Читать книгу Bertha Shelley - Aubrey Burnage - Страница 13

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See, the fire is sinking low

Dusky red the embers glow,

While above them still I cower—

While a moment more I linger,

Though the clock, with lifted finger,

Points beyond the midnight hour.

* * * * * * *

Every quivering tongue of flame,

Seems to murmur some great name,

Seems to say to me "Aspire!"

But the night-wind answers, "Hollow

Are the visions that you follow;

Into darkness sinks your fire."

—LONGFELLOW.

It was afternoon, and all was hurry and bustle in Field Place, for Mr. Shelley and the new servants were expected home. The black boy, Jerry, was stationed as sentry upon the landing stage to watch for and report the first appearance of the Sophia Jane round the bend of the river. Bertha and her friend, Edith, were engaged in assisting Mrs. Shelley in some household duties, but they could not restrain their curiosity and impatience, and were continually making excuses for running out upon the verandah to watch.

'I wonder what sort of a girl papa has brought!' said Bertha, as she put away the work she had finished. 'I hope she may be some one I can like. I wonder if she will be able to speak French!'

'And I wonder whether she will be a good cook!' said Mrs. Shelley, smiling at her daughter's estimate of a servant's qualifications.

'Mamma had one servant who was an educated woman,' said Edith. 'Sometimes real ladies are unfortunate enough to come out to the colony as prisoners.'

'Oh, how dreadful that must be! Well, if there were any real ladies upon the Southern Cross, I hope papa has brought one!' replied Bertha.

'And how about the cooking, Bertha? If your papa brings a lady, who talks French she will be precious little use in the kitchen!' said her mother.

'O, you can teach her the useful art of cookery in return for what she teaches me!' replied Bertha. 'I dearly want to learn French.'

'That cobbon big ship come along now, Missie Berta!' shouted the excited Jerry, bursting unceremoniously in among them.

'Come along, Edith. Will you go with us down to the river, mamma?' asked Bertha, snatching up her hat.

'No, my dear. Papa will be hungry, I expect, so I must stay and attend to the tea.'

Away ran the girls, Jerry in advance, and were soon by the bank. The Sophia Jane was then a couple of hundred yards from the landing stage, and preparing to bear up to it.

'O, I am so glad papa has returned,' said Bertha. 'I'm always frightened when he is away; the sea is so dangerous.'

'Perhaps the hutkeeper has neglected to prepare tea for the new men. Would it not be right to send Jerry to him, with orders to do so at once?' said the thoughtful Edith.

'Certainly, Edith dear! Jerry, go and tell Brown to put the kettle on at once, and to set the tea things. The new servants may be tired and hungry.'

Jerry scampered off with his young mistress's orders, and the girls sat upon a log, watching the approach of the boat, and speculating upon the probable appearance and disposition of the new arrivals, Bertha still harping upon the possibility of the new cook speaking French.

'I often think, Bertha,' said Edith, after a pause, 'when I look at the prisoners, what a strange book could be written of their histories; what harrowing tales of broken hearts and crushed hopes it would shew! Strange that people will sin, when sorrow is its certain consequence.'

'What a queer girl you are, Edith—always moralizing. Look, papa is waving his hand!'

The girls waved their hats in return; and in a few minutes the little steamer was puffing away at the landing-place. Mr. Shelley assisted the female servant ashore, and, after kissing his daughter and shaking hands with her companion, he returned aboard to help the men servants in getting the dray and other purchases off the steamer.

Marion Macaulay stood apart, watching the scene with a half-frightened gaze.

'Look, Edith, what a nice-looking girl the new cook is.'

'What a sweet expression she wears, Bertha. Could you fancy any one like her being very wicked? How sad and lonely she looks too! Let us speak to her.'

'Come along, then,' said the impulsive girl, leading the way to the new servant. 'Are you tired after your long journey?' she asked, kindly.

The young girl turned. 'Yes, Miss, a little. Are you Miss Shelley?'

'Yes! Here, sit upon this box, and rest yourself, while we are waiting for papa!'

'Thank you, Miss! But I am more seasick than tired!' she replied.

'And more heartsick than either!' said Edith mentally, noting the sad expression of her features.

'Then come along up to the house, and we will get you a cup of tea, and then you can lie down and have a sleep,' said Bertha.

'Thank you! You are very kind!'

'What is your name?'

'Marion Macaulay, Miss!'

'What a pretty name! Well, come along. You look very unwell!'

The girls walked up to the house, and introduced Marion to her new mistress; and, after the young girl had a cup of tea, she was sent to her room.

Mrs. Shelley was pleased with Marion's appearance, but she shook her head when Bertha asked her what she thought of the new cook, and said 'I am afraid I shall have to teach her that useful art, in return for what she may teach you; as you suggested just now!'

The dray and other things being safely landed, Mr. Shelley took the new hands down to the huts, where he left them, saying as he turned away, 'Now make yourselves as comfortable as you can! I shall not expect you to do much until next week.'

Percy Sinclair's heart sank, as he sat down upon a rough stool in his new quarters. He was now in verity a slave, to be driven hither and thither at the will of another—to be lashed like a dog, if it so pleased his master; for so the law allowed.

'Come, draw up, mate, and have a pannican o' tea. It's no use bein down in the mouth; you might have got into wus hands than our old man's. Come, draw up!'

The speaker was Hal. Brown, the hut-keeper, a one-legged reminiscence of the battle of Corunna.

Percy Sinclair obeyed mechanically, and took his seat at the table.

'And you, too, young un'!' Hal. continued, addressing the more youthful-looking 'hand.' 'Jest you draw your stool up too, and take this!' he said, filling another pannican with the refreshing beverage.

Hal. Brown saw, and shrewdly guessed the cause of the low spirits of the 'new hands,' and did his best to rouse them. 'Come lads,' he said, encouragingly, as they sat, Percy Sinclair gazing gloomily into the fire, and his companion aimlessly turning his spoon round and round in his tea. 'Englishmen oughter be like cats—always come down on their feet. Brown-studyin won't mend the matter—make it wus most likely—and a good linin' o' damper and beafsteak, washed down with a quart o' hot tea, 'll very likely improve it; so just take my adwice, and set to like alligators.'

Thus advised, Percy and his companion, whose name, by-the-way, was Giles, helped themselves to the new wheaten damper and steaming steak; and, if they didn't altogether set to like alligators, they ate at least as hearty a meal as could be expected under the circumstances, Hal. Brown the while striving to amuse them by relating some of his many adventures. Having a very fertile imagination, Hal. was never at a loss for an adventure, and could tell thrilling accounts of hairbreadth escapes by sea and land, in any ocean or continent his hearers chose. On one occasion he had been caught giving personal reminiscences of Richard the Third, on Bosworth Field, in which he figured as having encountered Crookback himself; but on a bystander pointing out the impossibility of the thing, he coolly replied, 'Ah, I forgot, it was my grandfather! Well, its all the same!'

It is strange what a powerful influence a cheerful companion exerts upon the spirits of even the saddest. Before the meal was half over, his hearers were listening with great interest to his absurd and improbable tales.

'I'll jest tell you a little adventure that happened to me about six months ago,' he said, as he seated himself comfortably with his back to the wall, and his wooden leg stretched out before him, one end of it resting upon the table. 'I was settin here as I may be now, when in comes our old man. 'Holloa, Hal.!' says he, 'Can you drive a team?' 'Yes, sir,' says I. 'I've done a power o' drivin in my time,' though, between us three, I knew no more about drivin than old Brindle, the off-side poler. 'Well,' says he, 'the bullock-driver is down with the tic-doloro in the stomach, and so you'll have to take the dray to Newcastle instead. Get the cattle yoked by daylight to-morrow, as we must start directly after breakfast.' 'All right, sir,' says I; and off he goes to the overseer to get the dray loaded. I followed him to the door, and saw the overseer drivin the bullocks up to the stockyard to unyoke 'em. I was rather afraid I couldn't manage the yokin-up business, so says I to myself, 'By St. George, if I could only turn 'em out with their neckties on, I'd be right as a Jew in the mornin!' 'I'm going to the yard, sir,' says I, callin after the master; 'And if you want to speak to the overseer I can send him up to the house.' 'Ah, do Hal.!' says he. 'Tell him to come at once, it'll be dark in half an hour; and I want him to see to puttin a couple o' cases into the dray.' There wasn't no time to lose, as the overseer was takin down the rails to let 'em into the yard; so says I, 'All right, sir,' and got over to the yard as quickly as my two legs would carry me.' (Here Hal. happened to look down, and saw that he had only one leg and a fraction; but not thinking it necessary to correct so trifling a mistake, be repeated, with an emphasis on the numeral,) 'As fast as my two legs would carry me.' 'Never mind unyokin the cattle, Davy,' says I, 'the bullock-driver 'll be here in a couple o' minutes. You're got to trot off to the house, the old man wants you at once.' 'But the bullock-driver's in bed, Hal.' says he, 'got a touch o' the ague or somethin' o' the sort.' 'Never mind him, Davy,' says I, 'he's better agin. Jest you look sharp, the master's waitin'.' So Davy leaves 'em in the yoke, and started off to the house; and I jest turned them out, yokes and all. Well, I was up and had the cattle in the dray next mornin', before anyone else was about. 'Holloa, Hal.,' says the old man, when he came down after breakfast, 'you're ready early.' 'Yes, sir,' says I. 'I've got an uncommon knack o' gettin' the cattle into their harness early.' Well, we started about eight o'clock, and got along all right for a couple o' hours, till the old man got tired o' the slow time we was marching at, and cantered on, leavin' me to fetch the team along; and then my troubles began. The leaders took a fancy to the short grass under the logs by the roadside, and in ferretin' after it they kept tangling the chains and wheels among the logs. I talked to the wretches till I couldn't stand it no longer, and when I found moral suasion, as the parsons call it, wouldn't go down with 'em, I laid into 'em with the whip. I swore if they didn't hit out and make up for lost time, I would; and I cut 'em right and left, till they shook 'emselves together and made off through the bush at the double. They knocked me down and the whole team went over me. The wheels would have gone over my head, too, as I lay stunned by the hoofs of the bullocks, only I made a dive and caught a grip o' the pole at the ring-bolt, and hung on like a old fool. On they went at a gallop through the bush, draggin' me and the dray after 'em like a squadron o' light cavalry at the charge.'

Here the old fellow paused, and wiped the perspiration from his pinched features and bald head. 'My eyes, it was hot work!' he said, glowing at the recollection. 'Well, they pulled up after about five miles. When I managed to get out o' my uncomfortable sitivation, I found we'd bin travellin' on one wheel—the near side one had snapped off clean as a carrot. The boxes had got piled up on the offside, and balanced the dray, so that when the cattle stopped it was standin' up all right like a goose on one leg.'

This last was rather too much for his hearers; and, in the hearty laugh, which it caused, Percy Sinclair forgot for the moment his own troubles.

'The cattle had wasted so much time fishin' for the short grass among the logs, that it was nearly sundown, so I turned the wretches out, and made the fire to boil my quart. After I had got my supper, I sat thinkin about one thing and another, till it got dark, and the moon rose. I can't tell how long I was sittin thinkin, but presently I was startled by hearin a whole troop o' dingoes behind me, howlin' like devils! I jumped up, and looked round; and all was as still as a church yard. Then I heard a bullock bell tinklin! It was right off in the bush, and sounded nearly a quarter of a mile away from my camp. Holloa, says I, that infernal off-side leader's on the tramp. I must fetch him back before I turn in! I called Pincher, the cattle dog, to go with me; but he was standin under the dray with his back up and his tail as brushy as a aggrawated tom cat, and his two eyes shining like a rack o' bagonets. He wouldn't budge a inch, he knowed a game worth two o' it; and if I'd only had as much savvy as the dog, I'd have knowed there wasn't a bell on any o' the cattle. But I was a old fool, and I forgot it. Well, I hadn't gone more than two hundred yards, when I sees old Snowball, the off-side leader, as I thought, makin right for the bush. I tried to head him back to camp, but the faster I ran the faster he ran; and so I followed him on and on through scrubs and gullies, over creeks and ridges, till I was pretty nigh baked. What puzzled me more than nothin was, that whether I went fast or slow, the white bullock was always the same distance in front o' me, and I could see him jest as plain when the bushes and logs was between us, as I could on the open ground. Well, at last I got desperate like, and puttin on a spurt I dashed right up to him. Round he turned, and down went his head to rush at me quite nateral. O' course, I shut my eyes, not partic'larly wishin' to see my latter end under such werry unfavourable circumstances; and on he came like a hurricane. I felt his horns graze my two sides, and then double up and nearly squeeze the wind out o' me, and I felt his breath on my face as cold as a snowstorm. I opened my eyes for a moment, and the bullock was gone, and a girl with a face as white as the moon was holdin me in her arms. Round her neck she had a piece o' rope tied tight; and on the bark o' a gum tree jest behind her there was two letters cut, E. R., with 1829 under it. I didn't see no more, for I jest fell down in a fit, and there I lay till——'

'Look here, mate,' interrupted the overseer, who had entered unobserved, and stood listening at the door during the latter part of the hutkeeper's story, 'if you believe a word Hal. Brown tells you, you'll pay him a better compliment than they do who know him best. He is known about here as the biggest liar out of' [Perhaps it may be as well not to specify where!] 'We call him Old Iperbly.'

'Iperbly?' Percy Sinclair asked in surprise.

'Yes; it's a name the master gave him; it means stretching,' answered the overseer, in explanation.

'Now, Davy,' exclaimed the hyperbolical Hal.; 'none o' your slanderin' a fellow like this, before company! It's all true,' he continued, turning to his new friends; 'it's all true, every word of it. You may pound your lives on it!'

'Why, you blundering old magpie, you do think these men are green enough to believe you would be sent to drive a team to Newcastle with a wooden leg?' said the overseer.

Hal regarded the substitute alluded to for a moment with an air of reflection, and then burst into an uproarious fit of laughter. 'It's not the first time you've bowled me out, old fellow,' he said, stroking the ungainly appendage affectionately, when at length his merriment had subsided.

'Liars have need of a good memory, Hal.,' the overseer observed, laughing, as he took off his spurs, and hung them and his stockwhip on a peg in the well.

'Ah, well, this same wooden leg o' mine once saved my neck; so I mustn't quarrel with him,' said Hal.

'Indeed!' said Sinclair, incredulously.

'I was to have been strung up jest after the battle o' Corunna, for stickin' my bagonet into a friend o' mine; only a cannon ball carried away my left leg, and the doctor's swore I couldn't survive the shock, if they hung me up with a wooden one,' Hal. explained.

'Well, limp off now, and look to your hurdles,' said the overseer. 'The new hands'll hear enough of your adventures, before it's your next turn to be hanged, I expect!'

Old Iperbly went forth on his afternoon's expedition of inspection and repair to the sheepfold; and the overseer turned to introduce himself to his new fellow-servants. 'What is your name?' he inquired, addressing Percy.

'Mine is Sinclair,' be replied; 'and this young man's is Giles.'

'Well, I'm Davy Collyer, the overseer,' said that functionary. 'I daresay we'll know each other pretty well before long. Can you ride?'

'Yes,' replied Sinclair, 'I was considered a very good rider at home.'

'Riding trained horses upon a good road, or even after a fox hunt, is a very different matter to keeping the pigskin down a mountain with one of our unbroken colts under you,' suggested Davy Collyer. 'Anyhow, it's as well to know as much to begin with. Mr. Shelley says you are to help me with the cattle. And you,' he said, turning to Giles, 'are to help Jack, the boy, with the sheep.'

'When shall I begin to assist you?' Percy asked. 'Mr. Shelley said he did not expect us to do much till next week; but I would rather be at work; it will leave less time for thinking.'

'I shan't have a horse in fit for you to ride, till Saturday; but, if you'd rather be doing something, you may drive the pigs down by the river, to-morrow, and mind them. And you can take a tomahawk with you, and cut down some of the wattles,' the overseer replied.

'I loik to work too; can't 'ee give I no work?' said Giles.

'Yes; you may go out with Jack, the boy, he'll show you what your work is.'

'Thank'ee, zir,' said Giles.

Davy Collyer rose, saying as he did so.

'Well, the best thing you can do now is to turn-in, and make a long night of it. Good bye!'

They took, the overseer's friendly advice, and turned in; but it was long before Percy could sleep, though his companion was soon snoring. His thoughts were busy with the last six months of his life; and, like a rapid panorama, sped before him the trial, his parting with the loved ones at home, and the long dreary voyage of the Southern Cross, with its storms and calms. At last, he fell asleep, thinking of the poor girl, who, if her tale was true, was, like himself, another victim of presumptive evidence.

Directly after breakfast, next morning, Percy Sinclair placed a hatchet in his belt, and, taking the whip the hut-keeper gave him, drove the pigs to the riverside, and began his dual occupation of pigherder and woodsman. It was a beautiful day: the waters of the broad Hunter reflected back the clear, cloudless sky, and a bracing breeze was blowing; but he paid no heed to the beauty or novelty of the scene. He worked hard to drive away thought. It was his first day of practical slavery. He, who, till his arrest, had always had servants to wait upon him, was now compelled to labour at the will of another. The change was so new, so sudden, that to think of it made his head and his heart ache; and to dispel thought he laboured hard. The pigs being as pig-headed, as they proverbially are, he had no time for idle reverie.

'What do you say to a run round the farm, Edith?' Bertha asked, as she and her young friend emerged from the parlour, where they had been engaged upon some needlework. 'We can easily get back by dinner time.'

Edith would like it immensely; so the bright pair sallied forth, and rambled down by the wheat-field, past the stockyard, had an interview with their ponies in the little paddock at the rear of it, and on across the creek over the log bridge, and reached the river in the midst of a beautiful cedar bush, talking, as they went, in the merry, hopeful strain of innocent girlhood. They found a shady little nook under a spreading cedar, and sat down upon the grass, and talked of many things—of their respective childhood, and what each could remember of it, of their visits to Sydney and Newcastle, and of the poor convicts, who were sometimes so cruelly treated. The last theme naturally turned their conversation to the new servants.

'Well, what do you think of the new cook now, Bertha? She couldn't have suited you better, I think—talks French, and is a real lady,' said Edith.

'You can't guess half how glad I am,' Bertha replied. 'She can teach me when mamma is too busy. You know, I want to be a clever woman some day. And then she will be company for me, when you have to go home. Have you seen the new men yet?'

'No; have you?'

'Yes; I saw them when I went down to the paddock to drive the ponies to the stable to feed them. One is a rough plough-boy looking fellow; but the other appears to be quite a gentleman.'

'Don't move, Bertha!' Edith whispered. 'Look there, under that wattle tree!'

Bertha looked in the direction indicated; and they both sat motionless, watching a small animal that slowly crept from the thicket, and hopped along towards the river. It was a wallaby, an animal resembling a kangaroo, in form, but not half so large. After quenching its thirst, the little creature fed about upon the soft grass, the girls watching its graceful movements with great interest; but presently a laughing-jackass (a large grey bird, of the kingfisher species), on a neighbouring tree, scared the timid beast away by its discordant cachinnation.

'Ah, there; it has gone!' Bertha exclaimed, in a disappointed tone, as it fled to cover.

They sat, still talking with all a girl's exhaustless repertoire of chitchat, till the shortened shadows warned them it was time to return home.

'We will keep by the river till we reach the landing-stage, and then go up to the house along the path,' said Bertha rising.

Edith raising no objection to the proposed route, they began their homeward walk. Slowly they sauntered, as those in the early flush of youth delight to walk, when surrounded by the beauties of nature.

Percy Sinclair worked with energy, and by noon had a considerable number of the young wattles felled. His unusual exercise had given him an appetite, so he drove his charge to the river's bank, and sitting on a log, where he could keep them under his eye, he began his lunch of beef and damper. He had not been seated many minutes, when he saw a beautifully marked diamond snake glide from under a heap of rubbish. It was the first he had ever seen; and lacking the colonist's inveterate antipathy to the reptile, instead of attacking it, he sat quietly watching its movements. Presently his thoughts wandered away over the dark sea to Elmsdale; and in dreaming of parents and sisters, he forgot the presence of his comely, but dangerous visitor.

'Look, Edith, there comes the Sophia Jane on her way back to Newcastle.'

The voice roused him from his reverie, and he glanced up.

'What interesting girls! how very lovely the fair one is!' he mentally ejaculated, as his gaze fell upon the bright features of the beautiful Bertha. But in another moment the color had left his lips, and all thought of her loveliness forgotten. The snake was standing erect just behind her, its mouth open, its forked tongue protruding, and its vindictive eyes glittering like diamond?

'I can't see her, Bertha,' exclaimed Edith.

'You can see her better here, Edith,' said Bertha, and all unconscious of her terrible danger, was stepping backwards right upon the angry reptile. Its head swayed backwards and forwards several times, as if gathering force for the blow, and then darted at her arm, which was only protected by a thin muslin sleeve. With a spring Percy bounded forward and, throwing his arms around the girl, lifted her beyond the reach of danger. When he stood her down, she turned round upon him, her eyes flashing with anger, and exclaimed, haughtily, 'What do you mean, sir, by touching me? I shall tell papa directly I get home!'

'Allow this to plead my excuse,' Percy said, smiling at her anger, and holding out the hand to which the snake was still clinging.

Bertha turned sick with horror, and said as he shook the reptile off, 'Oh! you will die! The bite of a diamond snake is certain death! What can we do?'

'It is certain death, unless the part is cut out,' said Edith, who, though pale from fear, still kept her presence of mind. 'You must cut the piece out at once, sir: Have you a knife?'

'No, unfortunately,' replied Percy, 'But perhaps this may answer the purpose!' and taking up the hatchet, and laying his hand upon the log, he severed the bitten finger just above the first joint, before the girls could perceive his intention. Bertha gave a slight scream, and stood trembling by, while Edith, saying, 'Bravely done, sir, it was your only chance!' tore up her handkerchief in slips and bound up the wounded hand.

'Thank you, Miss,' Percy said, when she had finished the task, 'I think I can get back to my work again now;' and he continued, turning to Bertha, 'Do you think, Miss, you can forgive my rudeness now in lifting you out of that reptile's way?'

'Can you ever forgive my ungrateful words?' she asked in reply, 'You have saved my life; that I can never forget. You must go up to the house with us, and papa will dress your hand properly. I hope it isn't very painful!'

'It is nothing,' he said, making light of the pain that really was very acute. 'If I go with you, these pigs will be getting into mischief.'

'Never mind them, sir; you have saved his daughter's life, and Mr. Shelley will care nothing what becomes of them,' said Edith. 'You really must go with us, and have your hand properly dressed.'

Percy left his charge to look after each other, and accompanied his new acquaintances to the house. Mr. Shelley met them at the door. Bertha ran up to him, and said, pointing to her preserver, 'Oh papa, that gentleman has just saved me from a diamond snake, and it has bitten him.'

'Ah! What? Bitten by a diamond snake? Then we must cut the piece out at once! Blood!' he exclaimed, noticing the bandage, 'You have already done so?'

'I chopped off the bitten part of the finger, sir; and this young lady very kindly bound the wound up with her handkerchief,' said Percy.

'Then there is no danger, I hope,' Mr. Shelley said kindly. 'Go in, girls, I will attend to Mr. Sinclair. Come this way.'

Percy followed his master into a little room off the kitchen, and there Mr. Shelley removed the bandage. 'How much time elapsed between the bite and your cutting off the finger?' he asked, anxiously.

'Barely a minute, sir,' Percy replied.

'Good; then there cannot be much danger,' Mr. Shelley returned. After applying some Friar's balsam to the wound, and binding it up, he said, 'Now, you may tell me how it occurred. Something was said about your rescuing Bertha from the snake. Was she in any danger?'

Though there was no tremor in her father's voice, nor tremble in his skilful fingers,—he held such command over himself—yet the deep earnestness of his tone showed that her escape had been uppermost in his mind while dressing the mutilated hand.

Percy Sinclair briefly described the manner of the accident, or adventure. During his recital, Mr. Shelley listened silently, deeply moved by the narrow escape of his darling. When Percy concluded, he seized his hand, and shaking it gratefully, exclaimed, 'You saved her life at imminent risk to your own! I can never pay the debt of gratitude I owe you.'

'Don't look at it in that light, sir; I only did what any other man would have done,' said Percy depreciatingly. 'I was rather amused,' he continued, 'at the energy with with Miss Shelley resented my touching her, before she discovered my motive in-doing so.'

'The darling. I don't believe I could have survived her loss. Dinner is ready. Come in, and allow me to introduce you to her mother.'

Mr. Shelley led the way to the dining-room. As they entered, his wife rose from a seat, where she had been sitting, listening with tear-filled eyes, and thankful heart to the girls' account of the adventure.

'Grace, but for the courage of Mr. Sinclair, we should have had no Bertha now,' Mr. Shelley said, as he led Percy forward.

Mrs. Shelley thanked him as only a mother can who so narrowly escapes losing an only child. Bertha approached her preserver, and said half in fun, half in earnest. 'And now, Mr. Sinclair, you must allow the heroine of this adventure herself to thank you for saving her life. I hope your hand isn't very painful.'

'No, miss; It is not nearly so painful as I had expected it would be,' answered Percy confusedly, as he gazed upon the rich beauty of her animated features and sparkling blue eyes.

During dinner—the conversation still running upon the all-absorbing topic—Mr. Shelley said, turning to Percy, 'if I had the power of making you a free man, Sinclair, I would gladly do so. However, I will do what I can. Here you shall be treated as such. You shall be my friend, and act for me as superintendent.'

'Thank you, sir; thank you,' I will be faithful to you in both relations,' answered Percy.

The afternoon passed pleasantly away; and towards bed time, Percy Sinclair rose from the sofa, upon which Mrs. Shelley had insisted on his lying, for the purpose of returning to the huts. Mr. Shelley laid his hand upon his shoulder. 'Don't go back to the huts, Sinclair, Mrs. Shelley has prepared the little room off the kitchen for you. You can call it your own for the future.'

Percy retired to bed in his new quartets, and soon fell asleep. The incident of the morning appeared to have improved his position. It had done so in reality, but that one fair face would intrude itself upon his dreams. Better for him had the adventure of the snake never occurred. Better for him—for more reasons than that of his mutilated hand—had he still been herding at the huts, dreaming of any one else under heaven, than of the daughter of the kindest but proudest gentleman in New South Wales! Could he but wake in his bed of last night, and find the rescue a dream, what despair and misery in the dark future had been spared to him!