honest old Bill, who had faced sun and storm with him for three years past. Ay, he was such a mate as a fellow didn't often chance to get. And then to say that he was dead! Oh, how absurd!

Wildly thoughts and images floated through his brain, leaving only a dim, haunting sense of trouble. Then he slipped back to the English meadows of his childhood-daisy-sprinkled grass, and a gray river edged with pollard willows that broke into green loveliness every spring. How well he remembered it all! He used to bathe there as a boy, and dream of striking -out bravely for himself in the great river of life. The skies above him were not higher than his aspirations. And now it had all come to this-that he had struck down his friend, and the word MURDERER was written in letters of fire across his soul!

He shivered, drew a long breath and awoke. There was a refreshing undercurrent of coolness in the air, and golden lights slanted down among the ferns. It must be evening, then. He looked at his watch; it was five o'clock. He rose, still shivering, and looked round him. What should he do? Selfpreservation urged him to some immediate course, but where had he best turn for safety?

He stumbled on listlessly for awhile, swearing hard now and again at the tangles of creeper and brambles through which he had to force his way. All at once he stood stock still, trembling in every limb. He rubbed his hand across his eyes to assure himself that he was not dreaming, and then grew a worse feeling that madness had come upon him. He had often heard of murderers being haunted by the corpses of their victims, and ah! here the ghastly thing had come upon him! Bill's body lay almost at his feet, and already it was overarched by long, luxuriant ferns.

He knelt down with a little stifled

cry and hid his face. When he looked again IT was still there; but as he looked a sudden ray of hope darted into his mind. This thing wore a coarse plaid. It could not be Bill. The sudden overpowering sense of relief made him sick and dizzy. Then, recovering himself, he examined the body carefully, with a new gentleness of touch and a new reverence. Slowly he identified it as that of an old stockman who had lived in a lonely hut on the ranges; and then the whole story came back to him. The man had gone away to town and nothing further had ever been heard of him. He had lived so solitary a life that he had not been missed at once, and little wonder was raised when he was, for he was known to be a queer, erratic being. He was believed to have no relations on this side of the world, and public opinion conjectured that he had taken ship and gone home to his people. And here he had perished far from all kindly human sounds, in this mockery of green, silent beauty. It made Jack shudder afresh. In the dead man's pocket-book he found crisp bank-notes for 501. Good God! Had he had these yesterday he had not now been a murderer! He bowed his head, then started up wildly, for he seemed to hear footsteps gathering all round him, and voices accusing him from every tree. In an agony of fear his resolution was taken. He would take this man's clothes and personate him in his hermit's hut till the crime had blown over sufficiently for him to slip off to Australia with safety. Anything rather than be taken!

It was nearly midnight when he reached the deserted sod hut, for he was footsore and weary and walked but slowly. It was a cloudless summer night, and the moon was at her full. Under such skies as these even the rugged hills looked lovely, folded into soft, ample curves in the quiet moonlight. And the nodding tussocks in Jack's eyes

looked far more friendly and beautiful than the wonderful shimmering ferns he had left. He pushed open the door of the hut and went in, a cobweb catching his brow as he did so. He struck a match and looked round him. All was neat and in good order as the dead man had left it. His blankets were rolled up in one corner, the kettle swung over the empty fireplace, and a pipe with some tobacco was on the shelf above. There was a cupboard, too, with some cheese, tea, flour and a mouldy loaf in it. The sight of food reminded Jack that he had had nothing since since that last drink with his chum. Was it only years ago, or in some other existence?

He brought water from the little spring by the door, built up the fire, and put the kettle on to make tea. Then he made himself some "damper," and took his meal with relish. He was not used to fast so long. After that he sat smoking awhile, then put out the tallow dip, rolled himself up in the blankets, and slept fitfully till morning.

His scheme was perfectly successful. The days passed on in monotonous succession, and no man came near his city of refuge. Once or twice he ventured down to the township on the other side of the hills to replenish his stock of necessaries. Few people knew him there, and no one eyed him askance as he came and went. Still, had he been a prisoner, living on the poorest fare, it could not have changed him more. His cheeks began to fall in; he was haggard and gaunt; his bloodshot eyes had a strained, listening look in them. Among the bare, bleak hills by day, and alone beneath the illimitable stars by night, his mind began to totter. As every summer sun sprang up, red and glorious, he almost hoped that a policeman would come for him before night and break this awful spell of loneliness. His was not the plight of

the Ancient Mariner, sailing à sea so lonely that God Himself scarce seemed there to be. To this man the terror and the awe lay in the fact that God did seem there beside him night and day, the only Being in all that changeless solitude. God, and the dead man, and he seemed the only realities in a universe of shifting shadows.

One day he found a late-blossoming wild flower in the shadow of a tussock. He clutched at it like a child, and hugged it to his bosom, tears springing to his eyes. He took it home with him, and had it by him while he slept. He could not love and admire too much this homely little thing that spoke of simplicity and common everyday life. He held it in his hand and fondled it, till the fragile flower drooped on its long, slender stem and died. Then again he was left alone with the majestic, unpitying stars, whose million eyes burnt into his soul. He remembered a fragment of the Psalms that he had once known: "The heavens declare the glory of God." What came after he had forgotten, but this he had no chance of forgetting whilst these relentless ministers of His glory shone luminous above him night by night.

Often at dusk the woodhens would steal out from tussock and toomatoogooroo, croaking shrilly. One, bolder than the rest, would come to his very door. He had been wont to hunt these birds unmercifully, but now he tried his utmost to propitiate and tame this one. He longed to stroke its speckled black-and-brown plumage, and have it eat out of his hand. Once it carried off a gaudy handkerchief he had spread out to attract it, and he rolled himself up in his blankets that night happy. But it never came again. Perhaps a chance stone or a dog had ended its life.

He had been almost afraid to ask for a newspaper when buying his stores, lest the very fact should betray him.

honest old Bill, who had faced sun and storm with him for three years past. Ay, he was such a mate as a fellow didn't often chance to get. And then to say that he was dead! Oh, how absurd!

Wildly thoughts and images floated through his brain, leaving only a dim, haunting sense of trouble. Then he slipped back to the English meadows of his childhood-daisy-sprinkled grass, and a gray river edged with pollard willows that broke into green loveliness every spring. How well he remembered it all! He used to bathe there as a boy, and dream of striking out bravely for himself in the great river of life. The skies above him were not higher than his aspirations. And now it had all come to this-that he had struck down his friend, and the word MURDERER was written in letters of fire across his soul!

He shivered, drew a long breath and awoke. There was a refreshing undercurrent of coolness in the air, and golden lights slanted down among the ferns. It must be evening, then. He looked at his watch; it was five o'clock. He rose, still shivering, and looked round him. What should he do? Selfpreservation urged him to some immediate course, but where had he best turn for safety?

He stumbled on listlessly for awhile, swearing hard now and again at the tangles of creeper and brambles through which he had to force his way. All at once he stood stock still, trembling in every limb. He rubbed his hand across his eyes to assure himself that he was not dreaming, and then grew a worse feeling-that madness had come upon him. He had often heard of murderers being haunted by the corpses of their victims, and ah! here the ghastly thing had come upon him! Bill's body lay almost at his feet, and already it was overarched by long, luxuriant ferns.

He knelt down with a little stifled

cry and hid his face. When he looked again IT was still there; but as he looked a sudden ray of hope darted into his mind. This thing wore a coarse plaid. It could not be Bill. The sudden overpowering sense of relief made him sick and dizzy. Then, recovering himself, he examined the body carefully, with a new gentleness of touch and a new reverence. Slowly he identified it as that of an old stockman who had lived in a lonely hut on the ranges; and then the whole story came back to him. The man had gone away to town and nothing further had ever been heard of him. He had lived so solitary a life that he had not been missed at once, and little wonder was raised when he was, for he was known to be a queer, erratic being. He was believed to have no relations on this side of the world, and public opinion conjectured that he had taken ship and gone home to his people. And here he had perished far from all kindly human sounds, in this mockery of green, silent beauty. It made Jack shudder afresh. In the dead man's pocket-book he found crisp bank-notes for 501. Good God! Had he had these yesterday he had not now been a murderer! He bowed his head, then started up wildly, for he seemed to hear footsteps gathering all round him, and voices accusing him from every tree. In an agony of fear his resolution was taken. He would take this man's clothes and personate him in his hermit's hut till the crime had blown over sufficiently for him to slip off to Australia with safety. Anything rather than be taken!

It was nearly midnight when he reached the deserted sod hut, for he was footsore and weary and walked but slowly. It was a cloudless summer night, and the moon was at her full. Under such skies as these the rugged hills looked lovel 1 into soft

All

looked far more friendly and beautiful than the wonderful shimmering ferns he had left. He pushed open the door of the hut and went in, a cobweb catching his brow as he did so. He struck a match and looked round him. was neat and in good order as the dead man had left it. His blankets were rolled up in one corner, the kettle swung over the empty fireplace, and a pipe with some tobacco was on the shelf above. There was a cupboard. too, with some cheese, tea, flour and a mouldy loaf in it. The sight of food reminded Jack that he had had nothing since since that last drink with his chum. Was it only years ago, or i some other existence?

ting the

1 at a re

his man

11. Scratchever, he folnderful thing

Harris come

as if petrified. cry "Bill!"

old man!" was

hen and there the to each other's arms, wurruld loike a pair of irls," said the onlooker Then he turned back.

"s," was his inward com

it I never saw the loike! And Il agin, unless I live to the age thuselah, and thin I'll be too d to enjiy it."

L. E. Smith.

Yet he had conquered his guilty tremors, bought one and unfolded the crackling sheets in his hut, glancing his eyes fearfully over each column. No, there was nothing of-of his murder case! Perhaps the first sensation caused by it was over, or perhaps this little country chronicle was silent when larger papers were still full of it. Anyway, he told himself for the meantime he was safe-safe-safe! He tried to say the word jubilantly, but in spite of himself it had a melancholy ring.

The door of the hut had evidently been made of new timber, for as the sap had receded the planks had shrank apart from each other, leaving wide, yawning gaps through which the daylight streamed and the wind blew. To remedy this state of affairs the dead man had pasted old newspapers partly across the back of the door. These the present occupier would read and reread as he lay listlessly on the floor beside them. At least they kept his reason from going. But one sheet contained an account of a murder, every word of which soon seemed branded into his brain, so well he knew every line, every turn of phrase in it. It ended abruptly, too, at the turn of the sheet on which it was printed. At the very climax of the tragedy all became suddenly blank. The unfinished horror of it haunted the man. To him it was made more awful by far by this ghastly break in it. He pondered it over and over, half unconsciously, many a dreamlike ending suggesting itself to him, always to be rejected on a later review of it. At last, in despair, and to save his mind from the utter horror of madness, he rose one morning and pasted another sheet over it, which contained only the trivial news of some local centre. The relief to his overwrought and sensitive mood was exquisite. It came upon him with a sudden burst of sweetness, like the scent of unguessed at violets.

One morning in February, for he had kept some rude count of the days, he awoke in the dusk of earliest dawn. He could not sleep again; a voice seemed whispering in his heart, and the place seemed insufferably hot. He hustled on his clothes and went out to the door. It was very still. The rugged peaks looked softer in this light, and the undulating tussocks might have passed for waves of the sea. Slowly the gorgeous rose of day burst and flamed above the horizon, shooting its marvellous lights far and wide, till the sun himself leaped up, and the pomp of dawn was over. Jack stood watching, and still that voice seemed whispering in his heart. He had a strange idea of an angel with a fiery sword standing beside him. At last he could endure it no longer. All the slow agony of these weeks seemed concentrated into a moment, and with a rush his soul went down into the black waters of a bitterness worse than death. He dropped on his knees, and a cry of anguish broke from him. St. Peter's words seemed the only prayer he could use. He muttered hoarsely again and again, "Depart from me, O Lord, for I am a sinful man!" Then the awful loneliness seemed to break, and in its stead came a feeling of warm human compassion and kindliness.

He took some breakfast, made his few scanty preparations and set off for his old home. Harvesting had begun, and as he went he rejoiced in the cheery sounds of labor that met him, watched with eagerness the reaping machines that went on and on, leaving full sheaves behind them, and could have laughed with joy at the sound of men's voices. One or two loiterers eyed him curiously, making him conscious that he looked an odd figure, but he cared little; he went on almost as though he trod on air. He reached the village and made straight for the police station.