 Chapter 6 of Miscrently's Curves, and the Stories She Told Them, by Thomas Archer. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org reading by Lars Rolander. Chapter 6. I Have Lived and Loved So we will hang up the polytionello that thy dear father sent thee from afar, little Louisel. For who knows but thou an Einrich, and I thy mother may see him yet before the eve of Christmas, and while the snow is on the ground, we will keep the tree hair near the window. And should he come not, we will light it afresh every night, that it may shine a welcome to the dear father, and keep our hearts alive with hope. This is what I heard my dear mistress say when it wanted, yet a week to Christmas in the year 1871, and the master or husband was still there with the crown prince before Paris along with his regiment. He was overly lieutenant, one of many going to fight against France, and ever since the beginning, till after Sedan, after Dom Remy, after Metz, had been with his men in the camp, and wherever there was much danger, always in the front. It was wonder to me how I had come to learn all about the war and the campaign, but Carl, as I was, least by his but a child even now, my dear mistress would say, I also had one dear to me with the red prince, and the army before Orléans. Her postmaster Schwartz, ah, he came to talk to my mistress and to bring letters to her from her brave husband, and I was suing Orbis in the room and heard all as he would stay in the kitchen on his way out and tell us all about it, Bertha and me, and once he handed me a letter. Oh, how my hand trembled as I took it, how well the her postmaster looked at me through his horn spectacles and watched me, for he knew the writing, it was his sons the writing of France, and I felt the blood rush up hot to my face, and the tears blind me as I placed in my bodies the little letter that I dare not open, while there were questioning eyes to ask, what is he to the lisp and what says he? Bertha knew, Bertha was yet more of a child than I, for she was two years younger, but all was she in sentiment, and too often we would talk together far into the night, but in whispers lest we should wake the little ones, for Bertha slept next the great nursery, where our mistress had also made her bed, and I would steal into her room to pour over the map, that the her postmaster had drawn with his pencil in the kitchen, to show where our armies had been, and where the cruel battles were fought. In Alsace to Lorraine, by Niderbrunn at Weissenburg at Worth, at Sarbrook at Metz at Sedan, where said her postmaster, we have received the sword of the Emperor Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte, who is now our prisoner in the Palace of Habitswald. Then, army, to think that they should be taken to the end of the world, right into France, to don't share it to Chalon, as near as Strasbourg as far as Reims, and then on to Paris, or near it, at the place called Nogent-sur-Marin. That is where our dear master, the Oberleftenant, was with the army of the Crown Prince, and we grieved and waited, for he had had a wound, we heard though now he was healed. And the fighting went on, though hundreds of our brave men of the troops, the Lantwehr, the Reserves, were hurt or maimed or killed, and many women wept over their knitting or their spinning, and the coming of the Holy Christmastime brought not peace, though the herpostmaster said the hungry war was now nearly over, but its jaws were not yet done clinking, and would yet gnash many to death. France, ah, he was with the Red Prince at Orléans, where they had fought the French army of the Loire. Nor did France go alone, for there went with him his best friend, his stutzbruder Hofer from Esmondstor, with their France had gone three years before to follow his trade, of Cascooper and Wheelwright, and there met Hofer, whose family were of the Tirolis Protestants, that came from Citertal, to find a refuge in our land. He came to Sao Aichenwald to our village, this Hofer, a dark, well-looking man, not fair like France, nor with his broad chest and clear blue eyes, but tall and quick, with crisp curling hair and long fingers. I have told him that he had hawk eyes, for he could see the birds on the trees, and if he had pleased could have shot them with his rifle. So far was his sight, so true his aim, but he hated to kill or hurt any living thing, and loved best to play the fiddle, when he was not at work in his tanyard. Yet now he too was gone to the war, and was in the midst of the slaying and burning. When first he came home with France to Sao Aichenwald, I was afraid, for though I loved him not, but loved France only, his eyes were ever fixed on me, and he came often to the homestead. Even when France came not, he would be there in the jello sunshine of the Orton evening, by the gate that led to the apple orchard, or at the wicket, where Bertha and I used to stand, after coming from the dairy or the hen house. Nor was he unwelcome to the master, who wandered at his shooting and leaping with a pool, nor to the dear mistress for whom he brought a work-box, all a beautifully carved wood, nor to the little ones, Louisel and Heinrich, to whom he played the fiddle, and whom he taught to dance or showed how the chamoise is hunted. Often when I have stood with Bertha, for we always went together at the gate, he would come with his keen bright laugh and hawk-eyes, and leap the wall that enclosed the dairy-yard. France too had noticed how he sought us, and one red evening when we were crossing the orchard, and Hoover walked between us with an arm about each. France came in by the old path from the wood on the other side, and stood there looking still and grieved. Laughing ever, Hoover carried us both into where France stood, and with his long arms still about us caught him with a hand on each wrist, and so stood we two girls in the midst of two men's encircling arms. Hoover, is it that thou lovest Lyspa, said France, dearly? If so, thou dost not well. I both love her and do well, my brother, replied Hoover. I love her because I love thee, and in mine eyes she is thy wife. See thou then, and he held up his long right hand. I am no brawler, but he who would do her ill or move his tongue against her would have to reckon with me as much as with thee. For she is thine, and I am thine, too, as thou art mine. For what means the dagger scar in our arms that we both know of? Then taking me by the hand he leads me to the front and kisses me gently on the forehead, and even while I am putting the face on France from mine, I see that Hoover has too to kiss the poor child Bertha also, whose hand is in his, but whose face is bowed down and read as the wild berry. If I am a child, as my dear mistress says, then is Bertha but an infant, and cannot know of love that should turn her cheek to flame and bring bright tears into her eyes. Ah me, that evening how we student watched the sun go down till the night came, and with a dark blue shudder left only a long crevice where the fire shone through, how we wandered back hand in hand and parted with a hasty good night when we heard the church clock chime, and that is not long ago, though it seems to have gone so far back. For next day came the tidings of the Libby for the army. Men were wanted. Not one by one, but all together, the jung and then the middle-aged were called out to fight in France, or to guard the frontier, and we, we were left, the dear mistress said we, to wait and weep, and with only the her postmaster, the father of France, to bring us news and read to us the stories of the battles, and bring to the dear mistress her letters. For I had one letter and no more, and that told me that France and Hofer had met in the same army of the Red Prince, and were comrades, but not in the same corpse, but that once they came near together on the field, and in the thick of the fight, France had struck down a man's arm uplifted to kill his brother. It is easy to see how I came to learn so much of the war, and of the places where it raged, for old Schwartz was proud of his knowledge, and read to us and drew maps, and we had nothing else to talk about. The village was very still, and people from the nearest town talked only of the war, and of those who had left them. Ours is a quiet place, with romantic scenes around it, and but just beyond the shadow of the giant mountain Riesengebirge. We can see the blue profile of the Schneekoppe, and there are those, the old ones, who still talk of the legends, or Rubetzal, the counter of Ternips, the mountain spirit, who took all kinds of disguises to punish avarice and cruelty, and to reward honesty and help the poor. Among the poor went our dear mistress now, or they came to her for sympathy. She who liked themselves like all of us, except brotherless young ones such as Bertha, grieved for a lover or a husband, or a brother gone to the war. It was not likely to be a merry Christmas-tide in Germanland, except that in use of victory or of fortresses taken, came and stirred the slow blood of the people who were left. But we longed and prayed for peace, we, women did, at all events, and with some there was scarcely hard to trim and deck the Christmas tree, to tell the children to prepare for the visit of the Christkind line on Christmas Eve, who would bring good gifts to the good, but would leave the naughty to Pelsnikow, to come and whip them with his great birch. In some villages, like ours, an old man disguised with a long beard and gown, and a great bag, would go about at Christmas-tide, to the houses where the people had expected him, and would carry the gifts to the children, and would show others who were naughty the birch and give them nothing. But we had no Pelsnikow at our house, only sweet talk about the child Christ, and the gifts of the wise men and of the love that should be among little ones, the love and the heart giving. So the tree was decked and placed in the window, ready to light on Christmas Eve, in the hope that it might be a sign of love and welcome. And we were on the watch all day, and every night Bertha would go out and sit upon the wall, looking out towards the road to the town, until the light was no more seen in the belfry of the church, and the clock shined super-time. I told not our dear mysteries of this, for was it not for France and the dear master that the child kept watch? But I went not myself to that outlook, though my heart stood still every time Bertha returned, with her head bent down, and had seen no one coming. She had a presentiment or fancy, she said, that the wonderer would return after nightfall. I knew not, I began to tell lies to myself, that I cared not, and for this reason. I had long feared that the her postmaster like not me to be loved by his son. For behold, he was postmaster, and had been a builder of organs, and the dear master was godfather to France, while I, well I had nothing but the dear mistress was my godmother, and my father had been pastor of a village, and had taught me some things before he died. We are now but a few days to Christmas, when one night the old man comes in with a letter for the dear mistress, at which she first sobs and turns white, and then laughs and turns red. The dear master is wounded, but he set the frontier, whether he had been sent, staying till he is strong enough to come home. But there he writes, I have had the look to fall into the hands of a good nurse, an old acquaintance, who will bring me home. Ah, that he could already come home, says the mistress. Louisel Heinrich, thy dear father, may yet be here before the tree is lighted, and brings with him a nurse, who can she be since Thaulespan? I know not unless it be one of the deaconesses who go to the hospitals, but is it not possible, dear lady, that it is a comrade, a surgeon of the army, an ambulance officer? It is Hoover, cried Bertha, who was standing at the door of the big kitchen, where we were listening to such parts of the letter as the mistress pleased to read to us. Hoover, the lass has gone silly, cries the her postmaster. Hoover and France are fighting with the army of the Loire, as the French call it, and are who knows where. I have a letter here that reached me yesterday, written some days ago, where France says, let me read it. Here the old man pulls on his horn spectacles, and opens a thin sheet of paper. France says, we are in quarters here at a tavern, but it has few customers, and we are obliged to seek for what we need. It is in fact almost an empty house, dismantled half-burned, and with a good many shut-holes. Still we keep up our spirits. We have begun to hold our Christmas already, for we have a long table and a few chairs, and somebody last night found a great milk-pan in the half-ruined dairy of the inn. And having on hand a few bottles of very good red wine, we made a fine bowl of grog-o-wan, with the aid of a wood-fire, and an old sauce-pan. In came Hoover, and gave us a toast and a song, and then they called on me, and I gave them the old leet, that thou hast so often played, and for a toast Fifine. If Fifine had been there, she would have been lying on my shoulder. But since I rescued her from the teasing of a big drum-maid, she has grown shy and doesn't like company. And though she would soon be a pet with most of our men, keeps her love for me alone, and would be a very charming companion, if I had time to devote to her pretty ways. So you see, France and Hoover are in France, says the old man, taking off his spectacles. My heart has grown cold and heavy all in a moment, and I have to lean on the back of a chair for support. Who then is Fifine, I ask, under my breath? Aha! cries the her postmaster. Who indeed, but what is it to thee? I now, his father, might well ask, but there it is. No sooner does a young, honest fellow go out of Germany, than he's thrown into the company of these cats of French women. And then, but I must say good night, good night, madam, good night, girls. So he's gone, and the dear mistress and I look in each other's face, and both cry, oh, but say no more. So I go not to watch by the wall, but Bertha goes, and still she says it is Hoover who will bring the dear master home. The child, we say, is gone silly with sitting on the wall in the cold, for sometimes she will come in without her cloak, but yet we have not the heart to forbid her going thither. One, two, three, four days, and it is the blessed eve. We are all so still, and our hearts are heavy, so we go about softly, as though someone were sick or dead, when it is but our own hearts or hopes or fancies that seem dead. The dear little ones are quiet now, for we are in the small room by the window, and as the last chime of sundown sounds from the church, the candles on the Christmas tree are lighted, and shine on the pretty gifts that hang upon the branches. The dear mother hugs the children to her heart. Outside the twinkle and beaming of the candles makes a short track of light upon the snow. The signal is all aglow. Will the wanderer return to night? Where is Bertha? What is this white-armed loose-haired figure flying up the path? Her hand is on the door latch, and as she stands there, one and panting she cries, They come, they come! The ox-wagon is now upon the hill. I saw it coming through the snow, and the lanterns shone upon the epaulet and the buttons. She speaks and is gone, and we, The dear mistress and I go to the kitchen where I stand, with the heart of lead and hands of ice. There is a tramp of feet, a shout, the door bursts open. The dear mistress is in her husband's arms. The little ones are clinging to him. Take care, O my leg, darlings, he says. The bone has not grown too strong just yet, and I doubt if I ever shall bend the knee again. As to Franz here, he, as you see, has his arm in a sling yet. He caught me up in the wood, me and Hofer. Ah, that dear Hofer! He was in hospital just getting over a saber-cut in the cheek, when I was taken there, and he has been my good nurse ever since. I am standing still with downcast eyes, and there stands Franz staring at me, with his one arm ready to take me to his heart. And where is Fiffin, say I, bursting into tears? Fiffin, ah, I was near forgetting her, and he plunges his one hand into the deep pocket of his military coat, and pulls out the creature which climbs to his shoulder, and there sits purring a white, fluffy cat with pink eyes. Why, you little fool, cries older postmaster, as he comes behind me and lifts me within reach of Franz? Didn't I say it was a cat of a French woman? There is a light-quick stride at the door, a loud jordle, a bright laugh, and Hofer stoops his tall body and looks round. A cloud comes over his face almost before he has greeted the dear mistress, and kissed me on the cheek. Where is Bertha, he asks, and before we can answer him, he has started out again, and we have scarcely lost the sound of his rapid step before he is back among us, bearing the poor child in his arms. We chaff her hands and feet, and warm and comfort her. Dear Bertha, she had been so faithful watching there by the wall, and Hofer had stopped behind to help up a fallen horse, and when he came not she fainted and fell with cold and fear. But now we are all together in the great kitchen, and supper is getting ready, and wine is on the table, and the dear master and mistress are with their little ones at the Christmas tree, that makes a path of glory on the outer snow. Bertha, though surely has the second sight, says the old postmaster as he looks at her. The color comes again, rose red into her cheek, as Hofer draws her closer to his side. Yes, says she, it is love that gives it. One has second sight when one thinks no longer of oneself, but of another. It was Saturday afternoon, and our week's work was nearly over. On Monday the great fancy fair was to be held, and the side table in Miss Grantley's pleasant parlor was covered with samples of all kinds of needlework, in lace, wool, cruel, applique, and on linen, satin, velvet, silk, and cloth. There were hand screens, water color sketches, embroidery, beadwork, and all kinds of dainty knickknacks, and we still had the finishing touches to put to some of our presents. Still had a few completing stitches to put to some of the planer articles, which were to make the background for the stall, where Miss Grantley was to be saleswoman. When we came into the parlor, she was not there. Saturday was a holiday, so there had been no school in the morning, and we had gone on purpose to finish our week's work for the fancy fair. We had scarcely taken off our hats, and indeed most of us had stepped outside the window into the garden when she came into the room. There was a singularly radiant, eager look in her face, her eyes shown bright as though they had been washed with glad tears, and as she kissed us one by one, there was more than the usual impressiveness or what the French would call effusion in her manner. Annie Bowers looked at her with a quick inquiring glance, but said nothing. Marian Cooper, who had grown as tall as Miss Grantley, was herself, held her hand tight, and spoke in a low tone, but loud enough for us all to hear as we had clustered round. What story have you to tell us this evening, Miss Grantley? Something has happened. Is it a love story, dear? Are you going to tell us that you have promised to be married? No, indeed, I am not, for no such promise has been given, and there is no love story which I am the heroine. I assure you, for all that I have had a letter from a gentleman, a letter from my brother in Australia, which may alter my plans for the future. My dear girls, my dear friends and companions, I think you know that you are all very dear to me, and I believe you love me too a little, but, of course, in a few months at farthest, most of you will leave me. You will have given up school, but not, I hope, given up reading and as much work and study, as will keep you a good and useful place in the world. It is most likely that some of you will be married before I am, for I shall remain here for some time, and until I find a successor to take the school, and then I intend to go to the other side of the world. Whether Mrs. Parmagan will go with me, I don't know. What I do know, and the only thing I can think about at this moment, is the real sorrow I shall have in parting with you all. But we should have to part, in any case. The world of new duties and of new interests would be opening to you, even if I remained here and grew old as the governess of Barton Vale. I should always rejoice to hear of your happiness and sympathize with you in trouble, but you would not be likely to be in a position to seek either my sympathy or my counsel, for others would have the greater right and the closer communion. But believe me, pray believe me when I tell you, that as the next six months go by, I shall read our parting, though more than half of you, seven girls, will have left me before that time arrives. Now, my dears, let us have tea, and then I will read you my brother's letter, for you are all my dear friends, my very closest friends, tonight, and that letter shall be my story. It's more of a man's story than a girl's, but it's nearly all about a girl for all that. It was not a very quiet tea-table, for we were all excited and talking fast as though that was the best way to keep from crying. It was not till we had discussed Miss Grantless intended voyage, and made out quite a romantic future for her, that she opened her brother's letter, that we might, as she said, hear what kind of a fellow he was. End of Chapter 6, Read by Lars Rolander Section 8 of Miss Grantless Girls and the Stories She Told Them by Thomas Archer This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Lars Rolander. Chapter 7, Miss Grantless Brother Marimo Hobartown December 27th, 18 Dear Bessie, it is time you came out here instead of staying in the old country, even though you haven't learnt to make butter and cheese, and don't know how to bake bread or even to make damper properly. The fact is you must come, and if you like to take classes you can make use of your science degrees here. I can tell you, for they want sweet girl graduates, and even if they have grown to be severe and exacting female professors, we take very kindly to them. The fact is Bess, I waited as long as I could for you to come over this side to look after me, that I might cease wandering and settle down. As you know, I've tried my hand at a good many occupations, often for the freak of the thing, but always with the reserve force for doing the right thing at last, and somehow I've mostly made bread and cheese and a little more. The gold fever was over long before I reached Australia, but I had a turn at the cradle and pan for all that, and turned up a pretty good claim, enough to take me on my travels afterwards. I've been out prospecting, I've had a turn in the great grazing grounds, though I didn't care to sink the little money I had in a fancy flock in the hope of turning it into a herd, or to spend my life on horseback, galloping after half-wild cattle on the plains. I wasn't long beating about the bush, though I've once or twice been out with the natives and have had a brush with the Rangers, one of whom, Blackjack, carried a bullet of mine about in his shoulder for some time before he fell in a fight with the police just outside Melbourne. His skeletons in the museum now, but the worst time I've ever had, was when I was driving, but I'll tell you that another time. I meant, when I began this letter, to start with an announcement that ought to take your breath away, and somehow I must shy of saying it on paper, as I should be, if you were standing before me, with those clear cold eyes of yours, that yet were always shining with love to your wild brother, though you always looked him through. The plain truth is, I now invite you to come over here and live with us. Do you read that? Us, for I am. We are married. Yes, a fact. And who do you think we are? There's me to begin with. And who's the other party? The company, should you fancy? Well, don't guess. I'll tell you. Married Dean. You remember how I used to sing? I'm sitting on the Styl Marie in the old house at home, when she was a little wisp of a dark eyed lassie, just thinking about going to the old farm belonging to her uncle Dean in Hartfordshire, and how she ran away and hid herself when I wanted to say goodbye to her before I left. Well, her uncle made up his mind to come to this side, as you wrote me he had, and I'd nearly forgotten all about it until one day, as I was strolling along towards the bank in Sydney. Who should I come upon quite suddenly but Mr. Dean, and walking beside him a slim, elegant, bright-eyed beauty to whom I raised my hat, not knowing who she was, till a peal of silvery laughter brought back my memory to the days of old, when we used to sit in the garden on a summer evening at Barnes, and slip down the lawn to the boat-house that we might launch the dear old Parther's wary, and have a moonlight trip with soft singing of part-songs to which I know I growled a villainous bass. Dear Parther, had he lived, I might have stayed in the old country, and tried to keep up the old place, but I fear I should have disappointed him, and so, well, all may be for the best. Perhaps it was the remembrance of the dear Barmy evenings under the aimles that put me in mind of proposing a picnic, or it was the winter before last that I met the deans, and therefore our Midsummer, and a precious hot one too, I can tell you, so that all the ripe fruit, bottle-beer, champagne, and everything else that was cool and slaking was at a premium. Mr. Dean must not altogether unacquainted with Sidney. He had been for some time in the colony, a good thing in cattle agency. I landed a pretty fair commission out of one lot that I had out beyond Gomarai Flats, he said to me, a wild lot they were too, and I bought them on spec and sold them three weeks after with my own brand upon them. You don't mean to say that they were at Goubon station and branded D, said I? Just so, have you seen any of them? Why, I helped brand them, I cried. I was on the station and rode out after a bold that had gone away. I must have been within a couple of miles of your place, if you were at Gomarai, and was Miss Dean with you. Mary was with me, Tom Grandley, says Mr. Dean, and I don't think you used to say Miss in the old time when I knew your father. No, but then you see Mary wouldn't even come to say goodbye, replied, and as I looked I saw the girl. She is a lovely girl, Bessie, though she's now Mrs. Grandley, blushed like a rose, and actually I think a tear stood in her eye, though she laughed again when putting her hand in mine. She said, forgive me, Tom, for if you and Uncle are to continue friends, I must be friendly with you too. So I make the first overture of reconciliation. I felt I was a gone coon, if I let this sort of thing go on, so I asked them what they were doing in Sydney, dined with them the same evening, and by that day we had made up a picnic to Paramatta, where we could have the pleasure of a boat on the Saltwater Creek that people there call the Paramatta River, and could have a pleasant country ramble and a dinner out in the sunshine, with a thermometer at 85 degrees in the shade, or there about. Capital weather for plum pudding, but we had plum pudding and roast beef too, with iced champagne. The plum pudding made beforehand and heated over a fire made of sticks in an iron skillet, the roast beef cold with Sydney pickle, and bottle bear from England, rather dearer than champagne, and what was better than either some Australian wine made from the Reisling grape, and about as good as most of the hop we ever get in London. Of course we had some delightful drives along the south shore to Port Jackson, and back to Sydney along the South Head Road, a drive in which one may see most of the beauties of Sydney vegetation, the great eucalyptus, or blue gum, trees between the giant bowls of which shine the glittering waters of the harbour. But there are a hundred healthy orchids, and wild flowers of varied vivid use, though but few of them have any perfume. Paramatta is to Sydney what Richmond is to London, or what Versailles was to Paris. But it is less secluded than it once was, of course, and Cookatoo Island, once the penal settlement, is less unfrequented than the Isle of Portland, where English convicts work out their sentence. This and Shark Island are likely places enough to attract strangers, but Paramatta was our resort on this Christmas Eve. Nothing came of it except that I found myself when I got back to the hotel at night, and had been goodbye only after there was no further pretext for staying for another cigar in the large, bare, cool room which Mr. Dean had hired as a sitting-room in a large house in Sydney. The drive home had been a merry and yet a melancholy, not a sentimental one. There was a good deal of twilight about, and there was laughing. But somehow, Mary Dean and I didn't seem to find much to laugh about. I didn't, I know. For she told me they were going away to barterst, and I think I heard a sob. I know I felt her hand tremble when I took it in mine, and it was lucky I had been used to driving a team, for to hold whip and reins in one hand might give a hard-mouth boring horse a chance of going at his own pace down a gully. However, before I said my final farewells, it had been settled that I was to go with Mr. Dean and Mary as far as the barterst plains, for I had a little business of my own in the Blue Mountains District. We were to start in a week, and I could scarcely believe that the whole affair was other than a dream, as I sat at the open window, smoking till the pinky-grey dawn of Christmas Day broke over the scrubby garden of the hotel. I had been in a sort of dream in which the form of Mary Dean was the chief figure, but there was another less pleasing shape, which came and went in my visions in a purposeless kind of way, one which I had seen that day lounging about the landing stage, where he passed me first with a scowl, and then with a muttered o. Now I had first made his acquaintance in this wise. One night, as I was coming into Sydney, about a mile from the town, I heard a sharp sudden cry from the side of the road. The cry came from a little black fellow who had been a sort of retainer of mine in the bush, and on the plains a bright active lad, a supple as a snake, and, as he used to say, the son of a chief. He was called Jackie Fisher and was a very useful fellow out there, for he could follow a trail like a hound, could climb trees, kill game, and in fact had a good many of the savage accomplishments and few, if any, of the vices of civilization. Rather a rare thing among the natives. On my return to Sydney, he had parted company, and Fisher had passed some of his time among his own people, and had also come into town now and then to work as a light porter, or do other odd jobs. The ones of the natives are few, and Jackie, unlike some of his people, did not drink rum or other spirits, so, if he earned six pence, he was able to keep it. He it was who had given a shrill shout, as I ran across a piece of waste-ground to see what was the matter. I saw him crouching on the ground while over him stood a big bully, whom I had before seen at the door of a low grog shop, making a vicious cut at the nigger with a heavy stock whip. He was a burly powerful fellow, and as Jackie was unarmed and only half-clad, the cut of a thong like that was bad punishment. As soon as I appeared, I was in the jail of satisfaction. Your nerve, fish or black fellow, sir, he screamed, Your nerve, sir, Jackie, not take stink water, the native word for rum, but he give no sixpence, sir, he make for carry big things, sir. Jackie pointed to a juge bale of hides or something of the kind that had been pitched on the ground. Evidently the bully had insisted on the poor fellow carrying burden for payment to be made in the shape of a glass of rum, and discovering this, Jackie had refused to go further. Again the whip was raised to strike, but I caught the uplifted arm, and with an oath the fellow turned on me, wrenched away his wrist and came at me like a ball. There was nothing for it but to let him have it, and, excuse me, best, you know how you used to stand by Willie and I had a set, too. I put in my left and followed it up with a staggerer. He was not easily vanquished, however, though the blow drew him back three or four paces. And before I could get within reach he had snatched a pistol from his pocket. I was obliged to close with him and his weight was against me. My only chance was to grip his wrist or I should have a bullet in me. Luckily he was jiddy and one eye had begun to swell so that I had his arm at the very moment he pulled the trigger and the ball went somewhere into space. The tussle was a short one for there came a quick patter of feet along the path, and two officers of the Sydney police came up. Hello, Buffalo team! cried one of them. Up to your tricks again! Look here, my fine fellow, once get into quad you're not likely to come out for a while for there's a pretty bit of evidence likely to be turned up when once we start. Just take yourself home and we'll come along to see what's in that bundle. Now then, up you come. And in a second they had lifted the bundle onto the fellow's shoulder and marched him on before them. We saw it all before we came up, Mr. Grant Lee, said one of the men as he passed, but I spals you won't charge him. No, said I. He richly deserves all I gave him but I don't want to be dangling for a week about the Sydney courthouse. As they went away the fellow gave me an evil look. Jackie had vanished. Now I had seen this big brute again while we were at Paramatta and I was helping Mary out of the boat at the landing stage. He had seen me, too, and turned away with a scowl and a muttered oath, but happening to glance round afterwards I noticed that he was watching us from behind the corner of a fence. I forgot all about him for the rest of the day, but now at night his ugly face and bloated form intruded upon my dreams. I couldn't account for it. Perhaps it was pre-vision. I had forgotten it all again by the time we were ready for our journey to Barthurst. Mr. Dean was to drive with Mary in a light trap and I was to ride, for I had a good steady horse at Stable in Sydney growing fat and restive for want of exercise. So we set out and went as far as Dean at Gunfury on the Nepeon before we made any change in our arrangements. On the second day's journey we were likely to have a long ride and Mary was anxious for a counter over Gunplane and beyond the first bend of the mountain where the way is over sand shaded on both sides by the dark thicket of the gum tree and the forest's grub. She had brought her habit with her and as she had been taught to be a first-rate horsewoman up at her father's cattle station I resigned the saddle and the horse feeling such a lightweight and such a dainty hand was off like a bird. It was good to watch her as we drew far behind good to note her pretty figure as she came countering back and then shot forward for a long stretch across the plain. We were approaching the sandy course where few passengers were seen except wagoners and all was still and silent till we reached the fringe of forest and heard the chattering scream of a flight of green parrots. But above the chatter of the birds came another cry and there straight ahead of us but beyond our power to overtake were two riders Mary was one, the other a big rough looking fellow on a powerful horse had dashed out from the thicket caught her horse by the rain and was now taking it at a furious gallop the thought flashed through my brain in a moment. It was buffalo dim and this was the scoundrel's revenge. The thought was horrible Mary was completely in the scoundrel's power unless she could throw herself out of the saddle and defy him until we came up. At the pace they were going to overtake them was impossible though we urged our nag to its utmost speed and the wheels plowed swiftly through the dry sand. What was to be done? There straight ahead and getting further and further but plainly seen in that clear sunny air the two horses kept up the furious pace we could even see the brave girl lean aside and strike with all her might at the ruffian with the light whip she carried we could fancy his horse laugh of defiance as he checked speed for a moment and saw to rest the whip from her hand my head was on fire but neither Mr. Dean nor I spoke a word our eyes were simply fixed on the two figures before us when suddenly there seemed to be a third right out there in the very middle of the sunlit course a figure like a bronze statue which suddenly appeared as it were from the ground and now stood in midway and with uplifted hands as though in warning would the horse ride him down? No, there was a sudden check a scurry, a wild gel and buffalo Jim threw up his arms and went backward rolling over in the sand while Mary's horse released darted forward for fifty yards or so and was then brought round she met us half way toward the place where the ride-less horse had dashed into the forest there in the sand lay the ruffian transfixed by his slender native spare which had gone with unerring aim through his neck we had to break off the point and draw the shank through lucky for buffalo Jim if the wound were not poisoned all we could do was to place him in the shears and for Mary to remount and keep near us the bronze figure had vanished as a snake might glide into the brushwood indeed for a moment when we reached the spot I fancied I saw the glint of a fierce emu eye away in the dark leaves that hung by the bark of a mighty eucalypus and I gave the kui of the native but no response came well to make an end of this unconscionable letter I need not tell what trouble we had when we took the wounded man to the next station nor how we were detained to be examined and questioned buffalo Jim died in the prison in Firmary a good while after and though we had not forgotten the adventure we had about ceased to think of it by the time I had settled here in Hobart land for the fact is there was a magnet here that I could not but follow and another Christmas picnic on the Dermont amidst the lovely woods and gardens that fringe a part of its banks completely settled me the end of all which is Maridine became Mary Grandley and here we are on our own lot with very pretty farming and a capital dairy and a good hearts welcome for you if you will only come out to us oh I ought to say as a sequel that about a month after we settled down here one of the men came in and said there was a black fellow at the fence gate asking to speak to me out I went and there looking at me with a smile or rather a grin was Jackie fish shop out to Saar said he just come from Sydney Saar to look for job masa take me for man Saar yes Jackie Saar good black fellow no stink water Saar right Saar should fetch full of Saar yes and then the spear air said I frowning was it killed Buffalo Jim you villain Buffalo Jim Saar bad white fellow Saar he tried kill Maori but Maori too much not kill Saar Jackie fishook stupid fellow Saar not no Maori but Maori through spear yes and there and then the muskier leaf figure was drawn up like a statue the BDI glaring straightforward the arm poised as though to hurl a javelin it was quite enough I knew who had appeared suddenly in the sandy road that day Buffalo Jim had come out to hunt and had himself been tracked down and hunted but Jackie fishook stayed with us he is at this moment cleaning up my gun and when I go shooting tomorrow he will carry home the game parrots if we can get nothing better your affectionate brother Tom Grantley even though it is now a year or two ago that we parted with Miss Grantley and Mrs. Parmigan took over the school at the request of the parents of the junior pupils and was joined by a lady from London with famed certificates none of us can speak without emotion of the happy time when we sat at work in the pretty old parlor or sat under the trees in the pleasant orchard we are not all at Barton now for Annie Bowers is studying art abroad and Sarah Joring who is engaged is living with her friends at Barton but those of us who are still in the veil go and drink tea with Mrs. Parmigan sometimes and none of us are likely to forget our governess and the stories that she used to tell End of Chapter 7 and end of the book Miss Grantley's Girls and the stories she told them by Thomas Archer read by Lars Rolander Thank you for listening