

"Then don't let him go away."

"I'll take good care of that, Elsie."

Alec was informed by McLean that Elsie had gone to bed; that she seemed better; that the doctor had been sent for. He thought she only required rest.

"Then I'll say good-bye, for I am going to Melbourne to-morrow. My mother will send over every day to inquire how Miss McLean is. I hope she will be quite well in a day or two."

Maggie's quick ears heard the sound of a horse's hoofs, and she started up in alarm, then ran out at the back door. Alec was just riding away.

"Alec!" she cried in an urgent voice.

He turned in his saddle, and looked at her earnest face for a moment; then he went to meet her. Putting her hand on the saddle, and looking up pitifully, with a tear in her eye, she said, "Alec, you mustn't go away! Do you want to kill Elsie?"

He put his hand to his forehead, while his heart thumped against his ribs.

"I do not understand," he said.

"I do, though! Elsie was so sorry when you went away angry with her. That's the cause of her illness. When I found her she was unconscious, but I heard her say, 'Oh, Alec! I'm sorry. Why did you go away?'"

"Maggie," he said, "you are my good angel come to help me. But for you I would have gone away wretched and miserable, and two lives would have been wrecked. Now I am happy. Tell Elsie I shall not go away till she can see me."

"Oh, thank God! all is well," said Maggie.

She ran to her sister, and whispered something in her ear which made her blush. She kissed Maggie, and said, "You are the dearest, sweetest sister in the whole world!"

From that moment Elsie quickly recovered strength.

What is there more to tell?

Only this. Two happy people met in the afternoon. The misunderstanding was gone for ever. A wedding, which was the talk of the countryside, took place in a few months.