LITMIR.BIZ

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to be hunted on the plains. He had lived two days on the pith of the palms.

      On the third day Moondyne with difficulty found the sand trail, which had been blown over by the night breeze. He had slept on the shelterless desert and had dreamt of sweet wells of water as the light dew fell on his parched body.

      This day he was quite alone. The dogs, suffering from thirst, had deserted him in the night.

      He began the day with a firm heart but an unsteady step. There was not a palm in sight. It was hot noon before he found a small scrub to moisten his throat and lips.

      But to-day, he thought, he must come face to face with the villain, and would kill him like a wild beast on the desert; and the thought upheld him.

      His head was bare and his body nearly naked. Another man would have fallen senseless under the cruel sun; but Moondyne did not even rest—as the day passed he did not seem to need rest.

      It was strange how pleasant, how like a dream, part of that day appeared. Sometimes he seemed to be awake, and to know that he was moving over the sand, and with a dread purpose; but at these times he knew that the trail had disappeared—that he was blindly going forward, lost on the wilderness. Toward evening the cool breeze creeping over the sand dispelled the dreams and made him mercilessly conscious.

      The large red sun was standing on the horizon of sand, and an awful shadow seemed waiting to fall upon the desert.

      When the sun had gone down, and the wanderer looked at the stars, there came to him a new Thought, like a friend, with a grave but not unkind face—a vast and solemn Thought, that held him for a long time with upraised face and hands, as if it had been whispered from the deep quiet sky. Slowly he walked with his new communion, and when he saw before him in the moonlight two palms, he did not rush to cut them open, but stood beside them smiling. Opening one, at length, he took the morsel of pith, and ate, and slept.

      How sweet it was to wake up and see the wide sky studded with golden stars—to feel that there were no bonds any more, nor hopes, nor heart-burnings.

      The Divine Thought that had come to him the day before was with him still—grave and kindly, and now they two were so utterly alone, it seemed almost to smile. He raised his body and knelt upon the sand, looking upward, and all things seemed closing quietly in upon him, as if coming to a great rest, and he would have lain down on the sand at peace; but a cry, a human-like cry, startled him into wakefulness—surely it was a cry!

      It was clear, and near, and full of suffering. Surely he had heard—he had not dreamt of such a cry. Again—God! how near and how keen it was—from the darkness—a cry of mortal agony!

      With a tottering step Moondyne ran towards the woeful sound. He saw by the moonlight a dark object on the sand. The long, weak cry hurried him on, till he stood beside the poor throat whence it came, and was smote with pity at the dismal sight.

      On the sand lay two horses chained at the neck—one dead, the other dying in an agony of thirst and imprisonment. Beside the dead horse almost buried in the sand, as he had fallen from the saddle, lay a man, seemingly dead, but whose glazing eyes turned with hideous suffering as Moondyne approached. The wretched being was powerless to free himself from the fallen horse; and upon his body, and all around him, were scattered heavy bars and plates of gold.

      Moondyne loosed the chain from the suffering horse, that struggled to its feet, ran forward a few yards, and fell dead on the sand.

      The men's eyes met, and the blistered lips of the sergeant for it was he—moved in piteous appeal. Moondyne paused one stern moment, then turned and ran from the place—ran towards the palm near which he bad slept. With hasty hand he tore it open and cut out the pith, and sped back to the sufferer. He knelt down, and squeezed the precious moisture into the mouth of the dying man—the man whom he had followed into the desert to kill like a wild beast.

      Till the last drop was gone he pressed the young wood. Then the guilty wretch raised his eyes and looked at Moondyne—the glazed eyes grew bright, and brighter, till a tear rose within them, and rolled down the stained and sinlined face. The baked lips moved, and the weak hands were raised imploringly. The sergeant back dead.

      Moondyne knew that his last breath was contrition, and his last dumb cry, "Pardon."

      Then, too, the strength went from the limbs and the light from the eyes of Moondyne—and as he sank to the earth, the great Thought that had come to him filled his heart with peace—and he lay unconscious beside the dead.

      The sun rose on the desert, but the sleeper did not move. Before the day was an hour old, other forms rapidly crossed the plain—not wanderers, but fierce, skin-clad men, in search of vengeance.

      They flung themselves from their horses when they reached the scene; and one, throwing himself upon the body of the sergeant, sprang back with a guttural cry of wrath and disappointment, which was echoed by the savage party.

      Next moment, one of the natives, stooping to lay his hand on the heart of the Moondyne, uttered an excited call. The spearmen crowded around, and one poured water from a skin on the face and body of the senseless man.

      They raised him to the arms of a strong rider, while another took the reins, and the wild party struck off at a fall gallop towards the mountains.

      When Moondyne returned to consciousness, many days after his rescue, he was free from pursuit, he had cut for ever the bond of the Penal Colony; above him bent the deep eyes and kind faces of the old chief and the sisters, Koro and Tapairu, and around him were the hills that shut in the Valley of the Vasse Gold Mine.

      He closed his eyes again and seemed to sleep for a little while. Then he looked up and met the face of Te-mana-roa kindly watching him.

      "I am free!" he only said. Then turning to the sisters: "I am not accursed;" and Koro and Tapairu. answered with kind smiles.

      The Mate of the Canton

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      It is midwinter, in a little Lancashire village on the coast, not far from Liverpool. One quiet main street, crossed by three or four short side streets, that lead in the summer days into the sweet meadows and orchards. One of these side streets has only three houses on one side, separated by goodly gardens. The house in the centre is the smallest, but it is extremely neat, and the garden fairly glows with colour.

      This is the home of Mrs. Walmsley, a Widow; and the garden is looked after by herself and her daughter Alice, about sixteen years old. The house on the right of Mrs. Walmsley's belongs to Mr. Draper, the richest man in the village, a retired shopkeeper. The house on the left belongs to Captain Sheridan, a bluff old Irishman retired from the navy, and now Inspector of Coast Guards, whose family consists of his son and daughter—Will Sheridan, the son, being just twenty years old.

      At the gate of Draper's garden, opening on the streets, stands a handsome young man in the uniform of the merchant marine. He is Sam Draper, first officer of the Canton, arrived a few weeks before from China.

      "Good-morning, Alice," he says in a cheerful but not a pleasant voice, as Alice Walmsley passes down the road.

      Alice stopped and chatted lightly for a minute with her old schoolmate. Draper evidently paid her a compliment, for her cheeks were flushed as she entered her mother's gate standing near which was young Sheridan, whom she slightly saluted and hurriedly passed, much to his surprise, for their relations were, at least, of the oldest and closest friendship.

      "Alice," said Will, in a wondering tone as the girl passed with her flushed face.

      "Well—did you speak?" And she paused and turned her head.

      Will Sheridan loved Alice, and she knew it, though no word had been spoken. He had loved her for years in a boy's way, cherishing her memory on his long voyages, for Will, too, was a sailor, as were almost all the young men of the village; but he was soon to leave home for a two years' service on Sam Draper's vessel, and of late

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