'When did you hear this?'

'The day before yesterday. They sat up late drinking, and Coke took more than he does in general; he's that full of villainy of all sorts,—robberies and murders too, people say,—that he's afraid of grog for fear of giving himself away. Anyhow, they both went off early this morning, and Trevenna's to be back to-night. So I ran up this little mare—she's the only one I've got now to my name—as soon as they were well off the place, and rode here on the chance of finding you at this reef.'

'Well, Kate, my poor girl, you've done me a good turn, if you never do another. You may have saved my life, you see. Not that it's worth much. But I've a notion of getting away to California or the Islands next month, and if I carry that out what you want me to be careful about may rise in value, do you see?'

'Oh, don't joke in that horrid way; you never used to,' said the woman, rising and gathering up her skirt, as if in preparation to depart. 'It makes my heart ache'—here she pressed her hand to her breast; 'I have one, though you mightn't think it. But oh, for my sake, for every one's sake, for the sake of that girl in England, if you want to see her again, be careful! Don't go out of sight of Omeo—if you value your life—till you start for Melbourne, and then travel in company. Coke thinks no more of a man's life than a wild dingo's, and Trevenna's as bad. The things I've heard, I wonder God lets them live. I must go now. I've stayed too long. Remember my words; they're as true as if I was on my dying-bed.'

Then she walked rapidly to where her horse stood patiently—a small roan mare, the fineness of whose limbs, together with the character of head and eye, denoted Arab blood, crossed probably with the wild 'mustang' of the hills. Trevanion kept by her side, wondering when the strange scene would end.

She made again as if to depart, for an instant touching the mare's bridle. Then, turning towards him, held out her hand—'Good-bye, Lance, and God bless you, wherever you are. You are sure you forgive me, don't you?'

'As I hope to be forgiven,' he said solemnly, unconsciously using a half-forgotten form of words, the true meaning of which had long been alien to his heart. 'That is, you poor ill-treated Kate, I forgive you freely, and with all my heart.'

As he spoke, the woman turned upon him a countenance so transfigured by gratitude and tenderness that Lance Trevanion, for the moment, hardly recognised her, so wonderfully softened, so refined and ennobled, was every lineament by the unwonted emotions. Deep and bright in her lifted eyes shone the fires of a buried passion as she gazed for a moment into those of her companion. Then, as if inspired with sudden frenzy, she threw her arms around him, and, pressing his head to her bosom, kissed him passionately on the lips and forehead.

Disengaging herself as suddenly, she waved him back from approaching her, and, springing into the saddle, drove the astonished mare wild, plunging over the crown of the ridge and adown the rocky side of the ravine, which the roused and sure-footed animal cleared with leaps like the 'flying doe' of her native woods.

'Poor Kate!' he exclaimed, as he slowly retraced his steps, and, gathering up his mining tools mechanically, proceeded to complete his day's work; 'there is good about her after all. How queerly men and women are compounded in this mad world—as I begin to think it is. What a life hers must be, tied to a scoundrel like Trevenna! and yet he is a free man—whose whole life, since he came to the colony, has been criminal—while I, who, God knows, never had a thought of wrong-doing, have worn the felon's chain, and may again, who can tell? "A mad world, my masters!" in truth and saddest earnest.'