"Dan!"
"To no one else but you would I say this, my dear. Long dwelling upon one subject fills the mind with singular thought concerning it, and it may be that this feeling that is upon me now is but the creation of the wildest fancy. Yet there are strange influences within us and around us for which we cannot account, and which affect us in mysterious ways. When I first knew that it was Jo's wish to be a sailor, and that we should be parted, I tried with all my mind and soul--it may be that it was a foolish, childish fancy, Ellen, but I had it--to create such a heart sympathy between us that we could never be parted in spirit. I had some wild ideas then of being able to dream of what he was doing and seeing when he was thousands of miles away from our little room in Stepney. Of course they came to nothing; but it would be strange indeed, if this earnest striving of mine had not produced some feeling within me which time only can test. You remember what poor Minnie's father used to say: 'There are more things in heaven and earth than is dreamed of in our philosophy.'"
So they sat together talking and musing, and it was past midnight before they retired to rest.
Early in the morning, the whimsical mail-contractor was jogging along towards Bull's Run; he had to stop so many times for the little birds in the road, that his progress was slow; but he had reckoned upon these impediments, and he arrived at the station not more than a couple of hours after the usual time. That was the end of his journey; the following day he had to make his way back to Dan's village. The residence of the owner of Bull's-Run station was built of slabs split from the bloodwood-tree; the roof was of shingle; and the interior of the house was lined with rich dark-red cedar, which gave it quite a cosey, comfortable appearance. The workmen's huts were built of palm-tree slabs, and the roofs were thatched with strong sword-grass, which grew in great profusion on the banks of a river within a few miles of the homestead. Ramsay was always welcomed at Bull's Run; the men and women on the station--for, primitive as it was, there were women and children living on it--used to cluster round him and ask him for news from the villages through which he passed, and the smallest items were received with thankfulness, and eagerly listened to. On this occasion, Ramsay had but little news to tell, and his budget was soon exhausted. In return, they told him theirs: one of the bulls had torn a man's arm open; a child had been lost for a whole night, and all the men were out searching for it miles away, and it was found the next morning within half a mile of the hut; three bushrangers, splendidly mounted, passed the station last week at full gallop; one of the shepherds had come in with a cock-and-a-bull story of gold being found somewhere or other; another shepherd had gone mad; Yellow-hammer Jack and his wife had had a row; and--but Oh! this was the best bit of the lot!--a man had been brought in by two stockmen who were looking for lost cattle, and had found him instead; he was almost dead, and had been living a long time with the Blacks. He seemed a decent kind of fellow, had been a sailor, he said, but was strangely silent about himself--for good reasons, some of the ill-natured ones said. Any ways, the man was better, although still very weak, and intended to start the next morning for Sydney; nothing would stop him.
"A long tramp for a weak man," said kind-hearted Ramsay; "if he's a decent fellow, I'll give him a lift."
As he said this, there came towards the group, walking very slowly, a strange-looking man, with a beard down to his breast, dressed in skins and furs; he had a stick in his hand, and seemed to require its support. They pointed to him, and said that was the man. Ramsay looked at him keenly, and the air of melancholy that rested in the man's eyes impressed the mail-contractor with a feeling of pity.
"A sailor, eh?" he thought; "and living with the savages. Wonder what he lived with them for?" Then he thought of Dan's and Ellen's anxiety concerning strange sailors and castaways, and that perhaps they would be glad to see this man. He said nothing, however, but was up the next morning early, and saw the man start on his road with slow and painful steps. A few minutes afterwards the old mare was harnessed, and its tail was turned to Bull's Run. Soon he came up to the man, and as he did so, two purple-breasted robins pecking at a bit of honeysuckle barred his progress. "Get out of my way, little birds," said the mail-driver, pulling up his mare; and he gave a soft flick with his whip in a direction where the robins were not. The words reached the man's ears, and he turned his head in surprise, and saw the little comedy. A gentle, sweet smile rested on his lips, and he looked at the mail-driver almost gratefully. Ramsay smiled in return, and again bade the little robins get out of his way; and presently they took flight, each with a tiny piece of the sweet flower in its beak. Then the old mare jogged lazily along, and the strange-looking man gazed wistfully after the cart. Ramsay, looking back, saw the wistful expression, and stopped at once. "Hi, mate!"
Joshua came slowly forward.
"Where you bound for?"
"Sydney."