Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses.

And he gave and took an earnest of them there and then.

So they talked of one thing and another until One o'clock was tolled by the Westminster bell, and during all that time Bessie had not found courage to speak of what was in her mind. George had noticed the ear-rings in Bessie's ears, but had not spoken of them, thinking that Bessie would have drawn his attention to them. But Bessie's wound was too fresh; the pain and bewilderment of it were all engrossing. She had no thought for anything else.

'And now I must go, my darling,' said George, as they stood by the shop-door; 'for mother and father are waiting for me.' He took her face between his hands and kissed her lips. 'One kiss for hope; one for faith; and one for love.'

Bessie raised her face again to his, and whispered as she kissed,

'And one for confidence.'

'And one for confidence,' he repeated, as heartily as his sadness would allow.

'There should be no secrets between us, George dear.'

'Certainly there should not be, darling,' he replied, 'though you've been keeping one from me all the night, you puss!'

'I, George!'

'Yes, you, dearest. You have never told me who gave you those pretty ear-rings.'

Upon such slight threads often do our dearest hopes hang! Bessie, yielding to the weak impulse, to play off confidence for confidence, said,

'Never mind those, George. I want to ask you something first.'

At this moment the sound of music came to them, and the waits commenced to play the dear old air of 'Home, sweet home.'

'That's Saul's doing,' thought George. 'Good fellow! What will become of him during the time I am away?' As he and Bessie stood linked in a close embrace, the soft strains floated through the air into their hearts.

'There shall be no secrets between us, George, in our own home, sweet home!'

'None, darling.'

'And you'll not be angry with me for saying something?'

'What can my dear girl say to make me angry? and at such a time!'

'Then tell me, George-about Tottie.'

'The dear little thing! What about her, dearest?'

'George, is she an orphan?'

How long seemed the interval before he replied! Tick-tick-tick-went the clock, so slowly! O, so slowly, now!

'No, Bessie.'

How strangely his voice sounded! But he held her closer to him, and she had no power to free herself from his embrace. Indeed, she would have fallen had he loosed her.

'Do not be angry with me, George,' she whispered, slowly and painfully. 'She has a father living?'

Another long, long pause, and then, 'Yes,' from George, in the same strange tone.

'Tell me his name, George.'

He held her from him suddenly, and with his hands upon her shoulders, looked her steadily in the face. But her eyes drooped in the light of his earnest gaze.

'I cannot, Bessie,' he said; 'I must not. When we are married I will tell you all. There shall be no secrets between us in our home, sweet home. Till then, be satisfied.'

Softer came the dear old air to Bessie's ears. But the tenderer meaning in it was gone for her. She turned from her lover petulantly.

'I did not think you would refuse me this, George.'

Wiser, stronger, than she, he said,

'Do not let this trivial matter come between us, my dear;' and would have taken her to his heart again, but she did not meet him as before. 'This trivial matter!' Was he so lost to honour and to love for her? Something of her mind he saw in her face, and it made his blood hot. 'Good God,' he thought, 'is it possible she suspects me?' Then he strove to soothe her, but she would not be soothed. She said but little now; but her face was white with misery; doubt tore at the wound in her heart. She knew the pain she was inflicting upon him by the pain she felt herself. But she could not yield; she could not say, 'I know you are true to me. I will be satisfied, and will wait.' So his efforts were vain, and two o'clock struck, and their agony was not over. The tolling of the bell, however, brought to him the picture of his father and mother waiting up at home for him. 'I must go,' he said hurriedly. 'Good-bye, dear Bessie, and God bless you! Trust to me, and believe that no girl ever had more faithful lover.'

In spite of her coldness, he pressed her close to his breast, and whispered assurances of his love and faithfulness. Then tore himself away, and left her almost fainting in the shop, love and doubt fighting a sickening battle in her heart.

YOU ALONE, AND MY MOTHER, ARE TRUE; ALL THE REST OF THE WORLD IS FALSE

The night was very cold, and George felt the keen wind a relief. He took off his hat, and looked around. The street was still and quiet; the last strains of 'Home, sweet home,' had been played, and the players had departed. All but one, and he waited at the end of the street for George to come up to him.

'What, Saul!'

'George!'

They clasped hands.

'I am glad you are here, Saul. I should not have liked to go without wishing you good-bye.'

'I waited for you, George. I knew you were in there. Mother and father sitting up for you, I suppose?'

'Yes. In a few hours I shall go from here; then I shall be alone!'

'As I am, George.'

'Nay, Saul, you have Jane.'

'She has left me, dear woman. I may never see her face again. It is for my good, George, that she has done this. You do not know how low we have sunk. George,' and here his voice fell to a whisper, 'at times we have been almost starving! It could not go on like this, and she has left me, and taken service somewhere in the country. She has done right. As I suffer, as I stretch out my arms in vain for her, as I look round the walls of my garret and am desolate in the light of my misery, I feel and confess she has done right. Here is her letter. Come to the lamp; there is light enough to read it by.'

George read the letter, and returned it to Saul, saying, 'Yes, she is right. What do you intend to do?'

'God knows. To try if I can see any way. But all is dark before me now, George.'

'I wish I could help you, Saul.'

'I know, I know. You are my only friend. If it ever be in my power to repay you for what you have done-' He dashed the tears from his eyes, and stood silent for a few moments, holding George's hand in his. 'George,' he said, in unsteady tones, 'in times gone by you and I have had many good conversations; we passed happy hours together. Words that have passed between us are in my mind now.'

'In mine too, Saul.'

'We had once,' continued Saul in the same strange unsteady tones, 'a conversation on friendship. I remember it well, and the night on which it took place. We walked up and down Westminster-bridge, and stopped now and then, gazing at the lights on the water. There is something grand and solemn in that sight, George; I do not know why, but it always brings to my mind a dim idea of death and immortality. The lights stretch out and out, smaller and smaller, until not a glimmer can be seen; darkness succeeds them as death does life. But the lights are there, George, although our vision is too limited to see them. You remember that conversation, George?'

'As if it had taken place this night, Saul. I can see the lights, and the darkness that follows them.'

'We agreed then upon the quality of friendship, but gave utterance to many generalities.' Saul paused awhile, and then said slowly, 'I am considering, George, whether I rightly understand the duties that lie in friendship.'

'Faithfulness, trustfulness.'

'Yes, those; and other things as well. Say that you had a friend, and had learnt something, had seen something, of which he is ignorant, and which he should know; say it is something that you would keep from your friend if you were false instead of true to him-'

'I should be a traitor to friendship,' interrupted George warmly, 'if I kept it from him. If I were truly his friend, I should seek him out and say what I had learnt, what I had seen.'

'Even if it contained pain, George; even if it would hurt him to know?'

'Even if it contained pain; even if it would hurt him to know. There is often pain in friendship; there is often pain in love. You have felt this, Saul, yourself. I have too, dear friend! Often into life's sweetness and tenderness pain creeps, and we do not know how it got there.'

George uttered this in a gentle tone; he was thinking of Bessie. 'Come, friend,' he said, seeing that Saul hesitated to speak, 'you have something to tell your friend. If you are true to him, tell it.'

Thus urged, Saul said: 'First answer me this. When did you first think of emigrating?'

'I did not think of it at all, before it was put in my head.'

'By whom?'

'By young Mr. Million. One night, not very long ago now, he met me, and got into conversation with me. Trade had been a little slack, and I had had a few idle days. This made me fret, for I saw that if things went on in the same way it might be years before I could save enough to buy furniture to make a home for Bessie. I let this out in conversation with young Mr. Million, and he sympathised with me, and said it was a shame, but that if he were in my place he would put himself in a position to marry his sweetheart in less than a year. How? I asked. By emigrating, he said. It staggered me, as you may guess, Saul. The idea of going away had never entered my head. He went on to say that his father took a great interest in working men, and was very interested also in emigration; that only that morning his father had mentioned my name and had said that he had a passage ticket for the very ship that is going out of the Mersey to-morrow, Saul-and that if I had a mind to better myself, he would give the ticket to me. I thanked him, and told him I would think of it. Well, I did think of it, and I read about wages over the water, and saw that I could do what he said. He gave me the ticket, and that's how it came about.'

'George,' said Saul pityingly, for things that were at present dark to George seemed clear to him, 'Mr. Million never heard your name until this morning.'

'Stop!' exclaimed George, passing his hand over his eyes with a bewildered air. 'Speak slowly. I don't know that I understand you. Say that again.'

Saul repeated: 'Mr. Million never heard your name until this morning. I went to his house, thinking that as he had helped you, he might help me; and he scoffed at me, and taunted me bitterly. He had no more to do with getting your ticket than I had. Every word young Mr. Million told you about the passage and about his father was false.'

'Good God!' cried George. 'What could be his motive, then, in telling me these things, and in obtaining this passage ticket for me?'

'Think, George,' said Saul; 'there is such a thing as false kindness. He may have a motive in wishing you away. I could say more, but I cannot bring my tongue to utter it.'

'You must, Saul, you must!' cried George, in a voice that rang through the street. They had walked as they conversed, and they were now standing outside his mother's house. 'You must! By the friendship I have borne for you! By the memory of what I have done for you!' The door of his house was opened as he spoke. His mother had heard his voice, and the agony in it, and came to the door. George saw her standing there, looking anxiously towards him, and he said in a voice thick with pain, 'Stay here until I come out. By the love you bear to Jane, stop until I come. My mother will know-she is far-seeing, and I may have been blind.'

He hurried to his mother, and went into the house with her. For full half an hour Saul waited in suspense, and at the end of that time George came out of the house, staggering like a drunken man. Saul caught him, and held him up. His face was as the face of death; a strong agony dwelt in it.

'I have heard something,' he said, in a tone that trembled with passion and pain and weakness. 'My mother has doubted for a long time past. She took a letter from him secretly to-night! Those earrings she wore he gave her. O, my God! Tell me, you, what more you know! By the memory of all you hold dear, tell me!'

'George, my dear,' said Saul, in a broken voice, 'a few moments after I quitted Mr. Million's house, I saw her enter it.'

A long, long silence followed. The stars and the moon shone brightly, but there was no light in the heavens for George. A sob broke from him, and another, and another.

'For God's sake,' exclaimed Saul, 'for your mother's sake, who suffers now a grief as keen as yours, bear up! Dear friend, if I could lay down my life for you, I would!'

'I know it. You alone, and my mother, are true; all the rest of the world is false! He wished to get rid of me, did he, and this was a trap! The false lying dog! But when I meet him! – See here! Here is the ticket he gave me. If I had him before me now, I would do to him as I do to this-'

He crumpled the paper in his hand, and tore it fiercely in twain. Saul caught his arm, and stayed its destruction.

'No, no, George!' he cried, but his cry was like a whisper. 'Don't destroy it! Give it, O, give it to me! Remember the letter that Jane wrote to me. Think of the future that is open to me, to her, unless I can see a way. The way is here! Here is my salvation! Let me go instead of you!' He fell upon his knee's and raised his hands tremblingly, as if the Death-Angel were before him, and he was not prepared. 'If I live, I will repay you, so help me, the Great God!'

George muttered, 'Take it. For me it is useless. May it bring you the happiness that I have lost!'

Saul kissed his friend's hand, which fell from his grasp. When he looked up, his friend was gone. And the light in the heavens that George could not see, shone on the face of the kneeling man.

PART II

THEY SAW, UPON ONE OF THE NEAREST PEAKS, A MAN STANDING, WITH SUNSET COLOURS ALL AROUND HIM

We are in the land of a thousand hills. Height is piled upon height, range upon range. The white crests of the mountains cut sharp lines in the clear cold air, and the few trees that are dotted about stand like sentinels on the watch. On one of the far heights, some trees, standing in a line, look like soldiers that have halted for rest; and the clumps of bush that lie in the valleys and on the sides of the hills are like wearied regiments sleeping.

In dear old England the roses are blooming, and the sun is shining; but here it is night, and snow-shadows rest on the mountains and gullies. Among the seemingly interminable ranges, ice-peaks glitter like diamond eyes. Round about us where we stand there is but little wood growth; but in the far distance, beyond the eye's reach, are forests of trees, from the branches of which garlands of icicles hang fantastically; and down in the depths the beautiful fern-leaves are rimmed with frosted snow. We are in the new world.

Creation might have been but yesterday. Even these white canvas tents, lying in the lap of Night, in the centre of the forest of peaks, do not dispel the illusion. They are clustered in the saddle of a gully almost hidden from sight by jealous upland. But look within, and you will see that the old world is marching on to the new. Sturdy men, asleep upon canvas beds, are resting from their toil. Some are from old Devon, England's garden land; some from the Cornwall mines; some from the motherland's fevered cities. Rest, tired workers! Sleep for a little while, strong, brown-bearded men! Over your spirits, as you dream and sometimes smile, it may be that the eternal light of a new childhood is slowly breaking!

Hark! What cry is this that reaches the ear? Come nearer. A baby's voice! And now we can hear the soft voice of the mother, singing her child to sleep with an old familiar nursery rhyme. Dear words! Dear memories! Sweet thread of life! When it snaps, the world is dark, and its tenderness and beauty have departed from our souls. The mother's soft voice is like a rill dancing down a hill in the sun's eye. How sweet it sounds!

What brings these men, women, and children here among the wilds? For answer, take-briefly told-what is not a legend, but veritable new-world history.

Two men, adventurers from the old world, attracted thence by the news of gold discoveries, travelled into new country in search of an eldorado which they could keep to themselves until their fortunes were made. They travelled over mountain and plain, and searched here and searched there, for weeks and months without success, until, almost starving and penniless, they found themselves on the banks of a swiftly-flowing river. This river, here wide, here narrow, here confined between rocky precipices, here widening on the plains, presented strange contrasts during the year. In the winter, the mountain snows which fed it came tumbling furiously over the rocks; then its waters rushed madly through the defiles and overflowed the plains. In the summer, peace came to it; the warm sun made it drowsy, and it fell asleep. It curled itself up in its bed, as it were, and left its banks bare and dry. The snow-torrents from the mountains brought with them something rarer than snow-gold. The precious metal grew in the mountain rocks, and when the furious water tore it from its home, and carried it to the river, it sank into the river's bed and banks, and enriched every fissure and crevice in its stony bottom. When the two adventurers camped by the river's side it was summer, and the banks were dry. They tried for gold, and found it. In a few hours they unearthed twenty ounces, and they looked at each other with wild eyes. Not a soul was within many miles of them; only the birds and the insects knew their secret. But they could not work without food. Some twenty miles from the scene of their discovery was a sheep-farming station. Thither they walked in the night, so that they might not be observed, and slept during the day. Pleading poverty, they bought at the station a little meat and flour, and walked in the daylight away from the river. But when night fell, they warily retraced their steps, and crept through the dark like thieves, until they came to the precious banks. For weeks and months they worked in secret, and lived like misers, never daring to light a fire, for fear the smoke might be seen; the very wind was their enemy. Their flesh wasted, their faces became haggard, their hair grew tangled and matted, they became hollow-eyed; and when, after many months of suffering, they had amassed as much pure gold as they could carry, they walked painfully and wearily through bush and plain for a hundred and sixty miles, until they came to a city with a few thousand inhabitants, where, skeletons among men, they told their story, and for the first time showed their treasure. Delirium seized the city; men became almost frantic with excitement; and the next day half the inhabitants were making preparations to journey to Tom Tiddler's ground. Surely enough the river's banks proved a veritable gold-mine; and after a time fresh discoveries were made. Came there one day a man, almost dead, from the snow mountains, with lumps of gold in his pockets; but the perils of those regions were great, and men thought twice before they ventured. Life, after all, is more precious than gold. Some adventurers went forth: and never returned to tell their story. Then it was said they were killed by starvation, not by the perils of the weather; or because they had no guns, and tents, and blankets with them. Said some, 'Let us take food sufficient for months, and whatever else is necessary.' They took more; they took wives, those who had them. Believe me, woman was worth more than her weight in gold. So in the summer they went into Campbell's Ranges, and pitched their tents there. And those they left behind them, wrapt in their eager hunt for gold, forgot them for a time. The town nearest to the Ranges was many miles away; it was composed of a couple of score of tents and huts, and perhaps two hundred persons lived there. Wandered into it, looking about him strangely, wistfully-for old-world's ways were upon him, and old-world thoughts were stirring in his mind-a man, tall, blue-eyed, strong; No man is long a stranger in the new world, and this wayfarer talked to one and another, and heard from a butcher the story of the two adventurers working on the river's banks until they were worn to skin and bone.

'But they got gold!' exclaimed the new-comer.

'Almost more than they could carry,' was the answer.

The man looked about him restlessly; the eager longing of his soul was for gold, but in him it was no base craving.

'If one could get into the mountains now,' he said, 'where the gold comes from!'

Said the butcher: 'Some went, and didn't come back.'

'They lie over there?' said the man, looking towards the hills.

'Ay,' replied the butcher, 'them's Campbell's Ranges, There's a party prospecting there now, I've heard. They'll get gold, sure; but it requires courage.'

'Courage!' exclaimed the man, not scornfully and arrogantly, but sweetly and gently. 'Who dares not, deserves not. And when a great thing is at stake! – Thank you, mate. Good-day!'

And then he walked in the direction of Campbell's Ranges, stopping to buy a little flour on his way. He could not afford much; his means were very small.

The rough diggers often spoke among themselves of the manner of his first coming to them. They were working in the gullies, which were rich with gold; some were burrowing at the bottom of their mines, some were standing by the windlasses, hauling up the precious dirt. They had been working so from sunrise, and their hearts were light; for the future was as glowing as the bright colours of the sun were when they turned out to work-as glowing as the beautiful colours in the sky were now. It was sunset. The gold-diggers standing in the sun's light, with strong chests partly bared, with strong arms wholly so, were working with a will. Now and then snatches of song burst from their lips, now and then jests and good-humoured words were flung from one to the other. The women were busy outside their tents, lighting fires to prepare for supper; three or four children were playing with a goat and a dog; a cat-yes, a cat! – stepped cautiously out of a tent, and gazed solemnly about. And all around them and above them were the grand hills and mountains, stretching for miles on every side. It was a wonderful life amidst wonderful scenes. Close contact with the grandeur of nature and with its sublime influences humanised many of the rough men, and melted them to awe and tenderness. The hills were full of echoes; when the thunder came the titanic hollows sent the news forth and brought it back again: it was like God's voice speaking with eternal majesty. As the diggers looked up from their work, they saw, upon one of the nearest peaks, a man standing, with sunset colours all around him.

MORE PRECIOUS THAN GOLD, PURER THAN DIAMONDS, ARE THESE SWEET AND DELICATE WAYS

Their first thought was, 'Is he alone? Are there more behind him?' for they were jealous of being overwhelmed by numbers. He looked down upon the busy workers, and with slow and painful steps came across the hills, and down the valley towards them. Pale, patient-looking, footsore, ragged, and with deep lines on his face, he stood in the midst of them, a stranger among the hills.

'Are these Campbell's Ranges?' he asked humbly.

'Yes, mate.'

The man who answered him had just emptied a bucket of fresh-dug earth on to a little hillock by the side of his mine. The stranger saw specks of gold among it. There was no envy in the look that came into his eyes. It was like a prayer.

'Where do you come from?' asked the gold-digger.

The stranger mentioned the name of the town.

'Did you come in search of us?'

'I heard that there was a party of men working in Campbell's Ranges, and that there was plenty of gold here; so I came.'

'By yourself?'

'By myself. I know no one. I have been but a short time in the colony.'

'You have no tent?'

'I had no money to buy one.' He murmured these words in so soft a tone that the gold-digger did not hear them.

'No blankets?'

'For the same reason.'

Again he murmured the reply, so that the questioner did not know his destitute condition.

'No pick or shovel?'

The stranger shook his head sadly, and was turning away, when the gold-digger said:

'Well, mate, the place is open to all; but we want to keep ourselves as quiet as possible.'