and they had to halt; but not far from the
spot where Turcen had lost sight of his
master. They tethered their horses in a space
clear of trees and of fire, and gave them corn
that they had brought with them. When
the moon rose, they went on to some distance
uttering loud cooées to attract the ear of the
lost man; but all in vain. The fire had left
the ground hot and covered with ashes,
and here and there huge trees burning like
columns of red-hot iron.

Finding all their efforts for the night fruitless,
they flung themselves down beside their
horses; and, with the earliest peep of dawn
they were up and off higher into the hills.
Their way presented at every step the most
shocking effects of the fire. Ever and anon
they came upon bullocks which had perished
in it. Here and there, too, they descried
the remains of kangaroos, opossums, and
hundreds of birds, seared and shrivelled
into sable masses of cinder.

They came at length to the spot where
Turcen and George Maxwell had parted; and
the experienced bushman carefully sought out
the tracks of his horses' feet, and followed
them. These were either obliterated by the
fire, or failed from the rocky hardness of the
ground; but, by indefatigable search, they
regained them, and were led at length to
the edge of a deep and precipitous ravine.
In the ravine itself the trees and grass
remained unscathed; the torrent of fire had
leapt over it, sweeping away, however, every
shrub and blade of herb from the heights.

"God defend us!" exclaimed Robert, "the
smoke must have blinded him, and concealed
this frightful place. Man and horse are
doubtless dashed to pieces."

He raised a loud and clear cooée; instantly
answered by the wild and clamorous barking
of a dog; which, in the next instant, was seen
leaping and springing about in the bottom
of the dell, as if frantic with delight.

"That is Snirrup!" exclaimed Turcen;
and the two men began to descend the steep
side of the ravine. Robert Patterson outstripped
his older and heavier companion.
He seemed to fly down the sheer and craggy
descent. Here he seized a bough, there a
point of the rock, and, in the next instant,
was as rapidly traversing the bottom of the
glen. Snirrup the cattle-dog rushed barking
and whining upon him, as in a fit of
ecstatic madness, and then bounded on before
him. Robert followed in breathless anxiety;
stopped the next moment by the sight of
George Maxwell's horse, lying crushed and
dead. Robert cast a rapid glance around,
expecting every moment to see his friend
stretched equally lifeless. But presently he
heard the faint sound of a human voice.

There lay George stretched in the midst
of a grassy thicket, with a face expressing
agony and exhaustion. Robert seized his
offered hand, and George called first for
water. His friend started up and ran down
the valley at full speed. He was soon back
with a pannikin of water, which the sufferer
drank with avidity.

He now learned that, as had been supposed,
in the thick smoke, the horse had gone over
the precipice, and was killed in an instant.
George had escaped, his fall being broken by
his steed; and he was flung into the thicket,
which again softened the shock of his
descent. But he had a broken leg, and was,
besides, extremely bruised, and torn. Life,
however, was strong within him; and Turcen
and Robert lost no time in having a litter
of poles bound together with stringy bark
made soft with grass and leaves, laid in a
sheet of the same bark. They had three miles
to bear the shattered patient; to whom every
motion produced excruciating agonies. It
was not long before they heard people in
different parts of the wood loudly cooéeing;
and their answers soon brought not only a
number of men who had been sent out in
quest of them, but also Miss Maxwell, herself.

We shall not attempt to describe the sad
and yet rejoicing interview of the brother
and sister, nor the rapidity with which the
different men were sent off upon the horses
tied in the hills for the surgeon; who lived
two miles off.

In a few days George Maxwell—his leg having
been set and his wounds dressed—had become
easy enough to relate all that had happened
to him; the dreadful night which he had
passed in extreme agony in the glen, and the
excitement which the loud, ringing cooées of
Robert, which had reached him, but to which
he was unable to reply, had occasioned both
him and the faithful and sympathising dog,
who barked vehemently; but, as it proved,
in vain.

From the moment of this tragic occurrence
Robert Patterson was constantly in attendance
at the Mount on his friend. He slept in
the same room with him, and attended with
Ellen as his nurse in the day-time. From this
moment the cloud which so long hung over the
spirit of Ellen Maxwell had vanished. She
was herself again; always kind and open,
yet with a mournful tone in her bearing
towards Robert, which surprised and yet
pleased him. It looked like regret for past
unkindness. As they sate one evening over
their tea, while George was in a profound
sleep in the next room, Ellen looking with
emotion at him, said, in a low, tremulous
voice, " Robert, I owe much to you."

"To me?" said Robert, hastily. "Isn't
George as much a brother to me as to you?"

"It is not that which I mean," added
Ellen, colouring deeply, yet speaking more
firmly; "it is that I have done you great
wrong. I believed that you had said a most
ungenerous thing, and I acted upon my
belief with too much pride and resentment.
I was told that you had jested at me as the
daughter of a convict."

Robert sprang up. "It is false! I never