Doing and Daring A New Zealand Story (2024)

Contents

1. IN THE MOUNTAIN GORGE

2. THE WHARE BY THE LAKE

3. A RIDE THROUGH THE BUSH

4. THE NEW HOME

5. POSTING A LETTER

6. MIDNIGHT ALARMS

7. THE RAIN OF MUD

8. A RAGING SEA

9. NOTHING TO EAT

10. THE MAORI BOY

11. WIDESPREAD DESOLATION

12. EDWIN'S DISCOVERY

13. FEEDING THE HUNGRY

14. RAIN AND FLOOD

15. WHO HAS BEEN HERE?

16. LOSS AND SUSPICION

17. EDWIN IN DANGER

18. WHERO TO THE RESCUE

19. MET AT LAST

20. JUST IN TIME

21. THE VALLEY FARM

DOING AND DARING.

CHAPTER I.

IN THE MOUNTAIN GORGE.

It was a glorious autumn day, when the NewZealand bush was at its loveliest—as enchantingas if it truly were the fairy ground of the SouthernOcean; yet so unlike every European forest thatweariness seemed banished by its ceaseless variety.Here the intertwining branches of majestic trees, withleaves of varied hue, shut out the sky, and seemed toroof the summer road which wound its devious tracktowards the hills; there a rich fern-clad valley,from which the murmuring sound of falling waterbroke like music on the ear. Onwards still a littlefarther, and an overgrown creek, gently wanderingbetween steep banks of rich dark fern and gracefulpalm, came suddenly out of the greenwood into anopen space, bounded by a wall of rock, rent by adarkling chasm, where the waters of the creek,tumbling over boulder stone and fallen tree, broadenedto a rushing river. Along its verge the roadcontinued, a mere wheel-track cut in the rock, makingit a perilous crossing, as the driver of the weekly mailknew full well.

His heavy, lumbering coach was making its waytowards it at that moment, floundering through thetwo feet deep of mud which New Zealanders call abush road. The five poor horses could only walk, andfound that hard work, while the passengers had enoughto do to keep their seats.

Fortunately the coach was already lightened of apart of its load, some fares with which it startedhaving reached their destination at the laststopping-place. The seven remaining consisted of a rough,jolly-looking, good-humoured fellow, bound for thesurveyors' camp among the hills; an old identity, asNew Zealanders call a colonist who has been so longresident in the land of his adoption that he hascompletely identified himself with it; and a newly-arrivedsettler with his four children, journeying to takepossession of a government allotment in the Waikatodistrict.

With the first two passengers long familiarity withthe discomforts of bush travelling had grown toindifference; but to Mr. Lee and his family theexperience was a trying one, as the coach swayedheavily to this side and that, backwards and forwards,up and down, like a boat on a rough sea. More thanonce Mr. Lee's little girls were precipitated into thearms of their vis-à-vis, or bumped backwards withsuch violence a breakage seemed inevitable; butwhich would suffer the most, the coach or itspassengers, was an open question.

Any English-made vehicle with springs must havebeen smashed to pieces; but the New Zealand mail hadbeen constructed to suit the exigencies of the country.With its frame of iron and sides of leather, it couldresist an amount of wear and tear perfectly incredibleto Mr. Lee. He sat with an arm round each of hisdaughters, vainly trying to keep them erect in theirplaces. Their two brothers bobbed recklessly fromcorner to corner, thinking nothing of the bruises intheir ever-increasing merriment when the edge ofErne's broad-brimmed straw hat went dash into thenavvy's eyes, or Audrey's gray dust-cloak got entangledin the buckles of the old identity's travelling-bag.

Audrey, with a due regard for the proprieties, begana blushing apology.

"My dear child," exclaimed the portly old gentleman,"you speak as if I did not know you could nothelp it."

The words were scarcely uttered, when the wholeweight of his sixteen stone went crushing on to littleCuthbert, who emerged from the jolly squeeze with abattered hat and an altogether flattened appearance.Then came an unexpected breathing-space. Thecoachman stopped to leave a parcel at the roadman'shut, nestling beneath the shelter of the rocks by theentrance of the gorge.

New Zealand roads are under the care of thegovernment, who station men at intervals all alongtheir route to keep them in order. The special dutyof this individual was to see that no other trafficentered the gorge when the coach was passing throughit. Whilst he exchanged greetings with the coachman,the poor passengers with one accord gave a stretchand a yawn as they drew themselves into a morecomfortable position.

On again with renewed jolts between the toweringwalls of rock, with a rush of water by their sidedrowning the rumble of the wheels. The view wasgrand beyond description, but no rail or fence protectedthe edge of the stream.

Mr. Lee was leaning out of the window, watchinganxiously the narrow foot of road between them anddestruction, when, with a sudden lurch, over went thecoach to the other side.

"A wheel off," groaned the old identity, as heknocked heads with the navvy, and became painfullyconscious of a struggling heap of arms and legsencumbering his feet.

Audrey clung to the door-handle, and felt herselfslowly elevating. Mr. Lee, with one arm resting onthe window-frame, contrived to hang on. As thecoach lodged against the wall of rock, he scrambledout. Happily the window owned no glass, and theleathern blind was up. The driver was flung fromhis seat, and the horses were kicking. His firstthought was to seize the reins, for fear the frightenedfive should drag them over the brink. The shaft-horsewas down, but as the driver tumbled to hisfeet, he cut the harness to set the others free; earnestlyexhorting the passengers to keep where they wereuntil he could extricate his horses.

But Edwin, the eldest boy, had already followed theexample of his father. He had wriggled himself outof the window, and was dropping to the ground downthe back of the coach, which completely blocked thenarrow road.

His father and the coachman both shouted to himto fetch the roadman to their help. It was not farto the hut at the entrance of the gorge, and the boy,who had been reckoned a first-rate scout on thecricket-field, ran off with the speed of a hare. Thenavvy's stentorian "coo"—the recognized call forassistance—was echoing along the rocky wall as hewent. The roadman had heard it, and had left hisdinner to listen. He saw the panting boy, and cameto meet him.

"Coach upset," gasped Edwin.

"Here, lad, take my post till I come back; letnobody come this way. I'll be up with poor coachee inno time. Anybody hurt?"

But without waiting for a reply the man set off.Edwin sank into the bed of fern that clustered roundthe opening of the chasm, feeling as if all the breathhad been shaken out of him. There he sat lookingqueer for an hour or more, hearing nothing, seeingnothing but the dancing leaves, the swaying boughs,the ripple of the waters. Only once a big brown ratcame out of the underwood and looked at him. Theabsence of all animal life in the forest struck him:even the birds sing only in the most retired recesses.An ever-increasing army of sand-flies were doing theirutmost to drive him from his position. Unable atlast to endure their stings, he sprang up, trying torid himself of his tormentors by a shake and a dance,when he perceived a solitary horseman coming towardshim, not by the coach-road, but straight across theopen glade.

The man was standing in his stirrups, and seemedto guide his horse by a gentle shake of the rein.On he rode straight as an arrow, making nothingof the many impediments in his path. Edwin sawhim dash across the creek, plunge through the all butimpenetrable tangle of a wild flax-bush, whose toughand fibrous leaves were nine feet long at least, leapover a giant boulder some storm had hurled from therocks above, and rein in his steed with easy grace atthe door of the roadman's shanty. Then Edwinnoticed that the man, whose perfect command of hishorse had already won his boyish admiration, had abig mouth and a dusky skin, that his cheeks werefurrowed with wavy lines encircling each other.

IN THE MOUNTAIN GORGE. 15

"A living tattoo," thought Edwin. The sight ofthose curiously drawn lines was enough to proclaim anative.

Some Maori chief, the boy was inclined to believeby his good English-made saddle. The tall black hathe wore might have been imported from Bond Streetat the beginning of the season, barring the sea-bird'sfeathers stuck upright in the band. His legs werebare. A striped Austrian blanket was thrown overone shoulder and carefully draped about him. Asnowy shirt sleeve was rolled back from the dusky armhe had raised to attract Edwin's attention. A stripedsilk scarf, which might have belonged to someEnglish lady, was loosely knotted round his neck, withthe ends flying behind him. A scarlet coat, whichhad lost its sleeves, completed his grotesque appearance.

"Goo'-mornin'," he shouted. "Coach gone by yet?"

"The coach is upset on that narrow road," answeredEdwin, pointing to the ravine, "and no one can passthis way."

"Smashed?" asked the stranger in tolerableEnglish, brushing away the ever-ready tears of theMaori as he sprang to the ground, expecting to findthe treasure he had commissioned the coachman topurchase for him was already broken into athousand pieces. Then Edwin remembered the coachmanhad left a parcel at the hut as they passed; andthey both went inside to look for it. They found itlaid on the bed at the back of the hut—a large,flat parcel, two feet square.

The address was printed on it in letters half-an-inchhigh: "Nga-Hepé, Rota Pah."

"That's me!" cried the stranger, the tears ofapprehension changing into bursts of joyous laughter ashe seized it lovingly, and seemed to consider for amoment how he was to carry it away. A shadowpassed over his face; some sudden recollection changedhis purpose. He laid his hand persuasively onEdwin's shoulder, saying, "Hepé too rich, Nga-Hepétoo rich; the rana will come. Hide it, keep it safetill Nga-Hepé comes again to fetch it."

Edwin explained why he was waiting there. Hehad only scrambled out of the fallen coach to call theroadman, and would soon be gone.

"You pakeha [white man] fresh from Ingarangiland? you Lee?" exclaimed the Maori, taking aletter from the breast-pocket of his sleeveless coat, asEdwin's surprised "Yes" confirmed his conjecture.

The boy took the letter from him, and recognizedat once the bold black hand of a friend of hisfather's whose house was to be their next halting-place.The letter was addressed to Mr. Lee, to beleft in the care of the coachman.

Meanwhile, the roadman had reached the scene ofthe overturn just as the navvy had succeeded ingetting the door of the coach open. Audrey andEffie were hoisted from the arms of one rough manto another, and seated on a ledge of rock a few feetfrom the ground, where Mr. Lee, who was still busywith the horses, could see the torn gray cloak andwaving handkerchief hastening to assure him theywere unhurt.

Poor little Cuthbert was crying on the ground.His nose was bleeding from a blow received fromone of the numerous packages which had flown outfrom unseen corners in the suddenness of the shock.

"Mr. Bowen," said the navvy, "now is your turn."

But to extricate the stout old gentleman, who hadsomehow lamed himself in the general fall, was a farmore difficult matter.

The driver, who scarcely expected to get througha journey without some disaster, was a host inhimself. He got hold of the despairing traveller by onearm, the roadman grasped the other, assuring him,in contradiction to his many assertions, that hisclimbing days were not all over; the navvy gave aleg up from within, and in spite of slips and bruisesthey had him seated on the bank at last, puffing andpanting from the exertion. "Now, old chap," addedthe roadman, with rough hospitality, "take these poorchildren back to my hut; and have a rest, and makeyourself at home with such tucker as you can find,while we get the coach righted."

"We will all come down and help you with thetucker when our work is done," laughed the navvy,as the three set to their task with a will, and beganto heave up the coach with cautious care. The manyejacul*tory remarks which reached the ears ofAudrey and Mr. Bowen filled them with dismay.

"Have a care, or she'll be over into the water,"said one.

"No, she won't," retorted another; "but who onearth can fix this wheel on again so that it will keep?Look here, the iron has snapped underneath. Whatis to be done?"

"We have not far to go," put in the coachman."I'll make it hold that distance, you'll see."

A wild-flax bush was never far to seek. A fewof its tough, fibrous leaves supplied him withexcellent rope of nature's own making.

Mr. Bowen watched the trio binding up thesplintered axle, and tying back the iron frame-work ofthe coach, where it had snapped, with a rough andready skill which seemed to promise success. Stillhe foresaw some hours would go over the attempt,and even then it might end in failure.

He was too much hurt to offer them any assistance,but he called to Cuthbert to find him a stickfrom the many bushes and trees springing out ofevery crack and crevice in the rocky sides of thegorge, that he might take the children to theroadman's hut. They arrived just as Nga-Hepé wasshouting a "Goo'-mornin'" to Edwin. In fact, theMaori had jumped on his horse, and was canteringoff, when Mr. Bowen stopped him with the question,—

"Any of your people about here with a canoe?I'll pay them well to row me through this gorge," headded.

"The coach is so broken," said Audrey aside to herbrother, "we are afraid they cannot mend it safely."

"Never mind," returned Edwin cheerily; "wecannot be far from Mr. Hirpington's. This man hasbrought a letter from him. Where is father?"

"Taking care of the horses; and we cannot get athim," she replied.

Mr. Bowen heard what they were saying, andcaught at the good news—not far from Hirpington's,where the Lees were to stop. "How far?" heturned to the Maori.

"Not an hour's ride from the Rota Pah, or lakevillage, where the Maori lived." The quickest wayto reach the ford, he asserted, was to take a shortcut through the bush, as he had done.

Mr. Bowen thought he would rather by far trusthimself to native guidance than enter the coachagain. But there were no more horses to be had,for the coachman's team was out of reach, as thebroken-down vehicle still blocked the path.

Nga-Hepé promised, as soon as he got to his home,to row down stream and fetch them all to Mr. Hirpington'sin his canoe. Meanwhile, Edwin had rushedoff to his father with the letter. It was to tellMr. Lee the heavy luggage he had sent on by packet hadbeen brought up from the coast all right.

"You could get a ride behind Hirpington'smessenger," said the men to Edwin, "and beg him tocome to our help." The Maori readily assented.

They were soon ascending the hilly steep andwinding through a leafy labyrinth of shadowy arcades,where ferns and creepers trailed their luxuriantfoliage over rotting tree trunks. Deeper and deeperthey went into the hoary, silent bush, where song ofbird or ring of axe is listened for in vain. All wasstill, as if under a spell. Edwin looked up withsomething akin to awe at the giant height of mossypines, or peered into secluded nooks where thesun-shafts darted fitfully over vivid shades of glossygreen, revealing exquisite forms of unimagined ferns,"wasting their sweetness on the desert air." Amidhis native fastnesses the Maori grew eloquent,pointing out each conical hill, where his forefathers hadraised the wall and dug the ditch. Over every traceof these ancient fortifications Maori tradition had itsfearsome story to repeat. Here was the awfulwar-feast of the victor; there an unyielding handfulwere cut to pieces by the foe.

How Edwin listened, catching something of theeager glow of his excited companion, looking everyinch—as he knew himself to be—the lord of the soil,the last surviving son of the mighty Hepé, whosename had struck terror from shore to shore.

As the Maori turned in his saddle, and dartedsuspicious glances from side to side, it seemed to Edwinsome expectation of a lurking danger was rousing thewarrior spirit within him.

They had gained the highest ridge of the wall ofrock, and before them gloomed a dark descent. Itscraggy sides were riven and disrupted, where coneand chasm told the same startling story, that here, inthe forgotten long ago, the lava had poured its streamof molten fire through rending rocks and heavingcraters. But now a maddened river was hissing andboiling along the channels they had hollowed. Itwas leaping, with fierce, impatient swoop, over ablackened mass of downfallen rock, scooping foritself a caldron, from which, with redoubled hiss androar, it darted headlong, rolling over on itself, andthen, as if in weariness, spreading and broadening tothe kiss of the sun, until it slept like a tranquil lakein the heart of the hills. For the droughts ofsummer had broadened the muddy reaches, which nowseemed to surround the giant boulders until theyalmost spanned the junction.

Where the stream left the basin a mass of hugelogs chained together, forming what New Zealanderscall a "boom," was cast across it, waiting for thewinter floods to help them to start once more ontheir downward swim to the broader waters of theWaikato, of which this shrunken stream would thenbecome a tributary.

On the banks of the lake, or rota—to give it theMaori name—Edwin looked down upon thehigh-peaked roofs of a native village nestling behind itsprotecting wall.

As the wind drove back the light vapoury cloudletswhich hovered over the huts and whares (as thebetter class of Maori dwellings are styled), Edwin sawa wooden bridge spanning the running ditch whichguarded the entrance.

His ears were deafened by a strange sound, as ifhoarsely echoing fog-horns were answering each otherfrom the limestone cliffs, when a cart-load of burlynatives crossed their path. As the wheels rattledover the primitive drawbridge, a noisy greeting wasshouted out to the advancing horseman—a greetingwhich seemed comprised in a single word the Englishboy instinctively construed "Beware." But thewarning, if it were a warning, ended in a hearty laugh,which made itself heard above the shrill whistlingfrom the jets of steam, sputtering and spouting fromevery fissure in the rocky path Nga-Hepé wasdescending, until another blast from those mysteriousfog-horns drowned every other noise.

With a creepy sense of fear he would have beenloath to own, Edwin looked ahead for some sign ofthe ford which was his destination; for he knewthat his father's friend, Mr. Hirpington, held theonerous post of ford-master under the EnglishGovernment in that weird, wild land of wonder, thehill-country of the north New Zealand isle.

CHAPTER II.

THE WHARE BY THE LAKE.

A deep fellow-feeling for his wild, high-spiritedguide was growing in Edwin's mind as theyrode onward. Nga-Hepé glanced over his shouldermore than once to satisfy himself as to the effect theMaori's warning had had upon his young companion.

Edwin returned the hasty inspection with a lookof careless coolness, as he said to himself, "Whateverthis means, I have nothing to do with it." Not aword was spoken, but the flash of indignant scorn inNga-Hepé's brilliant eyes told Edwin that he wassetting it at defiance.

On he spurred towards the weather-beaten walls,which had braved so many a mountain gale.

A faint, curling column of steamy vapour wasrising from the hot waters which fed the moat, andwafted towards them a most unpleasant smell ofsulphur, which Edwin was ready to denounce asodious. To the Maori it was dear as native air:better than the breath of sweet-brier and roses.

Beyond the bridge Edwin could see a pathwaymade of shells, as white and glistening as if it werea road of porcelain. It led to the central whare, thecouncil-hall of the tribe and the home of its chief.Through the light haze of steam which veiled everythingEdwin could distinguish its carved front, andthe tall post beside it, ending in a kind of figure-headwith gaping mouth, and a blood-red tongue hangingout of it like a weary dog's. This was the flagstaff.The cart had stopped beside it, and its recentoccupants were now seated on the steps of the whare,laughing over the big letters of a printed poster whichthey were exhibiting to their companions.

"Nothing very alarming in that," thought Edwin,as Nga-Hepé gave his bridle-rein a haughty shakeand entered the village. He threaded his waybetween the huts of mat and reeds, and the wood-builtwhares, each in its little garden. Here and theregreat bunches of home-grown tobacco were dryingunder a little roof of thatch; behind another hut adead pig was hanging; a little further on, a groupof naked children were tumbling about and bathingin a steaming pool; beside another tent-shaped hutthere was a huge pile of potatoes, while a rush basketof fish lay by many a whare door.

In this grotesque and novel scene Edwin almostforgot his errand, and half believed he had misunderstoodthe hint of danger, as he watched the nativewomen cooking white-bait over a hole in the ground,and saw the hot springs shooting up into the air,hissing and boiling in so strange a fashion theEnglish boy was fairly dazed.

Almost all the women were smoking, and many ofthem managed to keep a baby riding on their backsas they turned their fish or gossiped with theirneighbours. Edwin could not take his eyes off thesputtering mud-holes doing duty as kitchen firesuntil they drew near to the tattooed groups of burlymen waiting for their supper on the steps of thecentral whare. Then many a dusky brow was lifted,and more than one cautionary glance was bestowedupon his companion, whilst others saw him pass themwith a scowl.

Nga-Hepé met it with a laugh. A Maori scornsto lose his temper, come what may. As he leapedthe steaming ditch and left the village by a gap in thedecaying wall, he turned to Edwin, observing, with apride which bordered on satisfaction: "The son ofHepé is known by all men to be rich and powerful,therefore the chief has spoken against him."

"Much you care for the chief," retorted Edwin.

"I am not of his tribe," answered Nga-Hepé. "Icome of the Ureweras, the noblest and purest of ourrace. Our dead men rest upon the sacred hills wherethe Maori chiefs lie buried. When a child of Hepédies," he went on, pointing to the mountain range,"the thunder rolls and the lightning flashes alongthose giant hills, that all men may know his hourhas come. No matter where the Hepé layconcealed, men always knew when danger threatenedhim. They always said such and such a chief isdying, because the thunder and lightning are insuch a place. Look up! the sky is calm and still.The hills are silent; Mount Tarawera rears itsthreefold crest above them all in its own majesticgrandeur. Well, I know no real danger menacesme to-night."

"I trust you are right, Nga-Hepé, but—" beganEdwin quickly. The Maori turned his head away;he could admit no "buts," and the English boy madevain endeavours to argue the question.

A noisy, boisterous jabbering arose from the villageas the crowd outside the grand whare hailed thedecision of the elders holding council within. Dogs,pigs, and boys added their voices to the generalacclamation, and drowned Edwin's so completely hegave up in despair; and after all he thought, "Canany one wonder at Nga-Hepé clinging to the oldsuperstitions of his race? In the wild grandeur of aspot like this it seems in keeping."

So he said no more. They crossed the brokenground. Before them gleamed the waters of the lake,upon whose bank Nga-Hepé's house was standing—theold ancestral whare, the dwelling-place of theHepés generation after generation. Its well-thatchedroof was higher than any of the roofs in the pah,and more pointed. The wood of which this wharewas built was carved into idol figures and grinningmonsters, now black and shining with excessive age.

The garden around it was better cultivated, andthe ample store of roots and grain in the smallerwhare behind it told of the wealth of its owner.Horses and pigs were snorting and squealing beneaththe hoary trees, overshadowing the mud-hole and thegeyser spring, by which the Maori loves to make hishome. The canoe was riding on the lake, the lovelylake, as clear and blue as the sky it mirrored.

The sight of it recalled Edwin to his purpose, andhe once more questioned Nga-Hepé as to the whereaboutsof the ford.

"Enter and eat," said the Maori, alighting at hislow-browed door.

The gable end of the roof projected over it like aporch, and Edwin paused under its shadow to takein the unfamiliar surroundings. Beneath the broadeaves huge bundles of native flax and tobacco weredrying. In the centre of the long room within therewas a blazing fire of crackling wood. But its cheerfulwelcome seemed to contend with a sense of desertionwhich pervaded the place.

Nga-Hepé called in vain for his accustomed attendantto take his horse. No one answered his summons.He shouted; no answer. The wooden walls of theneighbouring pah faintly echoed back his words. Allhis men were gone. He muttered something in his owntongue, which Edwin could not understand, as he ledthe way into the long room. In so grand a wharethis room was divided into separate stalls, like awell-built stable. An abundance of native mats strewedthe floor.

The Maori's eyes fell upon the corner where hisgreenstone club, the treasured heirloom of manygenerations, leaned against an English rifle, and on theboar's tusks fixed in the wall at intervals, where hisspears and fishing-rods were ranged in order. Bytheir side hung a curious medley of English apparel.The sweeping feathers of a broad felt hat droopedabove a gaudy table-cloth, which by its many creasesseemed to have done duty on the person of its owner.Edwin's merriment was excited by the number ofscent-bottles, the beautiful cut-glass carafe, and manyother expensive articles suspended about the room—allbearing a silent testimony to the wealth of whichNga-Hepé had spoken. Two happy-looking children,each wearing a brightly-coloured handkerchief foldedacross their tiny shoulders in true Maori fashion,were grinding at a barrel-organ. One fat little kneeserved as a pillow for a tangle of rough black hair,which a closer inspection showed him was the headof a sleeping boy.

Nga-Hepé's wife, wearing a cloak of flowered silk,with a baby slung in a shawl at her back, and a shortpipe in her mouth, met him with soft words ofpleading remonstrance which Edwin could not understand.

Her husband patted her fondly on the arm, touchedthe baby's laughing lips, and seated himself on thefloor by the fire, inviting Edwin to join him.

The sleeping boy gave a great yawn, and startingto his feet, seemed to add his entreaties to his mother's.He held a book in his hand—a geography, withcoloured maps—which he had evidently been studying;but he dropped it in despair, as his father onlycalled for his supper.

"Help us to persuade him," he whispered to Edwinin English; "he may listen to a pakeha. Tell himit is better to go away."

"Why?" asked Edwin.

"Why!" repeated the boy excitedly; "because thechief is threatening him with a muru. He will senda band of men to eat up all the food, and carry offeverything we have that can be carried away; butthey will only come when father is at home."

"A bag of talk!" interrupted Nga-Hepé. "Shall itbe said the son of the warrior sneaks off and hideshimself at the first threat?"

"But," urged Edwin, "you promised to row backfor Mr. Bowen."

"Yes, and I will. I will eat, and then I go,"persisted Nga-Hepé, as his wife stamped impatiently.

Two or three women ran in with the supper whichthey had been cooking in a smaller whare in thebackground. They placed the large dishes on thefloor: native potatoes—more resembling yams intheir sweetness than their English namesakes—boiledthistles, and the ancient Maori delicacy, salted shark.

They all began to eat, taking the potatoes in theirhands, when a wild cry rang through the air—a cryto strike terror to any heart. It was the first noteof the Maori war-song, caught up and repeated by adozen powerful voices, until it became a deafening yell.Hepé's wife tore frantically at her long dark hair.

The Maori rose to his feet with an inborn dignity,and grasped the greenstone club, taking pride in theprestige of such a punishment. Turning to Edwin hesaid: "When the ferns are on fire the sparks fall farand wide. Take the horse—it is yours; I give it toyou. It is the last gift I shall have it in my powerto make for many a day to come. There lies yourpath through the bush; once on the open road againthe ford-house will be in sight, and Whero shall beyour guide. Tell the old pakeha the canoe is mineno more."

The woman snatched up the children and rushedaway with them, uttering a wailing cry.

Edwin knew he had no alternative, but he did notlike the feeling of running away in the moment ofperil.

"Can't I help you, though I am only a boy?" heasked.

"Yes," answered Hepé's wife, as she almost pushedhim out of the door in her desperation; "take this."

She lifted up a heavy bag from the corner of thewhare, and put it into his hands. Whero had untiedthe horse, and was pointing to the distant pah, fromwhich the yells proceeded.

A band of armed men, brandishing clubs and spears,were leading off the war-dance. Their numbers wereswelling. The word of fear went round from lip tolip, "The tana is coming!"

The tana is the band of armed men sent by thechief to carry out this act of savage despotism. Theyhad been on the watch for Nga-Hepé. They hadseen him riding through the pah. All hope of gettinghim out of the way was over.

Father and mother joined in the last despairingdesire to send off Whero, their little lord andfirst-born, of whom the Maoris make so much, and treatwith so much deference. They never dreamed ofordering him to go. A freeborn Maori brooks no controleven in childhood. But their earnest entreatiesprevailed. He got up before Edwin. He would notride behind him, not he, to save his life. He yieldedfor the sake of the horse he loved so well. Hethought he might get it back from the young pakeha,but who could wrest it from the grasp of the tana?Perhaps Nga-Hepé shared the hope. The noble horsewas dear to father and son.

"Oh, I am so sorry for you!" said Edwin as heguessed the truth; "and so will father be, I'm sure." Hestopped in sudden silence as another terrific yellechoed back by lake and tree.

He felt the good horse quiver as they plunged intothe safe shelter of the bush, leaving Hepé leaning onhis club on the threshold of his whare.

Edwin's first care now was to get to Mr. Hirpington'sas fast as he could. But his desire to press onmet with no sympathy from his companion, whoknew not how to leave the spot until his father's fatewas decided. He had backed the horse into thedarkest shadow of the trees, and here he wanted tolie in ambush and watch; for the advancing warriorswere surrounding the devoted whare, and theshrieking women were flying from it into the bush.

How could Edwin stop him when Whero would turnback to meet his mother? The rendezvous of thefugitives was a tall karaka tree—a forest kingrearing its giant stem full seventy feet above the mossyturf. A climbing plant, ablaze with scarlet flowers,had wreathed itself among the branches, and hung inlong festoons which swept the ground. The pantingwomen flung themselves down, and dropped theirheavy burdens at its root; for all had snatched upthe nearest thing which came to hand as they ran out.One had wrapped the child she carried in afishing-net; another drew from beneath the folds of theEnglish counterpane she was wearing the long knifethat had been lying on the floor by the dish of shark;while Whero's mother, shaking her wealth ofuncombed hair about her like a natural veil, concealedin her arms a ponderous axe.

The big black horse gave a loving whinny as herecognized their footsteps, and turning of his ownaccord, cantered up to them as they began to raisethe death-wail—doing tangi as they call it—over theoutcast children crying for the untasted supper, onwhich the invaders were feasting.

"May it choke the pigs!" muttered Whero, raisinghimself in the stirrups and catching at the nearestbough, he gave it a shake, which sent a shower ofthe karaka nuts tumbling down upon the little blackheads and fighting fists. The women stopped theirwail to crack and eat. The horse bent down hishead to claim a share, and the children scrambledto their feet to scoop the sweet kernel from theopened shell. The hungry boys were forced tojoin them, and Edwin found to his surprise that leafand nut alike were good and wholesome food. Theyate in silence and fear, as the wild woods rangwith the shouts of triumph and derision as therough work of confiscation went forward in the whare.

With the much-needed food Edwin's energy wasreturning. He gave back the bag to Whero's mother,assuring her if her son would only guide him to theroad he could find his own way to the ford.

"Let us all go farther into the bush," said theoldest woman of the group, "before the tana comes out.The bush they cannot take from us, and all we needthe most the bush will provide."

The weight of the bag he had carried convincedEdwin it was full of money.

Whero's mother was looking about for a placewhere she could hide it; so they wandered on untilthe sun shone brightly between the opening trees,and they stepped out upon an unexpected clearing.

"The road! the road!" cried Whero, pointing tothe gleam of water in the distance, and the dark roofof the house by the ford, half buried in the whiteblossom of the acacia grove beside it.

"All right!" exclaimed Edwin joyfully. "Youneed go no farther."

He took the bridle from Whero, and turned thehorse's head towards the ford, loath to say farewellto his strange companions. As he went at a steadytrot along the road, he could not keep from lookingback. He saw they were burying the bag of treasurewhere two white pines grew near together, and thewild strawberries about their roots were ripening inthe sun. The road, a mere clearing in the forest, laystraight before him. As Nga-Hepé had said, anhour's ride brought him to Mr. Hirpington's door.

The house was large and low, built entirely ofcorrugated iron. It was the only spot of ugliness in thewhole landscape. A grassy bank higher than Edwin'shead surrounded the home enclosure, and lovelywhite-winged pigeons were hovering over the yellowgorse, which formed an impenetrable wall on the topof the bank. A gate stood open, and by its side somerough steps cut in the rock led down to the riverbed,through a tangle of reeds and bulrushes. Likemost New Zealand rivers, the bed was ten timeswider than the stream, and the stretch of mud oneither side increased the difficulties of the crossing.

Edwin rode up to the gate and dismounted, drewthe bridle through the ring in the post, and entered adelightful garden, where peach and almond and cherrytrees brought back a thought of home. The groundwas terraced towards the house, which was built on ajutting rock, to be out of the reach of winter floods.Honeysuckle and fuchsia, which Edwin had onlyknown in their dwarfed condition in England, rosebefore him as stately trees, tall as an English elm,eclipsing all the white and gold of the acacias andlaburnums, which sheltered the end of the house.

The owner, spade in hand, was at work among hisflower-beds. His dress was as rough as the navvy's,and Edwin, who had studied Mr. Hirpington'sphotograph so often, asked himself if this man, so brownand brawny and broad, could be his father's friend?

"Please, I'm Edwin Lee," said the boy bluntly."Is Mr. Hirpington at home?"

The spade was thrown aside, and a hand allsmeared with garden mould grasped his own, anda genial voice exclaimed, "Yes, Hirpington is here,bidding you heartily welcome! But how came you,my lad, to forerun the coach?"

Then Edwin poured into sympathetic ears the taleof their disaster, adding earnestly, "I thought I hadbetter come on with your messenger, and tell youwhat had happened."

"Coach with a wheel off in the gorge!" shoutedMr. Hirpington to a chum in-doors, and Edwin knewhe had found the friend in need, whose value no onecan estimate like a colonist.

Before Edwin could explain why Nga-Hepé hadfailed in his promise to return with his canoe,Mr. Hirpington was down the boating-stairs, looseninghis own "tub," as he called it, from its moorings.To the Maori's peril he lent but half an ear. "Nouse our interfering there," he said. "I'm off to yourfather."

A head appeared at a window overlooking the bedof rushes, and two men came out of the house door,and assisted him to push the boat into the water.The window above was thrown open, and a hastily-filledbasket was handed down. Then a kind,motherly voice told Edwin to come in-doors.

The room he entered was large and faultlessly clean,serving the threefold purpose of kitchen, dining-room,and office. The desk by the window, the gun in thecorner, the rows of plates above the dresser, scarcelyseemed to encroach on each other, or make the longdining-table look ashamed of their company.

Mrs. Hirpington, who was expecting the "coach tosleep" under her roof that night, was preparing hermeat for the spit at the other end of the room. Thepipes and newspaper, which had been hastily throwndown at the sound of Mr. Hirpington's summons,showed Edwin where the men had been resting aftertheir day's work. They were, as he guessed, employéson the road, which was always requiring mendingand clearing, while Mr. Hirpington was theirsuperintendent, as well as ford-keeper.

His wife, in a homely cotton dress of her ownmaking, turned to Edwin with the well-bred mannerof an English lady and the hearty hospitality of acolonist.

"Not a word about being in the way, my dear;the trouble is a pleasure. We shall have you allhere, a merry party, before long. There are worsedisasters than this at sea." She smiled as shedelayed the roast, and placed a chop on the grill forEdwin's benefit.

The cozy sense of comfort which stole over himwas so delightful, as he stretched himself on the sofaon the other side of the fire, it made him think themore of the homeless wanderers in the bush, and hebegan to describe to Mrs. Hirpington the strangescene he had witnessed.

A band of armed men marching out of the villagefilled her with apprehension. She ran to the windowoverlooking the river to see if the boat had pushedoff, and called to the men remaining behind—for theford was never left—to know if the other roadmenhad yet come in.

"They are late," she said. "They must haveheard the coachman's 'coo,' and are before us withtheir help. They have gone down to the gorge.You may rest easy about your father."

But she could not rest easy. She looked to theloading of the guns, put the bar in the gate herself,and held a long conference with Dunter over thealarming intelligence.

But the man knew more of Maori ways than shedid, and understood it better. "I'll not be saying,"he answered, "but what it will be wise in us to keepgood watch until they have all dispersed. Still, withHepé's goods to carry off and divide, they will not bethinking of interfering with us. Maybe you'll haveNga-Hepé's folk begging shelter as the night draws on."

"I hope not," she retorted quickly. "Give themanything they ask for, but don't be tempted to openthe gate. Tell them the coach is coming, and thehouse is full."

A blaze of fire far down the river called everybodyinto the garden. Some one was signalling. ButDunter was afraid to leave Mrs. Hirpington, andMrs. Hirpington was equally afraid to be left.

A great horror fell upon Edwin. "Can it befather?" he exclaimed.

Dunter grasped the twisted trunk of the gianthoneysuckle, and swung himself on to the roof of thehouse to reconnoitre. Edwin was up beside him ina moment.

"Oh, it is nothing," laughed the man—"nothingbut some chance traveller waiting by the roadside forthe expected coach, and, growing impatient, has seta light to the dry branches of a ti tree to make sureof stopping the coach."

But the wind had carried the flames beyond thetree, and the fire was spreading in the bush.

"It will burn itself out," said Dunter carelessly;"no harm in that."

But surely the coach was coming!

Edwin looked earnestly along the line which thebush road had made through the depths of the forest.He could see clearly to a considerable distance. Thefire was not far from the two white pines where hehad parted from his dusky companions, and soon hesaw them rushing into the open to escape from theburning fern. On they ran towards the ford, scaredby the advancing fire. How was Mrs. Hirpington torefuse to open her gates and take them in? Womenand children—it could not be done.

Edwin was pleading at her elbow.

"I saw it all, Mrs. Hirpington; I know how ithappened. Nga-Hepé gave me his horse, that I mightescape in safety to you."

"Well, well," she answered, resigning herself to theinevitable. "If you will go out and meet them andbring them here, Dunter shall clear the barn toreceive them."

Edwin slid down the rough stem of thehoneysuckle and let himself out, and ran along the roadfor about half-a-mile, waving his hat and calling tothe fugitives to come on, to come to the ford.

The gray-haired woman in the counterpane, nowbegrimed with mud and smoke, was the first tomeet him.

She shouted back joyfully, "The good wahini[woman] at the ford has sent to fetch us. She hearthe cry of the child. Good! good!"

But the invitation met with no response fromWhero and his mother.

"Shall it be said by morning light Nga-Hepé'swife was sleeping in the Ingarangi [English] bed, andhe a dead man lying on the floor of his forefathers'whare, with none to do tangi above him!" sheexclaimed, tearing fresh handfuls from her long darkhair in her fury.

"Oh to be bigger and stronger," groaned Whero,"that I might play my game with the greenstoneclub! but my turn will come."

The blaze of passion in the boy's star-like eyesrecalled his mother to calmness. "What are you,"she asked, "but an angry child to court the blow ofthe warrior's club that would end your days? Aman can bide his hour. Go with the Ingarangi, boy."

"Yes, go," urged her companion.

A bright thought struck the gray-haired woman,and she whispered to Edwin, "Get him away; gethim safe to the Ingarangi school. Nothing can reachhim there. He loves their learning; it will makehim a mightier man than his fathers have ever been.If he stays with us, we can't hold him back. Hewill never rest till he gets himself killed."

"Ah, but my Whero will go back with theIngarangi boy and beg a blanket to keep the babiesfrom the cold night wind," added his mother coaxingly.

"Come along," said Edwin, linking his arm inWhero's and setting off with a run. "Now tell meall you want—blankets, and what else?"

But the boy had turned sullen, and would notspeak. He put his hands before his face and sobbedas if his heart would break.

"Where is the horse?" he asked abruptly, as theyreached Mrs. Hirpington's gate.

"In there," said Edwin, pointing to the stable.

The Maori boy sprang over the bar which Dunterhad fixed across the entrance to keep the horse in,and threw his arms round the neck of his blackfavourite, crying more passionately than ever.

"He is really yours," put in Edwin, trying toconsole him. "I do not want to keep the horse whenyou can take him back. Indeed, I am not sure myfather will let me keep him."

But he was speaking to deaf ears; so he left Wherohugging his four-footed friend, and went in-doors forthe blankets. Mrs. Hirpington was very ready tosend them; but when Edwin returned to the stable,he found poor Whero fast asleep.

"Just like those Maoris," laughed Dunter. "Theydrop off whatever they are doing; it makes nodifference. But remember, my man, there is a good oldsaying, 'Let sleeping dogs lie.'"

So, instead of waking Whero, they gently closedthe stable-door; and Edwin went off alone with theblankets on his shoulder. He found Nga-Hepé'swife still seated by the roadside rocking her baby,with her two bigger children asleep beside her. Onedark head was resting on her knee, the other nestlingclose against her shoulder. Edwin unfolded one ofthe blankets he was bringing and wrapped it roundher, carefully covering up the little sleepers. Hercompanions had not been idle. To the Maori theresources of the bush are all but inexhaustible. Theywere making a bed of freshly-gathered fern, andtwisting a perfect cable from the fibrous flax-leaves. Thisthey tied from tree to tree, and flung another blanketacross it, making a tent over the unfortunate mother.Then they crept behind her, under the blanket, keepingtheir impromptu tent in shape with their own backs.

"Goo'-night," they whispered, "goo' boy. Gobush a' right."

But Edwin lingered another moment to tell thedisconsolate mother how he had left Whero sleepingby the horse.

"Wake up—no find us—then he go school," shesaid, wrinkling the patch of tattoo on her lip andchin with the ghost of a smile.

CHAPTER III.

A RIDE THROUGH THE BUSH.

The fire by the white pines had died away, buta cloud of smoke rose from the midst of thetrees and obscured the view. A faint rumblingsound and the dull thud of horses' feet reachedEdwin from time to time as he ran back to the ford.

A lantern was swinging in the acacia tree. Thewhite gate was flung open, and Dunter, with his handto his ear, stood listening to the far-off echo.

A splash of oars among the rushes, and the shockof a boat against the stairs, recalled him to the house.Edwin ran joyfully down the steps, and gave a handto Mr. Bowen.

"We are not all here now," the old gentlemansaid. "Your father stuck by the coach, and hewould have his daughters with him, afraid of an openboat on a night like this."

Then Edwin felt a hand in the dark, which heknew was Cuthbert's; and heard Mr. Hirpington'scheery voice exclaiming, "Which is home first—boator coach?"

"Hard to say," answered Dunter, as the coachdrove down the road at a rapid pace, followed by aparty of roadmen with pickaxe on shoulder, comingon with hasty strides and a resolute air about them,very unusual in men returning from a hard day'slabour.

The coach drew up, and Mr. Lee was the first toalight. He looked sharply round, evidentlycounting heads.

"All here, all right," answered Mr. Hirpington."Safe, safe at home, as I hope you will all feel it,"he added, in his heartiest tones.

There was no exact reply. His men gatheredround him, exclaiming, "We heard the war-cry fromthe Rota Pah. There's mischief in the wind to-night.So we turned our steps the other way and waited forthe coach, and all came on together."

"It is a row among the Maoris themselves," putin Dunter, "as that lad can tell you."

The man looked sceptical. A new chum, as fresharrivals from the mother country are always termed,and a youngster to boot, what could he know?

Mr. Hirpington stepped out from the midst of thegroup and laid his hand on Mr. Lee's shoulder, whowas bending down to ask Edwin what all this meant,and drew him aside.

"I trust, old friend," he said, "I have not blunderedon your behalf, but all the heavy luggage you senton by packet arrived last week, and I, not knowinghow to take care of it, telegraphed to headquartersfor permission to put it in the old school-house untilyou could build your own. I thought to do you aservice; but if our dusky neighbours have takenoffence, that is the cause, I fear."

Mr. Lee made a sign to his children to go in-doors.Edwin led his sisters up the terrace-steps, and cameback to his father. The coach was drawn inside thegate, and the bar was replaced. The driver wasattending to his horses; but all the others wereholding earnest council under the acacia tree, where thelantern was still swinging.

"But I do not understand about this old schoolhouse,"Mr. Lee was saying; "where is it?"

"Over the river," answered several voices. "Thegovernment built it for the Maoris before the lastdisturbance, when the Hau-Hau [pronounced HowHow] tribe turned against us, and went back to theirold superstitions, and banded together to sell us nomore land. It was then the school was shut up, butthe house was left; and now we are growing friendlyagain," added Mr. Hirpington, "I thought all wasright."

"So it is," interposed Mr. Bowen, confidently."My sheep-run comes up very near to the Kingcountry, as they like to call their district, and I wantno better neighbours than the Maoris."

Then Edwin spoke out. "Father, I can tell yousomething about it. Do listen."

They did listen, one and all, with troubled, anxiousfaces. "This tana," they said, "may not dispersewithout doing more mischief. Carry on their workof confiscation at the old school-house, perhaps."

"No, no; no fear of that," argued Mr. Bowen andthe coachman, who knew the Maoris best.

"I'll run no risk of losing all my ploughs andspades," persisted Mr. Lee. "How far off is theplace?"

"Not five miles across country," returned his friend."I have left it in the care of a gang of rabbiters, whohave set up their tents just outside the gardenwall—safe enough, as it seemed, when I left."

"Lend me a horse and a guide," said Mr. Lee, "andI'll push on to-night."

The children, of course, were to be left at the ford;but Edwin wanted to go with his father. Dunterand another man were getting ready to accompany him.

"Father," whispered Edwin, "there is the blackhorse; you can take him. Come and have a look athim."

He raised the heavy wooden latch of the stable-door,and glanced round for Whero. There was thehole in the straw where he had been sleeping, but theboy was gone.

"He must have stolen out as we drove in," remarkedthe coachman, who was filling the manger with cornfor his horses.

The man had far more sympathy with Nga-Hepéin his trouble than any of the others. He leanedagainst the side of the manger, talking to Edwinabout him. When Mr. Lee looked in he stoopeddown to examine the horse, feeling its legs, and theheight of its shoulder. On such a congenial subjectthe coachman could not help giving an opinion.Edwin heard, with considerable satisfaction, that thehorse was a beauty.

"But I do not like this business at all, and if I hadhad any idea Mr. Hirpington's messenger was a native,you should never have gone with him, Edwin," Mr. Leebegan, in a very decided tone. "However," headded, "I'll buy this horse, I don't mind doing that;but as to taking presents from the natives, it is outof the question. I will not begin it."

"But, father," put in Edwin, "there is nobody hereto buy the horse of; there is nobody to take themoney."

"I'll take the money for Nga-Hepé," said thecoachman. "I will make that all right. You saw how itwas as we came along. The farmers and the nativesare on the watch for my coming, and they load mewith all sorts of commissions. You would laugh atthe things these Maoris get me to bring them fromthe towns I pass through. I don't mind the botherof it, because they will take no end of trouble inreturn, and help me at every pinch. I ought to carryNga-Hepé ten pounds."

Mr. Lee thought that cheap for so good a horse,and turned to the half light at the open door to countout the money.

"But I shall not take him away with me to-night.I will not be seen riding a Maori's horse if Hirpingtoncan lend me another," persisted Mr. Lee.

Then Mr. Bowen limped up to the stable-door, andEdwin slipped out, looking for Whero behind the farmbuildings and round by the back of the house. Butthe Maori boy was nowhere to be seen. Thecoachman was right after all. Mr. Hirpington wentindoors and called to Edwin to join him. He had thesatisfaction of making the boy go over the groundagain. But there was nothing more to tell, and Edwinwas dismissed to his supper with an exhortation tobe careful, like a good brother, not to frighten hissisters.

He crossed over and leaned against the back ofAudrey's chair, simply observing, "Father is going onto-night."

"Well?" she returned eagerly.

"It won't be either well or fountain here," heretorted, "but a boiling geyser. I've seen one in thedistance already."

"Isn't he doing it nicely?" whispered Effie, nodding."They told him to turn a dark lantern on us. Weheard—Audrey and I."

"Oh yes," smiled her sister; "every word can beheard in these New Zealand houses, and no one everseems to remember that. I give you fair warning."

"It is a rare field for the little long-eared pitcherspeople are so fond of talking about—presentrepresentatives, self and Cuthbert. We of course mustexpect to fill our curiosity a drop at a time; but youmust have been snapped up in a crab-shell if youmean to keep Audrey in the dark," retorted Effie.

"Cuthbert! Cuthbert!" called Edwin, "here is abuzzing bee about to sting me. Come and catch it,if you can."

Cuthbert ran round and began to tickle his sisterin spite of Audrey's horrified "My dear!"

The other men came in, and a look from Mr. Leerecalled the young ones to order. But the gravefaces, the low words so briefly interchanged amongthem, the business-like air with which the supperwas got through, in the shortest possible time, keptAudrey in a flutter of alarm, which she did her bestto conceal. But Mr. Bowen detected the nervoustremor in her hand as she passed his cup of coffee,and tried to reassure her with the welcome intelligencethat he had just discovered they were going tobe neighbours. What were five-and-twenty miles inthe colonies?

"A very long way off," thought the despondent Audrey.

At a sign from Mr. Lee, Mrs. Hirpington conductedthe girls to one of the tiny bedrooms which ran alongthe back of the house, where the "coach habituallyslept." As the door closed behind her motherlygood-night, Effie seized upon her sister, exclaiming,—

"What are we in for now?"

"Sleep and silence," returned Audrey; "for wemight as well disclose our secret feelings in themarket-place as within these iron walls."

"I always thought you were cousin-german to thediscreet princess; but if you reduce us to dummies,you will make us into eaves-droppers as well, and weused to think that was something baddish," retortedEffie.

"You need not let it trouble your conscience to-night,for we cannot help hearing as long as we areawake; therefore I vote for sleep," replied her sister.

But sleep was effectually banished, for every soundon the other side of the thin sheet of corrugated ironwhich divided them from their neighbours seemedincreased by its resonance.

They knew when Mr. Lee drove off. They knewthat a party of men were keeping watch all night bythe kitchen fire. But when the wind rose, and a cold,pelting rain swept across the river, and thundered onthe metal roof with a noise which could only beout-rivalled by the iron hail of a bombardment, everyother sound was drowned, and they did not hear whatthe coachman was saying to Edwin as they parted forthe night. So it was possible even in that house ofcorrugated iron not always to let the left hand knowwhat the right was doing. Only a few words passedbetween them.

"You are a kind-hearted lad. Will you comeacross to the stables and help me in the morning? Imust be up before the dawn."

There was an earnestness in the coachman'srequest which Edwin could not refuse.

With the first faint peep of gray, before themorning stars had faded, the coachman was at Edwin'sdoor. The boy answered the low-breathed summonswithout waking his little brother, and the two weresoon standing on the terraced path outside the housein the fresh, clear, bracing air of a New Zealandmorning, to which a touch of frost had beensuperadded. They saw it sparkling on the leaves of thestately heliotropes, which shaded the path and wavedtheir clustering flowers above the coachman's head asthey swayed in the rising breeze. He opened thegate in the hedge of scarlet geraniums, which dividedthe garden from the stable-yard, and went out withEdwin, carrying the sweet perfume of the heliotropeswith them. Even the horses were all asleep.

"Yes, it is early," remarked Edwin's companion."The coach does not start until six. I have got oldtime by the forelock, and I've a mind to go over tothe Rota Pah, if you can show me the way."

"I think I can find it," returned Edwin, with aconfidence that was yet on the lee side of certainty.

"Ay, then we'll take the black horse. If we givehim the rein, he will lead us to his old master's door.It is easy work getting lost in the bush, but I neveryet turned my back on a chum in trouble. Once achum always a chum with us. Many's the timeNga-Hepé's stood my friend among these wild hills, and Iwant to see him after last night's rough handling.That is levelling down with a vengeance."

The coachman paused, well aware his companionswould blame him for interfering in such a business,and very probably his employers also, if it ever reachedtheir ears. So he led the horse out quietly, andsaddled him on the road. The ground was whitewith frost. The moon and stars were graduallypaling and fading slowly out of sight. The forest wasstill enwrapped in stately gloom, but the distant hillswere already catching the first faint tinge of rosy light.

Edwin got up behind the coachman, as he hadbehind Nga-Hepé. They gave the horse its head, androde briskly on, trusting to its sagacity to guide themsafely across the bush with all its dangers—dangerssuch as Edwin never even imagined. But thecoachman knew that one unwary step might mean deathto all three. For the great white leaves of the deadlypuka-puka shone here and there, conspicuous in thegeneral blue-green hue of the varying foliage; a poisonquickly fatal to the horse, but a poison which he loves.The difficulty of getting out of the thicket, where itwas growing so freely, without suffering the horse tocrop a single leaf kept them from talking.

"If I had known that beastly white-leaved thingwas growing here, I would not have dared to havebrought him, unless I had tied up his head in a net,"grumbled the coachman, making another desperateeffort to leave the puka-puka behind by changing hiscourse. They struggled out of the thicket, only toget themselves tied up in a detestable supple-jack—acreeper possessing the power to cling which we faintlyperceive in scratch-grass, but in the supple-jack thispower is intensified and multiplied until it ties togethereverything which comes within its reach, making itthe traveller's plague and another terrible foe to ahorse, a riderless horse especially, who soon gets sotied up and fettered that he cannot extricate himself,and dies. By mutual help they broke away from thesupple-jack, and stumbled upon a mud-hole. Buthere the good horse started back of his own accord,and saved them all from a morning header in itsawful depths. For the mud was seething, hissing,boiling like some witch's caldron—a horrid, bluishmud, leaving a yellow crust round the edge of thehole, and sending up a sulphurous smell, which setEdwin coughing. The coachman alighted, and ledthe horse cautiously away. Then he turned back tobreak off a piece of the yellow crust and examine it.

Edwin remembered his last night's ride with theMaori, how he shot fearlessly forward, avoiding allthese insidious dangers as if by instinct, "So that Idid not even know they existed," exclaimed the boy,with renewed admiration for the fallen chief.

"'The rank puts on the guinea stamp,

But the man's the gold for a' that,'"

he cried, with growing enthusiasm.

"Gold or stamp," retorted the coachman; "well, Ican't lay claim to either. I'm a blockhead, and yetnot altogether one of nature's making, for I couldhave done better. When I was your age, lad, whowould have thought of seeing me, Dilworth Ottley,driving a four-in-hand over such a breakneck pathas we crossed yesterday? Yet I've done it, until Ithought all sense of danger was deadened and gone.But that horrid hole brings back the shudder."

"What is it?" asked Edwin.

"One of the many vents through which the volcanicmatter escapes. In my Cantab days—you stare;but I was a Cantab, and got ploughed, andrusticated—I was crack whip among the freshmen. The horseslost me the 'exam;' and I went on losing, until itseemed that all was gone. Then I picked up mywhip once more; and here you find me driving thecross-country mail for so much a week. But it makesa fellow feel when he sees another down in his lucklike this Maori, so that one cannot turn away withan easy conscience when it is in one's power to helphim, or I'd go back this very moment."

"No, don't," said Edwin earnestly; "we are almost there."

The exceeding stillness of the dawn was broken bythe wailing cry of the women. The horse prickedup his ears, and cantered forward through the basketwillows and acacias which bordered the sleeping lake.Along its margin in every little creek and curve canoeswere moored, but from the tiny bay-like indentationby the lonely whare the canoe had vanished.

The sudden jets of steam uprising in the verymidst of the Maori pah looked weird and ghostlikein the gray of the dawn. Only one wild-cat creptstealthily across their path. Far in the backgroundrose the dim outline of the sacred hills where theMaori chiefs lie buried.

Edwin looked upward to their cloud-capped summitsawestruck, as the wild traditionary tales he hadheard from Hepé's lips only last night rushed backupon his recollection.

There before him was the place of graves; butwhere was the still more sacred Te Tara, themysterious lake of beauty, with its terraced banks, wherefairy-like arcades of exquisite tracery rise tier abovetier, shading baths fed by a stream of liquid sun inwhich it is happiness to bathe?

Edwin had listened to the Maori's description asif it had been a page from some fairy tale; butOttley, in his matter-of-fact way, confirmed it all.

"This Maori's paradise," he said, "may well becalled the last-discovered wonder of the world. Ibring a lot of fellows up here to see it every year;that is what old Bowen is after now. 'A thing ofbeauty is a joy for ever.' This magic geyser hasbuilt a bathing-house of fair white coral and enamellace, with basins of shell and fringes of pearl. Whatis it like? there is nothing it is like but a Staffa, withits stalactites in the daylight and the sunshine. IfNature forms the baths, she fills them, too, withboiling water, which she cools to suit every fancy as shepours it in pearly cascades from terrace to terrace,except in a north-east wind, which dries them up.All these Maoris care for is to spend their days likethe ducks, swimming in these pools of delight. It isa jealously-guarded treasure. But they are wideawake. The pay of the sightseer fills their pocketswithout working, and they all disdain work."

They were talking so earnestly they did notperceive a patch of hot, crumbling ground until thehorse's fore feet went down to the fetlocks as if itwere a quicksand, shooting Ottley and Edwin overhis head among the reeds by the lake. Ottley pickedhimself up in no time, and flew to extricate the horse,warning Edwin off.

"Whatever you may say of the lake, there are alot of ugly places outside it," grumbled Edwin,provoked at being told to keep his distance when hereally felt alight with curiosity and wonder as towhat strange thing would happen next. Having goteyes, as he said, he was not content to gape and stare;he wanted to investigate a bit.

Once more the wail of the women was borne acrossthe lake, rising to a fearsome howl, and then itsuddenly ceased. The two pressed forward, and tyingthe horse to a tree, hastened to intercept the agonizedwife venturing homewards with the peep of light,only to discover how thoroughly the tana had doneits work.

But the poor women fled shrieking into the bushonce more when they perceived the figure of a manadvancing toward them.

"A friend! a friend!" shouted Ottley, hoping thatthe sound of an Englishman's voice would reassurethem.

There was a crashing in the bushes, and somethingleaped out of the wild tangle.

"It is Whero!" exclaimed Edwin, running to meethim. They grasped hands in a very hearty fashion,as Edwin whispered almost breathlessly, "How havethey left your father?"

"You have come to tangi with us!" cried Whero,in gratified surprise; and to show his warmappreciation of the unexpected sympathy, he gravelyrubbed his nose against Edwin's.

"Oh, don't," interposed the English boy, feelingstrangely foolish.

Ottley laughed, as he saw him wipe his face withconsiderable energy to recover from his embarrassment.

"Oh, bother!" he exclaimed. "I shall be up to itsoon, but I did not know what you meant by it.Never mind."

"Let us have a look round," said the coachman,turning to Whero, "before your mother gets here."

"I have been watching in the long grass all night,"sobbed the boy; "and when the tramp of the lastfootsteps died away, I crept out and groped my wayin the darkness. I got to the door, and called to myfather, but there was no answer. Then I turned againto the bush to find my mother, until I heard our ownhorse neigh, and I thought he had followed me."

Ottley soothed the poor boy as best he could asthey surveyed the scene of desolation. The fenceswere all pulled up and flung into the lake, and thegates thrown down. The garden had been thoroughlyploughed, and every shrub and tree uprooted.The patch of cultivated ground at the back of thewhare had shared the same fate.

It was so late in the autumn Ottley hoped theharvest had been gathered in. It mattered little. Theempty storehouse echoed to their footsteps. All, allwas gone. They could not tell whether the greatdrove of pigs had been scared away into the bush ordriven off to the pah. Whero was leading the wayto the door of the principal whare, where he had lastseen his father. In the path lay a huge, flat stonesmashed to pieces. The hard, cold, sullen mannerwhich Whero had assumed gave way at the sight,and he sobbed aloud.

Edwin was close behind them; he took up a splinterfrom the stone and threw it into the circle of bubblingmud from which it had been hurled. Down it wentwith a splash—down, down; but he never heard itreach the bottom.

"Did that make anything rise?" asked Ottleyanxiously, as he looked into the awful hole with ashudder.

"They could not fill this up," retorted Wheroexultantly. "Throw in what you will, it swallows it all."

To him the hot stone made by covering the dangerousjet was the embodiment of all home comfort. Itwas sacred in his eyes—a fire which had been lightedfor the race of Hepé by the powers of heaven andearth; a fire which nothing could extinguish. Hepitied the Ingarangi boy by his side, who had neverknown so priceless a possession.

"Watch it," said Ottley earnestly. "If anythinghas been thrown in, it will rise to the surface aftera while incrusted with sulphur; but now—" Hepushed before the boys and entered the whare.

There lay Nga-Hepé, a senseless heap, covered withblood and bruises. A stream of light from the opendoor fell full on the prostrate warrior. The rest ofthe whare was in shadow.

Whero sprang forward, and kneeling down besidehis father, patted him fondly on his cheek and arm,as he renewed his sobbing.

After the tana had feasted to their heart's content.after they had carried off everything movable,Nga-Hepé had been called upon to defend himself againsttheir clubs. Careful to regulate their ruthlessproceedings by ancient custom, his assailants came uponhim one at a time, until his powerful arm hadmeasured its strength with more than half theinvading band. At last he fell, exhausted and bereft ofeverything but the greenstone club his unconscioushand was grasping still.

"He is not dead," said Ottley, leaning over him;"his chest is heaving."

An exclamation of thankfulness burst from Edwin's lips.

Ottley was looking about in vain for something tohold a little water, for he knew that the day wasbreaking, and his time was nearly gone. All that hecould do must be done quickly. He was leaving thewhare to pursue his quest without, when he perceivedthe unfortunate women stealing through the shadows.He beckoned the gray-haired Maori, who had waitedon Marileha from her birth, to join him. A fewbrief words and many significant gestures wereexchanged before old Ronga comprehended that the lifeyet lingered in the fallen chief. She caught hermistress by the arm and whispered in her native tongue.

The death-wail died away. Marileha gazed intothe much-loved face in breathless silence. A murmurof joy broke from her quivering lips, and she lookedto Whero.

He went out noiselessly, and Edwin followed. Ahissing column of steam was still rising uncheckedfrom a rough cleft in the ground, rendered bare andbarren by the scalding spray with which it wascontinually watered. Old Ronga was already atwork, making a little gutter in the soft mud withher hands, to carry the refreshing stream to the bedof a dried-up pond. Edwin watched it slowly fillingas she dug on in silence.

"The bath is ready," she exclaimed at last. Theword was passed on to her companions, who had laiddown the sleepy children they had just brought homein a corner of the great whare, still huddled togetherin Mrs. Hirpington's blanket. With Ottley's assistancethey carried out the all but lifeless body ofNga-Hepé, and laid him gently in the refreshing pool,with all a Maori's faith in its restorative powers.

Marileha knelt upon the brink, and washed theblood-stains from his face. The large dark eyesopened, and gazed dreamily into her own. Her heartrevived. What to her were loss and danger if herwarrior's life was spared? She glanced at Ottleyand said, "Whilst the healing spring still flows by hisfather's door there is no despair for me. Here hewill bathe for hours, and strength and manhood willcome back. Whilst he lies here helpless he is safe.Could he rise up it would only be to fight again.Go, good friend, and leave me. It would set thejealous fury of his tribe on fire if they found youhere. Take away my Whero. My loneliness will bemy defence. What Maori would hurt a weeping womanwith her hungry babes? There are kind hearts in thepah; they will not leave me to starve."

She held out her wet hand as she spoke. Ottleysaw she was afraid to receive the help he was soanxious to give. Whilst they were speaking, Edwinwent to find Whero.

He had heard the black horse neigh, and waslooking round for his favourite. "They will seizehim!" he muttered between his set teeth. "Why willyou bring him here?"

"Come along with us," answered Edwin quickly,"and we will go back as fast as we can."

But the friendly ruse did not succeed.

"I'll guide you to the road, but not a step beyondit. Shall men say I fled in terror from the sound ofclubs—a son of Hepé?" exclaimed Whero. "ShouldI listen to the women's fears?"

"All very fine," retorted Edwin. "If I had amother, Whero, I'd listen to what she said, and I'ddo as she asked me, if all the world laughed. Theymight call me a coward and a jackass as often as theyliked, what would I care? Shouldn't I know in myheart I had done right?"

"Have not you a mother?" said Whero.

Edwin's "No" was scarcely audible, but it touchedthe Maori boy. He buried his face on the horse'sshoulder, then suddenly lifting it up with a defianttoss, he asked, "Would you be faithless and deserther if she prayed you to do it?"

This was a home-thrust; but Edwin was not to bedriven from his position.

"Well," he retorted, "even then I should say tomyself, 'Perhaps she knows best.'"

He had made an impression, and he had the goodsense not to prolong the argument.

CHAPTER IV.

THE NEW HOME.

The sun had risen when Edwin and the coachman started on their way to the ford. WithWhero running by the horse's head for a guide, thedangers of the bush were avoided, and they rodeback faster than they came. The gloom had vanishedfrom the forest. The distant hills were painted withviolet, pink, and gold. Sunbeams danced on scarletcreepers and bright-hued berries, and sparkled in athousand frosted spiders' webs nestling in the forksof the trees. Whero led them to the road, and therethey parted. "If food runs low," he said, "I shallgo to school. With all our winter stores carriedaway it must; I know it."

"Don't try starving before schooling," said Ottley,cheerily. "Watch for me as I come back with thecoach, and I'll take you down to Cambridge and onto the nearest government school.—Not the Cambridgeyou and I were talking of, Edwin, but a littletownship in the bush which borrows the grand oldname.—You will love it for a while, Whero; you tried itonce."

"And I'll try it again," he answered, with a smile."There is a lot more that I want to know about—whythe water boils through the earth here and noteverywhere. We love our mud-hole and our boilingspring, and you are afraid of them."

"They are such awful places," said Edwin, asWhero turned back among the trees and left them,not altogether envious of a Maori's patrimony. "It issuch a step from fairy-land to Sodom and Gomorrah,"persisted Edwin, reverting to Nga-Hepé's legends.

"Don't talk," interrupted Ottley. "There is anawful place among these hills which goes by thatname, filled with sulphurous smoke and hissing mud.The men who made that greenstone club would havefinished last night's work by hurling Nga-Hepé into itschasms. Thank God, that day is done. We haveovercome the cannibal among them; and as we draw theiryoung lads down to our schools, it will never revive." Theyrode on, talking, to the gate of the ford-house.

"I shall be late getting off," exclaimed Ottley, ashe saw the household was astir. He gave the bridleto Edwin and leaped down. The boy was in nohurry to follow. He lingered outside, just to try ifhe could sit his powerful steed and manage himsingle-handed. When he rode through the gate atlast, Ottley was coming out of the stable as intentupon his own affairs as if nothing had occurred.

Breakfast was half-way through. The passengerswere growing impatient. One or two strangers hadbeen added to their number. The starting of thecoach was the grand event of the day. Mrs. Hirpingtonwas engrossed, and Edwin's entrance passedunquestioned. His appetite was sharpened by hismorning ride across the bush, and he was workingaway with knife and fork when the coach began to fill.

"If ever you find your way to Bowen's Run, youwill not be forgotten," said the genial colonist, as heshook hands with the young Lees and wished themall success in their new home.

The boys ran out to help him to his seat, and seethe old ford-horse pilot the coach across the river.

Ottley laid his hand on Edwin's shoulder for aparting word.

"Tell your father poor Marileha—I mean Whero'smother—dare not keep the money for the horse; butI shall leave all sorts of things for her at theroadman's hut, which she can fetch away unnoticed ather own time. When you are settled in your newhome, you must not forget I'm general letter-box."

"We are safe to use you," laughed Edwin; and sothey parted.

The boys climbed up on the garden-gate to watchthe crossing. The clever old pilot-horse, whichMr. Hirpington was bound by his lease to keep, wasyoked in front of the team. Good roadsters as thecoach-horses were, they could not manage the riverwithout him. Their feet were sure to slip, and oneand all might be thrown down by the force of thecurrent. But this steady old fellow, who spent hislife crossing and recrossing the river, loved his work.It was a sight no admirer of horses could everforget to see him stepping down into the river, takingsuch care of his load, cautiously advancing a fewpaces, and stopping to throw himself back on hishaunches and try the bottom of the river with oneof his fore feet. If he found a boulder had beenwashed down in the night too big for him to stepover, he swept the coach round it as easily andreadily as if it were a matter of course, instead ofa most unexpected obstruction. The boys were inecstasies. Then the sudden energy he put forth todrag the coach up the steep bank on the oppositeside was truly marvellous. When he considered hiswork was done, he stood stock-still, and no power onearth could make him stir another step. As soon ashe was released, splash he went back into the water,and trotted through it as merrily as a four-year-old.

"Cuthbert," said Edwin, in a confidential whisper,"we've got just such another of our own. Come alongand have a look at him."

Away went the boys to the stable, where Mr. Hirpingtonfound them two hours after makingfriends with "Beauty," as they told him.

At that hour in the morning every one at theford was hard at work, and they were glad to leavethe boys to their own devices. Audrey and Effieoccupied themselves in assisting Mrs. Hirpington.When they all met together at the one-o'clock dinner,Edwin was quite ready to indemnify his sisters forhis last night's silence, and launched into glowingdescriptions of his peep into wonderland.

"Shut up," said Mr. Hirpington, who saw theterror gathering in Effie's eyes. "You'll be persuadingthese young ladies we are next-door neighboursto another Vesuvius.—Don't believe him, my dears.These mud-jets and geysers that he is talking aboutare nature's safety-valves. I do not deny we areliving in a volcanic region. We feel the earth trembleevery now and then, setting all the dishes rattling,and tumbling down our books; but it is nothingmore than the tempests in other places."

"I'm thinking more of the Maoris than of theirmud," put in Effie, shyly; while Audrey quietlyobserved, everything was strange at present, but theyshould get used to it by-and-by.

"The Maoris have been living among nature'swater-works for hundreds of years, and they wouldnot change homes with anybody in the world; neitherwould we. Mr. Bowen almost thinks New Zealandbeats old England hollow," laughed Mr. Hirpington."If that is going a little too far, she is the gem ofthe Southern Ocean. But seriously now," he added,"although the pumice-stone we can pick up any daytells us how this island was made, there has been novolcanic disturbance worth the name of an eruptionsince we English set foot on the island. The Maoriswere here some hundreds of years before us, andtheir traditions have been handed down from father toson, but they never heard of anything of the kind."

Mr. Hirpington spoke confidently, and all NewZealand would have agreed with him.

Edwin thought of Whero. "There are a great manythings I want to understand," he said, thoughtfully.

"Wife," laughed Mr. Hirpington, "is not there abook of Paulett Scroope's somewhere about? He isour big gun on these matters."

As Mrs. Hirpington rose to find the book, shetried to divert Effie's attention by admitting hernumerous family of cats: seven energetic mousers,with a goodly following of impudent kittens—tabby,tortoise-shell, and black. When Effie understood shewas to choose a pet from among them, mud andMaoris seemed banished by their round green eyesand whisking tails. The very title of Edwin's bookproved consolatory to Audrey—"Geology andExtinct Volcanoes in Central France." A book in thebush is a book indeed, and Edwin held his treasurewith a loving clasp. He knew it was a parting gift;and looking through the river-window, he sawDunter and his companion returning in a big lumberingcart. They drew up on the opposite bank of theriver and waved their hats.

"They have come to fetch us," cried Audrey.Mrs. Hirpington would hardly believe it. "Imeant to have kept you with me for some days atleast," she said; but the very real regret was setaside to speed the parting of her juvenile guests.

According to New Zealand custom, Mr. Lee hadbeen obliged to buy the horse and cart which broughthis luggage up country, so he had sent it withDunter to fetch his children.

The men had half filled it with freshly-gatheredfern; and Edwin was delighted to see how easily hisBeauty could swim the stream, to take the place ofMr. Hirpington's horse.

"He would make a good pilot," exclaimed theman who was riding him.

Mrs. Hirpington was almost affectionate in herleave-taking, lamenting as she fastened Effie's cloakthat she could not keep one of them with her. Butnot one of the four would have been willing to beleft behind.

The boat was at the stairs; rugs and portmanteauswere already thrown in.

Mr. Hirpington had seized the oar. "I take youmyself," he said; "that was the bargain with your father."

In a few minutes they had crossed the river, andwere safely seated in the midst of a heap of fern,and found it as pleasant as a ride in a hay-cart.Mr. Hirpington sat on the side of the cart teachingCuthbert how to hold the reins.

The road which they had taken was a merecart-track, which the men had improved as they came;for they had been obliged to use their hatchets freelyto get the cart along. Many a great branch whichthey had lopped off was lying under the tree fromwhich it had fallen, and served as a way-mark. Thetrees through which they were driving were tall anddark, but so overgrown with creepers and parasites itwas often difficult to tell what trees they were. Ahundred and fifty feet above their heads the redblossoms of the rata were streaming like banners, andwreathing themselves into gigantic nests. Beneathwere an infinite variety of shrubs, with large, glossyleaves, like magnolias or laurels; sweetly fragrantaromatic bushes, burying the fallen trunk of some oldtree, shrouded in velvet moss and mouse-ear. Littlegreen and yellow birds were hopping from spray tospray through the rich harvest of berries the bushesafforded.

The drive was in itself a pleasure. A breath ofsummer still lingered in the glinting sunlight, as if itlonged to stay the falling leaves. The trees wereparted by a wandering brook overgrown with brilliantscarlet duckweed. An enormous willow hanging overits pretty bank, with a peep between its droopingbranches of a grassy slope just dotted with theever-present ti tree told them they had reached theirjourney's end. They saw the rush-thatched roof andsomewhat dilapidated veranda of the disusedschoolhouse. Before it stretched a lovely valley, where thebrook became a foaming rivulet. A little group oftents and a long line of silvery-looking streamersmarked the camp of the rabbiters.

But the children's eyes were fastened on themoss-grown thatch. Soon they could distinguish thebroken-down paling and the recently-mended gate, atwhich Mr. Lee was hammering. A shout, in whichthree voices at least united, made him look round.Down went bill and hammer as he ran to meet them,answering with his cheeriest "All right!" the welcomecry of, "Father, father, here we are!"

Mr. Hirpington sprang out and lifted Audrey tothe ground. Mr. Lee had Effie in his arms already.The boys, disdaining assistance, climbed over the backof the cart, laughing merrily. The garden had longsince gone back to wilderness, but the fruit still hungon the unpruned trees—apples and peaches dwindlingfor want of the gardener's care, but oh, so nice inboyish eyes! Cuthbert had shied a stone amongst theover-ripe peaches before his father had answered hisfriend's inquiries.

No, not the shadow of a disturbance had reachedhis happy valley, so Mr. Lee asserted, looking roundthe sweet, secluded nook with unbounded satisfaction.

"You could not have chosen better for me," hewent on, and Edwin's beaming face echoed his father'scontent.

Mr. Hirpington was pulling out from beneath thefern-leaves a store of good things of which his friendknew nothing—-wild pig and hare, butter and eggs,nice new-made bread; just a transfer from the larderat the ford to please the children.

Age had given to the school-house a touch of thepicturesque. Its log-built walls were embowered increepers, and the sweet-brier, which had formerlyedged the worn-out path, was now choking thedoorway. Although Mr. Lee's tenancy could be countedby hours, he had not been idle. A wood fire wasblazing in the room once sacred to desk and form.The windows looking to the garden behind the househad been all forced open, and the sunny air theyadmitted so freely was fast dispelling the damp andmould which attach to shut-up houses in all parts ofthe world.

One end of the room was piled with heterogeneousbales and packages, but around the fire-place a senseof comfort began to show itself already. Acamp-table had been unpacked and screwed together, andseats, after a fashion, were provided for all the party.The colonist's "billy," the all-useful iron pot for campfire or farmhouse kitchen, was singing merrily, andeven the family teapot had been brought back todaylight from its chrysalis of straw and packing-case.There was a home-like feeling in this quiet takingpossession.

"I thought it would be better than having yourboys and girls shivering under canvas until yourhouse was built," remarked Mr. Hirpington, rubbinghis hands with the pleasant assurance of success."You can rent the old place as long as you like. Itmay be a bit shaky at the other corner, but a goodprop will make it all right."

The two friends went out to examine, and thebrothers and sisters drew together. Effie was huggingher kitten; Cuthbert was thinking of the fruit; butBeauty, who had been left grazing outside, wasbeforehand with him. There he stood, with his fore feeton the broken-down paling, gathering it for himself.It was fun to see him part the peach and throwaway the stone, and Cuthbert shouted with delight toEdwin. They were not altogether pleased to findMr. Hirpington regarded it as a very ordinaryaccomplishment in a New Zealand horse.

"We are in another hemisphere," exclaimed Edwin,"and everything about us is so delightfully new."

"Except these decaying beams," returned his father,coming round to examine the state of the roof abovethe window at which Edwin and Effie were standingafter their survey of the bedrooms.

Audrey, who had deferred her curiosity to preparethe family meal, was glad to learn that, besides theroom in which Mr. Lee had slept last night, each endof the veranda had been enclosed, making two moretiny ones. A bedstead was already put up in one,and such stores as had been unpacked were shut inthe other.

When Audrey's call to tea brought back theexplorers, and the little party gathered around theirown fireside, Edwin could but think of the dismantledhearth by the Rota Pah, and as he heard his father'senergetic conversation with Mr. Hirpington, hisindignation against the merciless tana was ready toeffervesce once more.

"Now," Mr. Lee went on, "I cannot bring my mindto clear my land by burning down the trees. Yousay it is the easiest way."

"Don't begin to dispute with me over that," laughedhis friend. "You can light a fire, but how will youfell a tree single-handed?"

The boys were listening with eager interest to theirfather's plans. To swing the axe and load the fa*ggot-cartwould be jolly work indeed in those lovely woods.

Mr. Hirpington was to ride back on the horse hehad lent to Mr. Lee on the preceding evening. Whenhe started, the brothers ran down the valley to get apeep at the rabbiter's camp. Three or four men werelying round their fire eating their supper. The lineof silver streamers fluttering in the wind proved to bean innumerable multitude of rabbit-skins hanging upto dry. A party of sea-gulls, which had followed thecamp as the rabbiters moved on, were hovering about,crying like cats, until they awakened the sleepingechoes.

The men told Edwin they had been clearing thegreat sheep-runs between his father's land and thesea-shore, and the birds had followed them all thosemiles for the sake of the nightly feast they couldpick up in their track.

"You can none of you do without us," they said."We are always at work, moving from place to place,or the little brown Bunny would lord it over you all."

The boys had hardly time to exchange a good-nightwith the rabbiters, when the daylight suddenly faded,and night came down upon vale and bush without thesweet interlude of twilight. They were groping theirway back to the house, when the fire-flies began theirnightly dance, and the flowering shrubs poured forththeir perfume. The stars shone out in all theirsouthern splendour, and the boys became aware of amoving army in the grass. Poor Bunny wasmustering his myriads.

CHAPTER V.

POSTING A LETTER.

Mr. Lee and his boys found so much to do intheir new home, days sped away like hours.The bright autumn weather which had welcomed themto Wairoa (to give their habitation its Maori name)had changed suddenly for rain—a long, deluging rain,lasting more than a week.

The prop which Mr. Hirpington had recommendedwas necessarily left for the return of fine weather.But within doors comfort was growing rapidly. Oneend of the large room was screened off for a workshop,and shelves and pegs multiplied in convenient corners.They were yet a good way off from that happy conditionof a place for everything, and everything in itsplace. It was still picnic under a roof, as Audrey said;but they were on the highroad to comfort and betterthings. When darkness fell they gathered round theblazing wood-fire. Mr. Lee wrote the first letters forEngland, while Edwin studied "Extinct Volcanoes." Audreyadded her quota to the packet preparing forEdwin's old friend, "the perambulating letter-box,"and Effie and Cuthbert played interminable games ofdraughts, until Edwin shut up his book and evolvedfrom his own brains a new and enlarged edition ofMaori folk-lore which sent them "creepy" to bed.

It seemed a contradiction of terms to say May-daywas bringing winter; but winter might come uponthem in haste, and the letters must be posted beforethe road to the ford was changed to a muddy rivulet.

Mr. Lee, who had everything to do with his ownhands, knew not how to spare a day. He made uphis mind at last to trust Edwin to ride over withthem. To be sure of seeing Ottley, Edwin must stayall night at the ford, for after the coach came in itwould be too late for him to return through the bushalone.

Edwin was overjoyed at the prospect, for Ottleywould tell him all he longed to know. Was Nga-Hepéstill alive? Had Whero gone to school? He mighteven propose another early morning walk across thebush to the banks of the lake.

Edwin was to ride the Maori Beauty, which hadbecome the family name for the chieftain's horse.Remembering his past experiences with thewhite-leaved puka-puka, he coaxed Audrey to lend him acurtain she was netting for the window of her ownbedroom. She had not much faith in Edwin's assurancesthat it would not hurt it a bit just to use it foronce for a veil or muzzle; but she was horrified intocompliance by his energetic assertion that her refusalmight cost his Beauty's life. Cuthbert, mounted onan upturned pail, so that he could reach the horse'shead, did good service in the difficult task of puttingit on. The veil was not at all to the Beauty's mind,and he did his best to get rid of it. But the fourcorners were drawn through his collar at last, andsecurely tied.

With Mr. Lee's parting exhortation to mind whathe was about and look well to Beauty's steps, Edwinstarted.

The road was changed to a black, oozy, slimytrack. Here and there the earth had been completelywashed away, and horse and rider were flounderingin a boggy swamp. A little farther on a perfectlandslip from the hills above had obliterated everytrace of road, and Edwin was obliged to wind his waythrough the trees, trusting to his Beauty's instinct tofind it again.

With the many wanderings from the right pathtime sped away. The lamp was swinging in theacacia tree as he trotted up to the friendly gate of theford-house.

"Coach in?" he shouted, as he caught sight ofDunter shovelling away the mud from the entrance.

"Not yet; but she's overdue," returned the man,anxiously. "Even Ottley will never get his horsesthrough much longer. We may lock our stable-doorsuntil the May frosts begin. It is a tempting ofProvidence to start with wheels through such a swamp,and I told him so last week."

"Then I am just in time," cried Edwin joyfully,walking his horse up to the great flat stone in themiddle of the yard and alighting. He slipped hishand into his coat to satisfy himself the bulky lettersin his breast-pocket were all right, and then led hisBeauty to the horse-trough. He had half a mind notto go in-doors until he had had his talk with Ottley.

Dunter, who was looking forward to the briefholiday the stopping of the coach secured him, leanedon his spade and prepared for a gossip.

"Did Mr. Lee think of building a saw-mill?"Edwin's reply ended with the counter-inquiry,"Had Mr. Hirpington got home?"

Dunter shook his head. "Not he: we all hold onas long as the light lasts. He is away with the men,laying down a bit of corduroy road over an earthslip,just to keep a horse-track through the worst of thewinter."

Whilst Edwin was being initiated into the mysteriesof road-making in the bush, the coach drove up.

Horses and driver were alike covered with mud,and the coach itself exhibited more than its usualquota of flax-leaf bandages—all testifying to theroughness of the journey.

"It is the last time you will see me this season,"groaned Ottley, as he got off the box. "I shall getno farther." He caught sight of Edwin, and recognizedhis presence with a friendly nod. The passengers,looking in as dilapidated and battered conditionas the coach, were slowly getting out, thankful to findthemselves at a stopping-place. Among them Edwinnoticed a remarkable old man.

His snowy hair spoke of extreme old age, andwhen he turned a tattooed cheek towards the boy,Edwin's attention was riveted upon him at once.Lean, lank, and active still, his every air and gesturewas that of a man accustomed to command.

"Look at him well," whispered Dunter. "He is atrue old tribal chief from the other side of themountains, if I know anything; one of the invincibles, thegallant old warrior-chiefs that are dying out fast.You will never see his like again. If you had heardthem, as I have, vow to stand true for ever and everand ever, you would never forget it.—Am I not right,coachee?" he added in a low aside to Ottley, as hetook the fore horse by the head.

The lantern flickered across the wet ground. Theweary passengers were stamping their numbed feet,and shaking the heavy drops of moisture fromhat-brims and overcoats. Edwin pressed resolutelybetween, that he might catch the murmur of Ottley'sreply.

"He got in at the last stopping-place, but I do notknow him."

There was such a look of Whero in the proud flashof the aged Maori's eye, that Edwin felt a secretconviction, be he who he might, they must be kith andkin. He held his letter aloft to attract the coachman'sattention, calling out at his loudest, "Here, Mr. Ottley,I have brought a letter for you to post at last."

"All right," answered the coachman, opening acapacious pocket to receive it, in which a dozenothers were already reposing. "Hand it over, myboy; there is scarcely a letter reaches the post fromthis district which does not go through my hands."

"Did you post this?" asked the aged Maori, takinganother from the folds of his blanket.

"I did more," said Ottley, as he glanced at thecrumpled envelope, "for I wrote it to Kakiki Mahane,the father of Nga-Hepé's wife, at her request."

"I am that father," returned the old chief.

"And I," added Ottley, "was the eye-witness ofher destitution, as that letter tells you."

They were almost alone now in the great wet yard.The other passengers were hurrying in-doors, andDunter was leading away the horses; but Edwinlingered, regardless of the heavy drops falling fromthe acacia, in his anxiety to hear more.

"I have brought no following with me to themountain-lake, for by your letter famine is broodingin the whare of my child. Well, I know if the menof the Kota Pah heard of my coming, they wouldspread the feast in my honour. But how should I eatwith the enemies of my child? I wait for the risingof the stars to find her, that none may know I am near."

"I'll go with you," offered Ottley.

"You need not wait for the stars," interposedEdwin; "I'll carry the big coach-lantern before youwith pleasure. Do let me go with you," he urged,appealing to Ottley.

"How is this?" asked Kakiki. "Does the pakehapity when the Maori frowns? What has my son-in-lawbeen about, to bring down upon himself thevengeance of his tribe?"

"Let your daughter answer that question," remarkedOttley discreetly.

But Edwin put in warmly: "Nga-Hepé was toorich and too powerful, and the chief grew jealous.It was a big shame; and if I had been Whero, Ishould have been worse than he was."

Whero's grandfather deigned no reply. He stalkedup the well-worn steps into Mrs. Hirpington's kitchen,and seating himself at the long table called out forsupper. Edwin just peeped in at the door, avoidingMrs. Hirpington's eye, for fear she should interfereto prevent him going with the old Maori.

"I shall see her when I come back," he thought, ashe strolled on towards the stable, keeping ananxious watch over the gate, afraid lest the fordmastershould himself appear at the last moment and detain him.

"You have brought Nga-Hepé's horse," said Ottley.as he entered the nearest stall. "We must have him,for he knows the way. We have only to give himhis head, and he is safe to take the road to hismaster's door."

"If you have him you must have me," persistedEdwin, and the thing was settled. He nestled downin the clean straw under Beauty's manger, and waited,elate with the prospect of a night of adventure, andstoutly resisted all Dunter's persuasions to go in tosupper.

Wondering at the shy fit which had seized the boy,Dunter brought him a hunch of bread and cheese, andleft the lantern swinging in the stable from the hookin the ceiling, ere he went in with Ottley to share thegood feed always to be found in Mrs. Hirpington'skitchen, leaving Edwin alone with the horses. Helatched the stable-door, as the nights were growing cold.The gates were not yet barred, for Mr. Hirpingtonand his men were now expected every minute.

Edwin's thoughts had gone back to the corduroyroad, which Dunter had told him was made of thetrunks of trees laid close together, with a layer ofsaplings on the top to fill up the interstices. He wasmaking it in miniature with some bits of rush andreed scattered about the stables, when the latch wassoftly lifted, and Whero stood before him. Not theWhero he had parted from by the white pines, butthe lean skeleton of a boy with big, staring eyes, andbony arms coming out from the loose folds of theblanket he was wearing, like the arms of a harlequin.Edwin sprang up to meet him, exclaiming, "Yourgrandfather is here." But instead of replying, Wherowas vigorously rubbing faces with his good old Beauty.

"Have you come to meet your grandfather?" asked Edwin.

"No," answered the boy abruptly. "I've come toask Ottley to take me to school." His voice washollow, and his teeth seemed to snap together at thesight of the bread in Edwin's hand.

"Whero, you are starving!" exclaimed Edwin,putting the remainder of his supper into the dusky,skinny fingers smoothing Beauty's mane.

"A man must learn to starve," retorted Whero."The mother here will give me food when I come ofnights and talk to Ottley."

"But your own mother, Whero, and Ronga, andthe children, how do they live?" Edwin held backfrom asking after Nga-Hepé, "for," he said, as helooked at Whero, "he must be dead."

"How do they live?" repeated Whero, with alaugh. "Is the door of the whare ever shut againstthe hungry? They go to the pah daily, but I willnot go. I will not eat with the men who struckdown my father in his pride. I wander through thebush. Let him eat the food they bring him—heknows not yet how it comes; but his eyes areopening to the world again. When he sees mehunger-bitten, and my sister Rewi fat as ever, he will wantthe reason why. I will not give it. His strength isgone if he starves as I starve. How can it return?No; I will go to school to-morrow before he asks me."

Edwin's hand grasped Whero's with a warmth ofsympathy that was only held in check by the dread ofanother nasal caress, and he exclaimed, "Come along,old fellow, and have a look at your grandfather too."

There was something about the grand old Maori'sface which made Edwin feel that he both could andwould extricate his unfortunate daughter from herpainful position.

"It is a fix," Edwin went on; "but he has cometo pull you through, I feel sure."

Still Whero held back. He did not believe it washis grandfather. He would not come without afollowing; and more than that, the proud boy could notstoop to show himself to a stranger of his own racein such a miserable guise. He coiled himself roundin the straw and refused to stir.

"Now, Whero," Edwin remonstrated, "I call thisreally foolish; and if I were you I would not, I couldnot do it, speak of my own mother as one of thewomen. I like your mother. It rubs me up to hearyou—" The boy stopped short; the measured breathingof his companion struck on his ear. Whero hadalready fallen fast asleep by Beauty's side.

"Oh, bother!" thought Edwin. "Yet, poor fellow,I won't wake you up, but I'll go and tell yourgrandfather you are here."

He went out, shutting the door after him, andencountered Mr. Hirpington coming in with his men.

"Hollo, Edwin, my boy, what brings you here?"he exclaimed.

"Please, sir, I came over with a packet of lettersfor Mr. Ottley to post," was the quick answer, asEdwin walked on by his side, intent upon deliveringhis father's messages.

"All right," was the hearty response. "We'll see.Come, now I think of it, we can send your fathersome excellent hams and bacon we bought of theMaoris. Some of poor Hepé's stores, I expect."

"That was a big shame," muttered Edwin, hotly,afraid to hurt poor Whero's pride by explaining hisforlorn state to any one but his grandfather.

He entered the well-remembered room with thefordmaster, looking eagerly from side to side, asMr. Hirpington pushed him into the first vacant seat atthe long table, where supper for the "coach" wasgoing forward. Edwin was watching for the oldchief, who sat by Ottley, gravely devouring heap afterheap of whitebait, potatoes, and pumpkins with whichthe "coach" took care to supply him. Mrs. Hirpingtoncast anxious glances round the table, fearingthat the other passengers would run short, as the oldMaori still asked for "more," repeating in a loudvoice, "More, more kai!" which Ottley interpreted"food." Dunter was bringing forth the reserves fromthe larder—another cheese, the remains of themid-day pudding, and a huge dish of brawn, not yet coldenough to be turned out of the mould, and thereforein a quaky state. The old chief saw it tremble, andthinking it must be alive, watched it curiously.

"What strange animals you pakehas bring over thesea!" he exclaimed at last, adding, as he sprang to hisfeet and drew the knife in his belt with a savagegesture, "I'll kill it."

The laughter every one was trying to suppresschoked the explanation that would have been givenon all sides. With arm upraised, and a contortedface that alone was enough to frighten Mrs. Hirpingtonout of her wits, he plunged the knife into theunresisting brawn to its very hilt, utterly amazed tofind neither blood nor bones to resist it. "Bah!" heexclaimed, in evident disgust.

"Here, Edwin," gasped the shaking fordmaster,"give the old fellow a spoon."

Edwin snatched up one from the corner of thetable, and careful not to wound the aged Maori'spride, which might be as sensitive as his grandson's,he explained to him as well as he could that brawnwas brawn, and very jolly stuff for a supper.

"Example is better than precept at all times,"laughed Mr. Hirpington. "Show him what to dowith the spoon."

Edwin obeyed literally, putting it to his own lipsand then offering it to Kakiki. The whole room wasconvulsed with merriment. Ottley and Mr. Hirpingtonknew this would not do, and exerted themselvesto recover self-control sufficiently to persuade the oldman to taste and try the Ingarangi kai.

He drew the dish towards him with the utmostgravity, and having pronounced the first mouthful"Good, good," he worked away at it until the wholeof its contents had disappeared. And all the whileWhero was starving in the stable.

"I can't stand this any longer," thought Edwin. "Imust get him something to eat, I must;" and followingDunter into the larder, he explained the state ofthe case.

"Wants to go by the coach and cannot pay forsupper and bed. I see," returned Dunter.

Edwin thought of the treasure by the white pinesas he answered, "I am afraid so."

"That's hard," pursued the man good-naturedly;"but the missis never grudges a mouthful of food toanybody. I'll see after him."

"Let me take it to him," urged Edwin, receivingthe unsatisfactory reply, "Just wait a bit; I'll see,"as Dunter was called off in another direction; andwith this he was obliged to be content.

Ottley was so taken up with the aged chief—whowas considerably annoyed to find himself the laughing-stockof the other passengers—that Edwin could notget a word with him. He tried Mr. Hirpington, whowas now talking politics with a Wellingtonian freshfrom the capital. Edwin, in his fever of impatience,thought the supper would never end. After a whilesome of the passengers went off to bed, and othersdrew round the fire and lit their pipes.

Mrs. Hirpington, Kakiki, and the coachman aloneremained at the table. At last the dish of brawnwas cleared, and the old Maori drew himself up witha truly royal air. Taking out a well-filled purse, inwhich some hundreds of English sovereigns wereglittering, he began counting on his fingers, "One ten,two ten—how muts?" (much).

Ottley, who understood a Maori's simple mode ofreckoning better than any one present, was assistingMrs. Hirpington to make her bill, and began to speakto Kakiki about their departure.

The fordmaster could see how tired the chief wasbecoming, and suddenly remembered a Maori'scontempt and dislike for the wretched institution ofchairs. He was determined to make the old mancomfortable, and fetching a bear-skin from the innerroom, he spread it on the floor by the fire, and invitedKakiki to take possession. Edwin ran to his help,and secured the few minutes for talk he so muchdesired. Mr. Hirpington listened and nodded.

"You will have to stay here until the morning,"he added, "every one of you. Go off with Dunterand make the boy outside as comfortable as you can.I should be out of my duty to let that old man crossthe bush at night, with so much money about him.Better fetch his grandson in here."

Mrs. Hirpington laid her hand on Edwin's shoulderas he passed, and told him, with her pleasant smile,his bed was always ready at the ford.

Dunter pointed to a well-filled plate and a mug oftea, placed ready to his hand on the larder shelf; andstretching over Edwin's head, he unbolted the door tolet him out.

The Southern Cross shone brightly above the ironroof as Edwin stepped into the yard to summonWhero. The murmur of the water as it lapped onthe boating-stairs broke the stillness without, andhelped to guide him to the stable-door. The lanternhad burnt out. He groped his way in, and givingWhero a hearty shake, charged him to come along.

But the hand he grasped was withdrawn.

"I can't," persisted Whero; "I'm too ashamed." Hemeant too shy to face the "coach," and tell all he hadendured in their presence. The idea was hateful to him.

Edwin placed the supper on the ground and ranback for Ottley. He found the coachman explaining toKakiki why Marileha had refused to accept the moneyfor the horse, and how he had kept it for her use.

"Then take this," cried Kakiki, flinging the purseof gold towards him, "and do the like."

But Ottley's "No!" was dogged in its decision.

"What for no?" asked Kakiki, angrily.

"Who is his daughter?" whispered Mr. Hirpingtonto his wife.

"You know her: she wears the shark's teeth, tiedin her ears with a black ribbon," Mrs. Hirpingtonanswered, sleepily.

Then he went to the rescue, and tried to persuadeKakiki to place his money in the Auckland Bank forhis daughter's benefit, pointing out as clearly as hecould the object of a bank, and how to use it. Asthe intelligent old man began to comprehend him, hereiterated, "Good, good; the pitfall is only dangerouswhen it is covered. My following are marching afterme up the hills. If I enter the Rota Pah with thestate of a chief, there will be fighting. Send backmy men to their canoes. Hide the wealth thatremains to my child as you say, but let that wahini"(meaning Mrs. Hirpington) "take what she will, andbid her send kai by night to my daughter's whare,that there may be no starving. This bank shall bevisited by me, and then I go a poor old man to sleepby my daughter's fire until her warrior's foot is firmupon the earth once more. I'll wrap me in that thinsheet," he went on, seizing the corner of thetable-cloth, which was not yet removed.

Mr. Hirpington let him have it without a word,and Ottley rejoiced to find them so capable and sodetermined to extricate Marileha from her peril.

"Before this moon shall pass," said Kakiki, "I willtake her away, with her family, to her own people.Let your canoe be ready to answer my signal."

"Agreed," replied Mr. Hirpington; "I'll send myboat whenever you want it."

"For all that," thought Edwin, "will Nga-Hepé goaway?" He longed to fetch in Whero, that he mightenter into his grandfather's plans; and as, one afteranother, the passengers went off to bed, he made hisway to Mrs. Hirpington. Surely he could coax herto unbar the door once more and let him out to thestables.

"What, another Maori asleep in the straw!" sheexclaimed. "They do take liberties. Pray, my dear,don't bring him in here, or we shall be up all night."

Edwin turned away again in despair.

Having possessed himself of the table-cloth, the oldchief lay down on the bear-skin and puffed away atthe pipe Mr. Hirpington had offered him, in silencerevolving his schemes.

He was most anxious to ascertain how his son-in-lawhad brought down upon himself the vengeance ofthe tribe amongst which he lived. "I will not breakthe peace of the hills," he said at length, "for he mayhave erred. Row me up stream while the darknesslasts, that I may have speech of my child."

"Too late," said Mr. Hirpington; "wait for the daylight."

"Are there not stars in heaven?" retorted Kakiki,rising to try the door.

"Am I a prisoner?" he demanded angrily, whenhe found it fastened.

Mr. Hirpington felt he had been reckoning withouthis host when he declared no one should leave hisroof that night. But he was not the man to persistin a mistake, so he threw it open.

"I'll row him," said Dunter.

Edwin ran out with them. Here was the chancehe had been seeking. He flew to the stable androused up Whero. Grandfather and grandson metand deliberately rubbed noses by the great flat stonewhich Edwin had used as a horse-block. WhilstDunter and Mr. Hirpington were getting out the boat,they talked to each other in their native tongue.

"It will be all right now, won't it?" asked Edwin,in a low aside to Ottley, who stood in the doorwayyawning. But Kakiki beckoned them to the conference.

"The sky is black with clouds above my daughter'shead; her people have deserted her—all but Ronga.Would they cut off the race of Hepé? Somemiscreant met the young lord in the bush, and tried topush him down a mud-hole; but he sprang up a tree,and so escaped. Take him to school as he wills.When I go down to the bank I shall see him there.It is good that he should learn. The letter has savedmy child."

CHAPTER VI.

MIDNIGHT ALARMS.

After his return home, Edwin felt as if mudand rain had taken possession of the outsideworld. The rivulet in the valley had become araging torrent. All the glamour of the woods was gone.The fern-covered hills looked gaunt and brown. Theclumps of flax and rush bent their flattened headslow in the muddy swamp before the piercing nightwinds. The old trees in the orchard were shattered,and their broken branches, still cumbering the ground,looked drear and desolate. The overgrowth of leafand stalk presented a mass of decaying vegetation,dank and sodden.

One chill May morning brought a heavy snow,veiling the calm crests of the majestic hills withdazzling whiteness, becoming more intense and vividas their drapery of mist and storm-cloud blackened.All movement seemed absorbed by the foaming cascades,tearing down the rifts and gullies in the valleyslope. Every sign of life was restricted to aghostly-looking gull, sated with dead rabbit, winging its heavyflight to the blue-black background of dripping rock.

But in this England of the Southern Seas thewinter changes as it changes in the British Isles.Sharp, frosty nights succeeded. The ground grewcrisp to the tread. The joyous work in the woodsbegan. Mr. Lee went daily to his allotment withaxe on shoulder and his boys by his side. His skillin woodcraft was telling. Many of the smaller treeshad already fallen beneath his vigorous stroke, whenthe rabbiters—who glean their richest harvest in thewinter nights—reappeared. They were so used to thereckless ways of the ordinary colonist—who cuts andslashes and burns right hand and left until the coastis clear—that Mr. Lee's methodical proceedings beganto interest them. His first step was to clear awaythe useless undergrowth and half-grown trees, gainingroom for charcoal fires, and for stacks of bark whichhis boys were stripping from the fallen trunks. Hisroving neighbours promised to leave their traps andsnares, and help him to bring down the forest giantswhich he was marking for destruction.

One June evening, as the Lees were returningfrom a hard day's work, they passed the rabbitersgoing out as usual to begin their own. A slighttremor in the ground attracted the attention of bothparties. As they exchanged their customarygood-night, one of the rabbiters observed there was anugly look about the sky.

The boys grumbled to each other that there wasan ugly look about the ground. Although thousandsof little brown heads and flopping ears were bobbingabout among the withered thistle-stalks, thousandsmore were lying dead behind every loose stone orweedy tuft.

The ghoul-like gulls were hovering in increasingnumbers, some already pouncing on their prey andcrying to their fellows wheeling inland from thedistant shore. No other sound disturbed the silence ofthe bush. The sense of profound repose deepened asthey reached their home. To Mr. Lee it seemed anominous stillness, like the lull before the storm; butin the cheerful light of his blazing fire he shook offthe feeling.

The weary boys soon went to bed. For thepresent they were sleeping in the same room as theirfather, who slowly followed their example.

It was nearly midnight, when Edwin was awakenedwith a dim feeling of something the matter.Cuthbert was pulling him. "Edwin! Edwin!"

"What is it?" he cried. Edwin's hurried exclamationwas lost in the bang and rattle all around.Were the windows coming in? He sprang upright asthe bed was violently shaken, and the brothers weretossed upon each other.

"What now?" called out Mr. Lee, as the floorswayed and creaked, and he felt himself rolling overin the very moment of waking. The walls werebeginning a general waltz, when the noise of fallingcrockery in the outer room and the howling of therabbiters' dogs drowned every other sound.

A sickly, helpless sensation stole over them all,Mr. Lee too, as everything around them became assuddenly still—an eerie feeling which could not beshaken off. The boys lay hushed in a state ofnervous tension, not exactly fear, but as if theirsenses were dumfoundered and all their beingcentred in a focus of expectation.

Effie gave a suppressed scream. Mr. Lee wasspeaking to her through the wall. "It is over, mydear—it is over; don't be frightened," he wassaying.

"It—what it?" asked Cuthbert, drawing his headunder the bed-clothes.

"Our first taste of earthquake," returned hisfather; "and a pretty sharp one, I fancy."

At this announcement Cuthbert made a speedyremove to his father's bed, and cuddled down in theblankets. Mr. Lee walked round the room andlooked out of the window. It was intensely dark;he could see nothing.

"Oh my head!" they heard Audrey saying; "itaches so strangely."

Mr. Lee repeated his consolatory assurance that itwas over, and returned to bed, giving way to thenatural impulse to lie still which the earthquakeseemed to produce. The violence of the headacheevery one was experiencing made them thankful tolie down once more; but rest was out of the question.In a little while all began again; not a violentshock, as at the first, but a continual quaking.

Mr. Lee got up and dressed. He was afraid tolight a lamp, for fear it should be upset; so hepersuaded his children to keep in bed, thinking theywould be rolled down in the darkness by the heavingof the floor. He groped his way into the outer room,treading upon broken earthenware at every step.This was making bad worse. He went back and lita match. It was just two o'clock.

Audrey, who heard him moving about, got up also,and began to dress, being troubled at the destructionof the plates and dishes. In ten minutes they werestartled by a fearful subterranean roar. Edwin couldlie still no longer. He sprang up, and was hurryingon his clothes, when the house shook with redoubledviolence. Down came shelves, up danced chairs. Thebang and crash, followed by a heavy thud justoverhead, made Edwin and his father start back toopposite sides of the room as the roof gave way, and aton weight of thatch descended on the bed Edwinhad just vacated.

"The chimney!" exclaimed Mr. Lee. "The chimney is down!"

The dancing walls seemed ready to follow. Cuthbertwas grabbing at his shoes. Mr. Lee ran to thedoor, thinking of his girls in the other room.

"Audrey! Effie!" he shouted, "are you hurt?"

But the weight of the falling thatch kept the doorfrom opening. He saw the window was bulgingoutwards. He seized a stick standing in the corner, andtried to wrench away the partition boarding betweenhim and his daughters. But the slight shake thisgave to the building brought down another fall ofthatch, filling the room with dust. Edwin just escapeda blow from a beam; but the darkness was terrific,and the intense feeling of oppression increased thefrantic desire to get out.

"In another moment the whole place will be aboutour ears!" exclaimed Mr. Lee, forcing the windowoutwards, and pushing the boys before him into the open.He saw—no, he could not see, but rather felt thewhole building was tottering to its fall. "Let thehorses loose!" he shouted to Edwin, as he ran roundto the front of the house to extricate the girls.

The boom as of distant cannon seemed to fill the air.

"O Lord above, what is it?" ejacul*ted one of therabbiters, who had heard the chimney go down, andwas hurrying to Mr. Lee's assistance.

Again the heavy roll as of cannon seemed toreverberate along the distant shore.

"It is a man-of-war in distress off Manakau Head,"cried a comrade.

"That! man, that is but the echo; the noise is fromthe hills. There is hot work among the Maoris, maybe.They are game enough for anything. The cannon isthere," averred old Hal, the leader of the gang.

"Then it is that Nga-Hepé blowing up the RotaPah by way of revenge," exclaimed the first speaker.

Edwin had opened the stable-door, and was runningafter his father. He caught the name Nga-Hepé, andheard old Hal's reply,—

"He buy cannon indeed, when the muru took awayhis all not three months since!"

Edwin passed the speaker, and overtaking hisfather in the darkness, he whispered, "The man maybe right. Nga-Hepé's wife buried his money by theroadside, by the twin pines, father. I saw her do it."

"Ah!" answered Mr. Lee, as he sprang up theveranda steps and rapped on Audrey's window. Asshe threw it open a gruff voice spoke to Edwin out ofthe darkness.

"So it was money Marileha buried?"

But Edwin gave no reply. Mr. Lee was holdingout his arms to Erne, who had scrambled upon thewindow-sill, and stood there trembling, afraid to takethe leap he recommended.

"Wrap her in a blanket, Audrey, and slide herdown," said their father.

Edwin was on the sill beside her in a moment.The blanket Audrey was dragging forward was seizedand flung around the little trembler, enveloping head,arms, and feet. Mr. Lee caught the lower end, anddrawing it down, received his "bonnie birdie" in hisfatherly arms. Edwin leaped into the darknesswithin.

"Quick, Audrey, quick, or the house will fall uponus," he urged.

She was snatching at this and that, and tying up abundle in haste. Edwin pulled out another blanketfrom the tumbled bed-clothes, and flung it on thewindow-sill.

"No, no," said Audrey; "I'll jump."

She tossed her bundle before her, and settingherself low on her feet, she gave one hand to her fatherand the other to the gruff speaker who had startledEdwin in the darkness. They swung her to theground between them just as the log-built walls beganto roll. Edwin was driven back among the ruins,crouching under the bulrush thatch, which lay inheaps by the debris of beam and chimney, snug like arabbit in its burrow, whilst beam and prop werefalling around him. He heard Cuthbert callingdesperately, "Look, look! father, father! the world's onfire!"

Edwin tugged furiously at the mass of dry anddusty rushes in which he had become enveloped,working with hands and feet, groping his way to spaceand air once more. The grand but terrific sight whichmet his gaze struck him backwards, and he sankconfounded on the heap, from which he had scarcelyextricated himself.

The sacred Maori hills, which at sunset had rearedtheir snowy crests in majestic calm, were ablaze withfire. The intensity of the glare from the huge pillarof flame, even at so great a distance, was more thaneyes could bear. With both hands extended beforehis face to veil the too terrific light, Edwin layentranced. That vision of a thousand feet of ascendingflame, losing itself in a dome of cloud blacker anddenser than the blackness of midnight, might wellprelude the day of doom. Unable to bear the sightor yet to shut it out, he watched in dumb amazement.White meteor globes of star-like brilliancy shot fromout the pall of cloud in every direction, and shed ablue unearthly light on all around. They came withthe roar as of cannon, and the rocks were riven bytheir fall. Huge fissures, opening in the mountainsides, emitted streams of rolling fire.

Edwin forgot his own peril and the peril of allaround, lost in the immensity of the sight. The criesand groans of the rabbiters recalled him. Some hadthrown themselves on their faces in a paroxysm ofterror. Old Hal had fallen on his knees, believingthe end of the world had come.

Edwin heard his father's voice rising calm and clearabove the gasping ejacul*tions and snatches ofhalf-forgotten prayer.

"Would you court blindness? Shut your eyes tothe awful sight. It is an eruption of MountTarawera. Remember, Hal, we are in the hands of Onewhom storm and fire obey."

The play of the lightning around the mountain-headbecame so intense that the glare from the hugecolumn of volcanic fire could scarcely be distinguished.The jagged, forked flashes shot downwards to theshuddering forest, and tree after tree was struck toearth, and fire sprang up in glade and thicket.

"To the open!" shouted Mr. Lee, blindfoldingCuthbert with his handkerchief, and shrouding Effiein the blanket, as he carried her towards the recentclearing.

Cuthbert grasped his father's coat with both hands,and stumbled on by his side. A dull, red spot in thedistance marked the place where the charcoal fireswere smouldering still, just as Mr. Lee had left them.

He laid his burden down in the midst of the circlingheaps, which shed a warmth and offered something ofa shelter from the rising blast. It was the safest spotin which he could leave the two; and charging Cuthbertto be a man and take care of his sister, he hurriedaway to look for Edwin.

With their backs against the sods which coveredover the charring wood, the children sat with theirarms round each other's necks, huddled together in theblanket, all sense of loneliness and fear of being leftby themselves absorbed in the awe of the night.

Inspired by Mr. Lee's example, old Hal had rallied.He had caught Beauty, and was putting him in thecart. Audrey, with her recovered bundle on her arm,with the quiet self-possession which never seemed todesert her, was bringing him the harness from thenew-built shed, which was still standing.

The gruff rabbiter, who had been the first to cometo Mr. Lee's assistance, followed her for a fork tomove the heaps of thatch which hemmed Edwin in.He was crossing to the ruined house with it poisedupon his shoulder as Mr. Lee came up. He saw thelightning flash across the steel, and dashed the forkfrom the man's insensate grasp. The fellow staggeredbackwards and fell a senseless heap. Star-like rayswere shooting from each pointing tine as the forktouched the ground, and lines of fire ran from themin every direction. Edwin saw it also, and seizing aloosened tie-beam, he gave the great heap of thatchbefore him a tremendous heave, and sent it over.The sodden mass of rush, heavy with frozen snow,broke to pieces as it fell, and changed the running fireto a dense cloud of smoke.

A deep-voiced "Bravo, young un!" broke from thehorror-stricken rabbiters, who had gathered roundtheir comrade. But Mr. Lee was before them. Hehad loosened the man's collar and torn open his shirt.In the play of the cold night air his chest gave agreat heave. A sigh of thankfulness ran round thegroup. The lightning he had so unthinkingly drawndown upon himself had not struck a vital part.

Audrey had dropped her bundle, and was fillingher lap with the frozen flags by the edge of thestream.

They dragged him away from the smoke, andAudrey's icy gleanings were heaped upon his burninghead. A twitch of the nostrils was followed by adeep groan.

"He'll do," said Hal. "He's a coming round, thank God!"

With a low-breathed Amen, Mr. Lee turned away,for the cloud of smoke his boy had raised completelyconcealed him. The cheery "All right" whichanswered his shout for his son put new life into thewhole party.

Audrey and her father ran quickly to the end ofthe house. The great beam of the roof was cleared,and Edwin was cautiously making his way across iton his hands and knees.

"Stand back!" he cried, as he neared the end, and,with a flying leap and hands outspread he cleared thebroken wall, and alighted uninjured on the ground.

Mr. Lee caught hold of him, and Audrey graspedboth hands.

"I'm all right," he retorted; "don't you botherabout me."

A terrible convulsion shook the ground; the menflung themselves on their faces. A splendid kauritree one hundred and seventy feet high, which shadedthe entrance of the valley, was torn up by the roots,as an awful blast swept down the forest glades withannihilating force. The crash, the shock reverberatingfar and wide, brought with it such a sense ofparalyzing helplessness even Mr. Lee gave up all forlost.

They lifted up their heads, and saw red-hot stonesflying into the air and rolling down the riven slopes.

"O my little lambs!" groaned Mr. Lee, thinkingof the two he had left by the charcoal fires, "whatam I doing lying here, and you by yourselves in theopen?"

"Get 'em away," said Hal; "the cart is still there.Put 'em all in, and gallop off towards the shore; it'sour only safety."

There was too much weight in the old man's wordsto disregard them. Mr. Lee looked round for hisother horse, which had rushed over him at a madbound when the last tree fell. He saw it now, itscoat staring with the fright, stealing back to itscompanion.

CHAPTER VII.

THE RAIN OF MUD.

It was about four o'clock in the morning. A newthing happened—a strange new thing, almostunparalleled in the world's history. The eruptionhad been hitherto confined to the central peak ofTarawera, known among the Maori tribes as Ruawahia;but now with a mighty explosion the south-west peakburst open, and flames came belching forth, withtorrents of liquid fire. The force of the earthquakewhich accompanied it cracked the bed of the fairylake. The water rushed through the hole upon thesubterranean fires, and returned in columns of steam,forcing upwards the immense accumulation of softwarm mud at the bottom of the lake. The whole ofthis was blown into the air, and for fifteen milesaround the mountain fell like rain. The enormousamount of steam thus generated could not find halfvent enough through the single hole by which thewater had poured in, and blew off the crust of theearth above it.

Showers of rock, cinders, and dust succeeded themud, lashing the lake to fury—a fury which baffledall imagination. The roar of the falling water throughunseen depths beneath the lake, the screech of theescaping steam, the hissing cannonade of stones,created a volley of sound for which no one couldaccount, whilst the mud fell thick and fast, as thesnow falls in a blizzard.

The geysers, catching the subterranean rage, shottheir scalding spray above the trees. Mud-holes wereboiling over and over, and new ones opening inunexpected places. Every ditch was steaming, everyhill was reeling. For the space of sixty miles theearth quivered and shook, and a horrid sulphuroussmell uprose from the very ground; while aroundTarawera, mountain, lake, and forest were envelopedin one immense cloud of steam, infolding a throbbingheart of flame, and ascending to the almost incredibleheight of twenty-two thousand feet. Beneath itsawful shadow the country lay in darkness—a darknessmade still more appalling when the huge rockmasses of fire clove their way upwards, to fall backinto the crater from which they had been hurled.

As Mr. Lee caught his horse by the forelock, thefirst heavy drops of mud hissed on the frozen ground.In another moment they came pelting thick and fast,burning, blinding, burying everything in their path.The horse broke loose from his master's hand, andtore away to the shelter of the trees. The heavy cartlumbering at his heels alone kept Beauty fromfollowing his mate. Hal caught his rein, Edwin seized hishead, as the thick cloud of ashes and mud grew denserand blacker, until Edwin could scarcely see his handbefore him.

"Get in! get in!" gasped the old rabbiter.

Edwin swung himself upon the horse's back, androde postilion, holding him in with all his might.

"The sick man first," said Mr. Lee, almost chokingwith the suffocating smell which rose from the earth.He lifted the poor fellow in his arms, a comradetook him by the feet, and between them they got himinto the cart. Hal had resigned the reins to Edwin,and taken his place, ready to pillow the unconscioushead upon his knees.

"The Lord have mercy on us!" he groaned.

Mr. Lee groped round for Audrey. Her feet wereblistering through her thin boots, as she sankankle-deep in the steaming slime, which came pouring downwithout intermission. Her father caught her by thewaist and swung her into the back of the cart.Another of the rabbiters got up on the front and tookthe reins from Edwin, who did not know the way.The other two, with Mr. Lee, caught hold of the backof the cart and ran until they came to their owncamp. The tents lay flat; the howling dogs had fled;but their horse, which they had tethered for thenight, had not yet broken loose.

Here they drew up, sorely against Mr. Lee's desire,for he could no longer distinguish the glimmer of hischarcoal fires, and his heart was aching for hischildren—his innocents, his babies, as he fondly calledthem—in that moment of dread. As the rabbitershalted, he stooped to measure the depth of mud onthe ground, alarmed lest the children should be suffocatedin their sleep; for they might have fallen asleep,they had been left so long.

"Not they," persisted Edwin. "They are not suchduffers as to lie down in mud like this; and as forsleep in this unearthly storm—" he stopped abruptly.

"Hark!" exclaimed his father, bending closer to theground. "Surely that was a 'coo,' in the distance."

Every ear was strained. Again it came, thatrecognized call for help no colonist who reckonshimself a man ever refuses to answer.

Faint as was the echo which reached them, itquivered with a passionate entreaty.

"They are cooing from the ford," cried one. Butanother contradicted. It was only when bendingover the upturned roots of a fallen tree that the feeblesound could be detected, amidst all the fearsomenoises raging in the upper air.

The rabbiters felt about for their spades, andthrowing out the mud from the cavity, knelt low in theloosened earth. They could hear it now more plainly.

Mr. Lee pressed his ear to the freshly-disturbedmould, and listened attentively. The cry was a cryof distress, and the voice was the voice of his friend.

The rabbiters looked at each other, aghast at thethought of returning to the thick of the storm. Itwas bad enough to flee before it; but to face themuddy rain which was beating them to the earth, tobreathe in the burning dust which came whirlingthrough it, could any one do that and reach the fordalive? Not one dare venture; yet they would notleave the spot.

At break of day they said, "We will go." Theywere glad of such shelter as the upheaved rootsafforded. It was a moment's respite from the blistering,blinding rain. But whilst they argued thus, Mr. Leewas striding onwards to the seven black heaps,in the midst of which he had left his children.

The fires had long gone out; the blackness ofdarkness was around him. He called their names. Heshouted. His voice was thick and hoarse from thechoking atmosphere. He stumbled against a hillock.He sank in the drift of mud by its side. A faint,low sob seemed near him; something warm eludedhis touch. His arms sought it in the darkness,sweeping before him into empty space. Two resolutesmall hands fought back his own, and Cuthbertgrowled out fiercely, "Whoever you are, you shan'ttouch my Effie. Get along!"

"Not touch your Effie, my game chick!" retortedMr. Lee, with the ghost of a smile in spite of hisdespair.

"Oh, it is father! it is father!" they exclaimed,springing into his arms. "We thought you wouldnever come back any more."

He thought they would never stop kissing him,but he got them at last, big children as they were,one under each arm, lifting, dragging, carrying byturns, till he made his way to the cart. Then hediscovered why poor Effie hung so helplessly uponhim. Both hands had tightly clinched in the shockof the explosion, and her feet dragged uselessly alongthe ground.

"She turned as cold as ice," said Cuthbert, "andI've cuddled her ever since. Then the mud came onus hot; wasn't that a queer thing?"

They snugged poor Effie in the blanket, and Audreytook her on her lap.

"I'm not afraid now," she whispered, "now we areall together. But I've lost the kitten."

"No," said Audrey; "I saw it after you were gone,scampering up a tree."

Mr. Lee was leaning against the side of the cart,speaking to old Hal.

They did not hear what he was saying, only therabbiter's reply: "Trust 'em to me. I'll find someplace of shelter right away, down by the sea. Here,take my hand on it, and go. God helping, you maysave 'em at the ford. Maybe they are half buriedalive. It is on my mind it will be a dig-out whenyou get there. The nearer the mischief the worse itwill be. When our fellows see you have the pluck toventure, there'll be some of 'em will follow, sure andsartin."

"We are all chums here," said Mr. Lee, turningto the men. "Lend me that spade and I'm off tothe ford. We must answer that coo somehow, my lads."

"We'll do what we can in the daylight," they answered.

"I am going to do what I can in the darkness," hereturned, as he shouldered the spade and crossed overfor a last look at his children.

Audrey laid her hand in his without speaking.

"You are not going alone, father, when I'm here,"urged Edwin, springing off the horse. "Take mewith you."

"No, Edwin; your post is here, to guard the othersin my absence.—Remember, my darlings, we are allin God's hands, and there I leave you," said Mr. Lee.

He seized a broken branch, torn off by the wind,and using it as an alpenstock, leaped from boulder toboulder across the stream, and was up the other sideof the valley without another word.

Cuthbert was crying; the dogs were whining;Audrey bent over Effie and rocked her backwards andforwards.

The cart set off. The mud was up to the axle-tree.It was slow work getting through it.

The rest of the party were busy dragging theirtents out of the mire, and loading their own cart withtheir traps as fast as they could, fumbling in thedark, knee-deep in slush and mud.

As Beauty pulled his way through for an hour ormore, the muddy rain diminished, the earth grewhard and dry. The children breathed more freely asthe fresh sea-breeze encountered the clouds of burningdust, which seemed now to predominate over the mud.

They could hear the second cart rumbling behindthem. The poor fellow who had been struck by thelightning began to speak, entreating his comrades tolay him somewhere quiet. "My head, my head!"he moaned. "Stop this shaking."

By-and-by they reached a hut. They were enteringone of the great sheep-runs, where the rabbitershad been recently at work. Here the carts drew up,and roused its solitary inmate. One of the rabbiterscame round and told Hal they had best part company.

"There are plenty of bold young fellows amongFeltham's shepherds. We are off to the great houseto tell him, and we'll give the alarm as we go. He'llsend a party off to the hills as soon as ever he hearsof this awful business. A lot of us may force a way.We'll take this side of the run: you go the othertill you find somewhere safe to leave these children.Wake up the shepherds in every hut you pass, andsend them on to meet us at Feltham's. If we areback by daylight we shall do," they argued.

"Agreed," said the old man. "We can't betterthat. Dilworth and the traps had best wait here.He will sleep this off," he added, lookingcompassionately at his stricken comrade.

Out came the shepherd, a tall, gentlemanly youngfellow, who had passed his "little-go" at Trinity,got himself "ploughed" like Ottley, and so went infor the southern hemisphere and the shepherd's crook.

Pale and livid with the horror of the lone night-watchin his solitary hermitage, he caught the fullimport of the direful tidings at a word. His bedand his rations were alike at their service. Hewhistled up his horse and dog, and rode off at abreakneck gallop, to volunteer for the relief-party,and send the ill news a little faster to his master'sdoor, for his fresh horse soon outstripped the rabbiters'cart. Meanwhile old Hal drove onward towards thesea. A shepherd met him and joined company,breathless for his explanation of all the terrors whichhad driven him from his bed. He blamed Mr. Leefor his foolhardiness in venturing on alone into suchdanger.

Freed at last from the clayey slime, Beauty rattledon apace. Cuthbert was fast asleep, and Edwin wasnodding, but Audrey was wide awake. She gatheredfrom the conversation of the men fresh food for fear.The "run" they were crossing was a large one. Shethought they called it Feltham's. It extended forsome miles along the sea-shore, and Audrey felt surethey must have journeyed ten or fifteen miles at leastsince they entered it. Thirteen thousand sheep onrun needed no small company of shepherds. Manyof them lived at the great house with Mr. Feltham;others were scattered here and there all over thewide domain, each in his little shanty. Yet mostof them were the sons of gentlemen, certain torespond to the rabbiters' call. Again the cart drew up,and a glimmer of firelight showed her the lowthatched roof of another shanty. Hal called loudlyto a friend inside.

"Up and help us, man! There is an awful eruption.Tarawera is pouring out fire and smoke. Half thecountry round will be destroyed before the morning!"

Down sprang the shepherd. "We are off toFeltham's; but we must have you with us, Hal, fora guide. We don't know where we are wanted."

Edwin was wide awake in a moment. The menwere talking eagerly. Then they came round, liftedthe girls out of the cart, told them all to go insidethe hut and get a sleep, and they would soon sendsomebody to see after them.

Hal laid his hand on Edwin's shoulder. "Rememberyour father's charge, lad," he said, "and just keephere, so that I know where to find you."

It was still so dark they could scarcely see eachother's faces; but as Edwin gave his promise, Audreysighed a startled sigh of fear. Were they going toleave them alone?

"Must," returned all three of the men, with adecision that admitted of no question.

"Afraid?" asked the shepherd, in a tone whichmade Edwin retort, "Not a bit."

But Audrey could not echo her brother's words.She stood beside him the picture of dismay, thinkingof her father. Hal's friend Oscott picked up a pieceof wood and threw it on the dying lire; it blazed upcheerily.

"My dear," said Hal, in an expostulating tone,"would you have us leave your father single-handed?We have brought you safe out of the danger. Thereare numbers more higher up in the hills; we must goback."

"Yes, yes," she answered, desperately. "Pray don'tthink about us. Go; do go!"

Oscott brought out his horse. The shepherd smiledpityingly at the children. "We'll tell theboundary-rider to look you up. He will bring the dog hisbreakfast, and I have no doubt Mrs. Feltham willsend him with yours."

With a cheery good-night, crossed by the shepherdwith a cheerier good-morning, intended to keep theirspirits up, the men departed.

Edwin put his arm round Audrey. "Are youreally afraid? I would not show a white featherafter all he said. Come inside."

The hut was very similar to the one at the entranceof the gorge, with the customary bed of fern leavesand thick striped blanket. The men had laid Effiedown upon it, and Cuthbert was kneeling beside herrubbing her hands.

"I'll tell you a secret," he whispered. "OurAudrey has gone over to the groaners."

"No, she has not," retorted Edwin. "But once Iheard that Cuthbert was with the criers."

"Where are we?" asked Effie piteously.

"Safe in the house that Jack built," said herbrother, wishing to get up a laugh; but it wouldnot do.

Audrey turned her head away. "Let us try tosleep and forget ourselves."

Edwin found a horse-rug in the hut, and went outto throw it over Beauty's back, for the wind wasblowing hard. There was plenty of drift-woodstrewing the shore, and he carefully built up the fire.Having had some recent experience during thecharcoal-burning, he built it up remarkably well, hopingthe ruddy blaze would comfort Audrey—at least itwould help them to dry their muddy clothes. Thesound of the trampling surf and the roar of the angrysea seemed as nothing in the gray-eyed dawn whichfollowed that night of fear.

He found, as he thought, his sisters sleeping; andsinking down in the nest of leaves which Cuthberthad been building for him, he soon followed theirexample. But he was mistaken: Audrey only closedher eyes to avoid speaking. She dared not tell himof their father's peril for fear he should rush off withthe men, urged on by a desperate desire to share it."I know now," she thought, "why father chargedhim to remain with us."

Her distress of mind drowned all consciousness oftheir strange surroundings. What was the rising ofthe gale, the trampling of the surf upon the sand, orthe dashing of the tumultuous waves, after the fireand smoke of Tarawera?

But Cuthbert started in his dreams, and Edwinwoke with a cry. Shaking himself from the clingingleaves, now dry as winter hay, he ran out with theimpression some one had called him. It was but thescream of the sea-gull and the moan of the storm.It should have been daylight by this time, but nowintry sun could penetrate the pall-like cloud ofblue volcanic dust which loaded the atmosphere eventhere.

It seemed to him as if the sea, by some mysterioussympathy, responded to the wild convulsions of thequaking earth. The billows were rolling in towardshim mountains high. He turned from the angrywaves to rebuild his fire.

Did Oscott keep it as a beacon through the nighton the ledge of rock which sheltered his hut from theocean breezes? From its position Edwin was inclinedto think he did, although the men in the hurry oftheir departure had not exactly said so. By the lightof this fire he could now distinguish the outline ofa tiny bay—so frequent on the western coast of theisland—a stretch of sandy shore, and beyond thehaven over which the rock on which he stood seemedsentinel, a sheet of boiling foam.

And what was that? A coasting steamer, withits screw half out of the water, tearing round andround, whilst the big seas, leaping after each other,seemed washing over the little craft from stem tostern.

He flung fresh drift-wood on his beacon-fire untilit blazed aloft, a pyramid of flame. "Audrey dear,Audrey," he ran back shouting, "get up, get up!"

She appeared at the door, a wan, drooping figure,shrinking from the teeth of the gale. "Is it father?"she asked.

"Father! impossible, Audrey. We left him milesaway. It is a ship—a ship, Audrey—going down inthe storm," he vociferated.

She clasped her hands together in hopeless despair.

Cuthbert pulled her back. "You will be blowninto the sea," he cried. "Let me go. Boys like me,we just love wild weather. I shan't hurt. What is itbrings the downie fit?" he asked. "Tell old Cuth."

"It is father, dear—it is father," she murmured,as his arms went round her coaxingly.

"I know," he answered. "I cried because I couldnot help it; but Edwin says crying is no good."

"Praying is better," she whispered, buttoning uphis coat a little closer. But what was he wearing?

"Oh, I got into somebody's clothes," he said, "andEdwin helped me."

"It is father's short gray coat," she ejacul*ted,stroking it lovingly down his chest, as if it were allshe ever expected to see of her father any more.

"So much the better," he answered, undaunted. "Iwant to be father to-night."

"Night!" repeated Edwin, catching up the word,"How can you stand there talking when there is aship going down before our eyes?"

Cuthbert ran up the rocky headland after hisbrother, scarcely able to keep his footing in theincreasing gale. There, by the bright stream of lightflung fitfully across the boiling waves, he too couldsee the little vessel tossing among the breakers. AnEgyptian darkness lay around them—a darkness thatmight be felt, a darkness which the ruddiest glow oftheir beacon could scarcely penetrate.

"You talk of night," Edwin went on, as thebrothers clung together, "but it is my belief it haslong since been morning. I tell you what it is,Cuth: the sun itself is veiled in sackcloth and ashes;it can't break through this awful cloud."

Young as they were, they felt the importance ofkeeping up the fire to warn the steamer off the rocks,and again they set to work gathering fuel. The menhad said but little about the fire, because they knewit was close on morning when they departed, and now—yes,the morning had come, but without the daylight.

Old roots and broken branches drifted in to shorewere strewing the beach. But as the boys were soonobliged to take a wider circle to collect them, Edwinwas so much afraid of losing his little brother hedare not let go his hand. Then he found a piece ofrope in the pocket of "father's coat," and tied theirarms together. So they went about like dogs inleash, as he told Cuthbert. If dogs did their huntingin couples, why should not they?

Meanwhile Audrey, whose heart was in the hills,was watching landwards from the little window atthe back of the hut. Edwin's pyramid of fire shotfitful gleams above the roof and beyond the blackshadow of the shanty wall. Beauty, who had neverknown the luxury of a stable until he came into thehands of his new masters, was well used to lookingout for himself. He had made his way round to theback of the hut, and now stood cowering under thebroad eaves, seeking shelter from the raging blast.

Where the firelight fell Audrey could faintlydistinguish a line of road, probably the one leading tothe mansion. To the left, the wavering shadows castupon the ground told her of the near neighbourhoodof a grassy embankment, surmounted by a swingingfence of wire, the favourite defence of the sheep-run,so constructed that if the half-wild animals rushagainst it the wire swings in their faces and drivesthem back. She heard the mournful howling of adog at no great distance. Suddenly it changed toa clamorous bark, and Audrey detected a faint butfar-away echo, like the trampling of approachinghorsem*n.

She pushed the window to its widest and listened.Her long fair hair, which had been loosely braidedfor the night, was soon shaken free by the raging-winds,and streamed about her shoulders as she leanedout as far as she could in the fond hope that someone was coming.

The knitted shawl she had snatched up and drawnover her head when she jumped into her father'sarms was now rolled up as a pillow for Effie. Sheshivered in the wintry blast, yet courted it, as it blewback from her the heated clouds of whirling ashes.Faint moving shadows, as of trees or men, began tofleck the pathway, and then a band of horsem*n,galloping their hardest, dashed across the open.

Audrey's pale face and streaming hair, framed inthe blackness of the shadowing roof, could not fail tobe seen by the riders. With one accord they shookthe spades they carried in the air to tell their errand,and a score of manly voices rang out the old-worldballad,—

"What lads e'er did our lads will do;

Were I a lad I'd follow him too.

He's owre the hills that I lo'e weel."

Audrey waved her "God-speed" in reply. Withtheir heads still turned towards her, without amoment's pause, they vanished in the darkness. Onlythe roll of the chorus thrown back to cheer her, asthey tore the ground beneath their horses' hoofs, roseand fell with the rage of the storm—

"He's owre the hills we daurna name,

He's owre the hills ayont Dumblane,

Wha soon will get his welcome hame.

My father's gone to fecht for him,

My brithers winna bide at hame,

My mither greets and prays for them,

And 'deed she thinks they're no to blame.

He's owre the hills," etc.

The last faint echo which reached her listeningears renewed the promise—

"What lads e'er did our lads will do;

Were I a lad I'd follow him too.

He's owre the hills, he's owre the hills."

The voices were lost at last in the howl of thewind and the dash of the waves on the angry rocks.But the music of their song was ringing still inAudrey's heart, rousing her to a courage which wasnot in her nature.

She closed the window, and knelt beside the sleepingEffie with a question on her lips—that questionof questions for each one of us, be our emergencywhat it may—"Lord, what wouldest thou have meto do?" She was not long in finding its answer.

CHAPTER VIII.

A RAGING SEA.

The boys rushed in exclaiming, "Audrey, Audrey! theship is foundering! The men are gettingoff into the boat, and they can't keep its head to thesea. She swings round broadside to the waves, andmust be filling. Is there a rope about the hut—anywhere,anywhere; a long, strong rope, dear Audrey?"

How should she know what was in the hut? Butshe knew what was put in the cart: the ropes whichtied the load were there. She had pulled them outof the shed with the harness herself.

Off went Edwin, shouting, "A rope! a rope! akingdom for a rope!"

Cuthbert released himself from the leash, whichwas dragging him along too fast, and ran back to hissister.

"Did you hear the singing?" she asked. "Didyou see the men ride past? They are gone to therescue, Cuth; they are gone to father's help. MayGod reward them all."

"And will you come to ours?" he said. "Audrey,you could feed the fire. Edwin and I have got a lotof wood together. You have only to keep throwingit on; and then I can help Edwin."

"'What lads e'er did our lads will do;

Were I a lad I'd follow him too,'"

she answered, slipping her shawl from under Effie'shead and tying it once more over her own. Theywent out together. Cuthbert helped her up the rock,pulled a big root in to the front of the fire to makeher a seat, and left her a willing stoker. He hadpointed out the tiny co*ckle-shell of a boat—a smalldark speck beyond the sheet of boiling foam, withthe hungry, curling waves leaping after it.

Could it escape swamping in the outer line ofbreakers it could never hope to cross? It wasrunning before them now. Edwin had put Beauty oncemore into the cart, and was carefully knotting therope to the back of it.

He had learned to tie a safety-knot—a sailor'sknot—on their voyage out. Thank God for that!It whiled away an idle hour at the time; now itmight prove the saving of human creatures' lives.That the cart was heavy and lumbering and strongwas cause for rejoicing.

"You and I, Cuth, could not pull a man throughsuch a sea; but Beauty can. We know how well hecrossed the ford. I shall back him into the water asfar as ever I can, and then jump into the cart andthrow the rope. You see my plan?"

"I do," said Cuth; "but as soon as you leave go ofBeauty's head he'll come splashing back again out ofthe water. You must have me in the cart to holdhis reins."

"I dare not," protested Edwin. "A shrimp like youwould be washed out to sea in no time; and I promisedfather to take care of you. No, Cuth, you are notyet ten years old."

"I am sure I look a good bit older than that, infather's coat," urged Cuthbert, looking down uponhimself with considerable satisfaction; but Edwinwas inexorable. "Tie me in the cart, then," criedCuthbert.

"Where is the old leash?"

It was quickly found, and Edwin owned thethought was a good one.

When all was ready a sudden impulse promptedthem to run back into the hut and look at Erne, andthen up the rock for a final word with Audrey.They found her already wet with the salt sea spray,and almost torn to pieces by the wind, but, as Edwinsaid, "at it all the same."

The final word was spoken, reiterated, shouted;who, alas! could hear it in the rage of the storm?So it came to a snatch of kiss, and away they ran,leaving Audrey with the impression that the movinglips were trying to repeat, "Keep us a jolly blaze."

Voice being useless on such a morning, Audreymade answer by action, and flung her brands upon thefire with such rapidity that the column of flame rosehigher and higher, flinging its fitful gleams across thesands, where the boys were busy.

The recent voyage had taken away all fear of thesea even from Cuthbert, who was already tied to thefront of the cart, with Beauty's reins in his hand,holding him in with all his might. Edwin, with histeeth set and a white look about his lips, had seizedthe horse's head, and was backing him into the water.Splash, splash into the wall of wave, rising higherand higher at every step, and almost lifting Edwin offhis feet. Then he swung himself into the cart byCuthbert's side. Beauty felt his firmer grasp as thereins changed hands, and turning his head with alook in his resolute eye that showed him a willingpartner in the daring plan, he reversed the position,choosing rather to breast the opposing billows. Edwinlet him have his way, and with a dash and a snorthe plunged into their midst, carrying the boys fullfifteen yards into the raging sea. The brothers clungto the cart as the waves dashed in their faces. Capswere gone in a moment. The cart was filling.Beauty held his head high above the water, andstruggled on another yard or so. Then Edwin feltthey must go no further, and turned the cart round.

It was no easy matter to make Beauty stand. Hisnatural sense of danger, his high intelligence, hisincreasing love for the boys, all prompted him to bringthem out of the water, not to stay in it. He wasbent on rushing back to dry ground, as Cuthbert hadpredicted. The boys thundered "Whoa, whoa!" withall the endearing epithets they were wont to lavishupon him in his stable. He was brought to a standat last, and Edwin, raising himself on the side of thecart, looked round for the boat.

It was nowhere. His heart sank cold within him.

"O Cuth, we are too late, too late!" he groaned.

Then Audrey's fire sent up a brighter blaze, andhope leaped lightly into life once more, and he criedout joyfully, "I see it!" but stopped abruptly, almostdrawing back his words with bated breath.

The momentary glimpse had shown him the lucklessboat, blown along by the force of the wind,without the help of an oar, dash into the burstingcrest of a giant roller. It flung the boat across theline of boiling foam. The men in it, finding theiroars useless, were kicking off their boots, preparingfor a swim. He knew it by their attitudes. Heseized the pole they had put in the cart to use asa signal. It was a willow sapling, torn up by itsroots, which they had found when they weregathering the firewood.

Cuthbert had peeled off the bark at the thin end,whilst Edwin had twisted its pliant boughs into astrong hoop, to tie at the end of his rope.

As Edwin raised it high above his head—a tall,white wand, which must be conspicuous in thesurrounding darkness—he saw the boat turn over, theangry waves rush on, and all was gone. A cry ofdismay broke from the brothers' lips: "Lord help us,or they perish!"

"I could not have done this without you, Cuth.We are only two boys, but now is our hour."

Edwin had learned a great deal from the sailors'stories during their voyage, and he had been a crackkite-flier on the playground at his English school; sothat he was quite alive to the importance of keepinghis rope free from entanglement, which really is thevital point in throwing a rope at sea. He had laid itcarefully on the bottom of the cart, fold upon fold,backwards and forwards, and Cuth had stood upon itto keep it in place. The hoop lay on the top of thecoil, and to the hoop he had tied the plaid-scarf fromhis own neck, to serve it as a sail.

The paralyzing fear came over him now that whilstthey were doing all this the time for help had goneby. "But we won't stop trying," he said, "if it seemsever so hopeless; God only knows."

He took his brother's place on the coil of rope, andunfolding a yard or two, flung the hoop from him,taking aim at the spot where the boat had capsized.The wind caught the scarf and bore the hoop aloft;Edwin let his rope go steadily, fold after fold. Wouldit carry it straight? Would the men see his scarffluttering in the wind? He felt sure a hand mightcatch the hoop if they only saw it. But, alas, it wasso small! He leaned against his brother back to back,and if the hot tears came it was because he was onlya boy. Cuthbert put a hand behind him. Therewas comfort to him in the touch. One burning dropjust trickled on his thumb.

"What, you crying!" he exclaimed; "is not praying better?"

"God have mercy on us!" burst from Edwin's lips;and Cuthbert echoed back the gasping words. Hadthey ever prayed like that before? All, all that wasin them seemed to pour itself forth in that moment ofsuspense, when God alone could hear.

The rope tightened in Edwin's grasp; somethinghad clutched it at last. The tug had come. Wouldhis knots give way? He was faint with the fearthat his work was not well done—not strong enoughto stand the strain which he felt was increasing everymoment. It seemed to him, as he watched with everysense alert and tried to its uttermost, that eachsuccessive earthquake shock, as it heaved the land, senta corresponding wave across the sea. One of thesehad carried out his hoop, and he knew he must waituntil it subsided to draw his rope in, or it mightsnap like pack-thread under the awful strain.

"O Edwin, I am getting so tired!" said little Cuth,in a tone of such utter exhaustion it went like aknife through his brother to hear him.

"Only another minute," he replied; "just anotherminute—if we can hold on."

The longed-for lull was coming. Edwin gaveBeauty his head; but the poor horse was stiffenedwith standing, and almost refused to move. ThenEdwin tied himself to the cart.

"O Beauty, if you fail us we are done!"

The despairing cry roused the torpid energies ofthe horse. With a stretch and a snort he tuggedand strained, dragging his load a yard or twolandwards. A man's head appeared above the water.The joy of the sight brought back hope andcapability. It was but a spasmodic effort; but Beautycaught the thrill of joy animating the boyish voices,cheering him on to renewed exertions. The wheelssplashed round in the water; a cloud of muddy sprayrose between Edwin and the rescued man. He couldnot see the sailor's face. The fire was dying. Wasall the wood they had gathered—all that greatheap—burnt up at last?

Audrey raked the dying brands together, and afresh flame shot upwards, and by its welcome radianceEdwin was aware of two hands working their wayalong the tightened rope, one over the other, towardsthe cart.

The tightened rope! Yes; that was proof thatsome one had grasped the hoop. In another momentthat stranger hand was clasping Edwin's in the darknessthat was following fast upon those fitful flames.

"Hold hard!" shouted a stentorian voice, and aman got up into the cart beside him. A deep-drawnbreath, a muttered prayer, and the strong, powerfulhands clasped over Edwin's, and began to draw inthe rope.

Not a word was said, for the boys had no voiceleft to make themselves heard. The last shout ofjoy to Beauty had left them spent and faint. Thestranger, surprised at the smallness and feebleness ofthe hand he now let go, gently pushed the boy asideand took his place. Edwin leaned against the frontof the cart beside his brother, dead beat and scarcelyconscious of anything but a halo of happinessradiating from the blessed consciousness which foundexpression in a murmured, "Cuth, old boy, we've done it."

The reins fell slack on Beauty's neck, but the goodhorse needed no guiding. He seemed aware that twomore men got up into the cart, and when a pausefollowed he gave his proud head a triumphant toss,and brought them up out of the water. There werethree men in the cart and twice as many moreholding on by the rope.

Audrey ran down from the dying fire to meet them.

A strange, unnatural kind of twilight, a somethingweird and ghastly, belonging to neither day nor night,seemed to pervade the land, and shed a sepulchralgleam across the men's pale faces. Audrey pushedopen the door of the hut and beckoned to the sailorsto enter.

They gathered round her, shaking the salt waterfrom their dripping garments, and uttering brokenexclamations of surprise and thankfulness. She sawa boy in the midst of the group limping painfully.As she hurried up to his assistance, she discoveredthat it was neither Edwin nor Cuthbert; but hegrasped her outstretched hand so thankfully shecould not withdraw it. There was a wildness in thealarm with which she began to ask them for herbrothers the men could not mistake. They gave theforlorn girl an almost unanimous assurance that theyknew nothing of her brothers. For the men clingingto the rope had not seen the boys in the cart. "But,"added one heartily, "we'll protect you, for there iswild work afoot somewhere to-night. We have heardthe cannonading, broadside after broadside, or weshould not have gone rock-hunting in the dark. Itis fool's work—you can give it no bettername—coasting along a dangerous shore, with a sky tooblack for moon or star to penetrate."

"Yon's the little maid who fed the beacon," saidanother. "I saw her move across the front of thefire and throw her sticks upon it. God bless her!Every minute I thought we should see her blownover into the sea."

"Not me, not me," interposed poor Audrey.

Getting free in her desperation, and pressingbetween the sailors, she ran towards Beauty, who wasslowly lagging round to the back of the hut.

"If my brothers are missing," she cried, "theymust have been washed out of the cart." She claspedher hands before her eyes to shut out the sight ofthe drowning boys which imagination was picturing,and so failed to perceive the two weary heads leaningagainst the side of the cart. It was but a momentof agony, one of the unfounded alarms which alwayscluster round a real danger and follow the shock ofdread like its shadow.

"Edwin, Edwin! where are you?" she cried.—"Cuthbert,Cuthbert! come to me!"

The rocks gave back the hollow echo, "Come to me!"

But she did not hear two faint voices feeblyexpostulating, "We tied ourselves to the cart, and wecan't undo the knots. We are here, like two galley-slaveschained to the oars, and we can't get out."

A shock of earthquake sent Beauty with a shiverof terror straight to the open. The men threwthemselves on their faces, knowing how easily they mightlose their footing on the reeling ground; whilstAudrey, neglecting this precaution, went over like anine-pin.

The hut shook as if its carefully-piled walls wereabout to give way, and Audrey, who had seen theirhouse go down in the beginning of this fearful night,shrieked out for Effie.

As the tremor subsided, and the sailors gatheredfrom poor Audrey's broken sentences some idea ofthe awful catastrophe on land, they turned from thehut, judging it safer to remain in the open.

Mates were looking out for mates. Were they allthere? Captain, boatswain, cook—not one of thelittle coaster's crew was missing. Passengers allright: a gold-digger from Otago, the schoolboy fromChristchurch. Are all saved? Only the hand whichthrew the rope was missing.

Who backed the cart into the sea? they asked; andwhere was Oscott?

When they learned from Audrey's frantic repliesthat every man had gone to the rescue, and the littlefugitives had been left in the hut alone, the sailors'desire to find the missing boys was as earnest as her own.

They pointed to the cart jogging steadily acrossthe grassy plain, dotted with sheep, and shaded hereand there by groups of stately trees.

"God bless the young heroes!" they exclaimed."Why, there they are—off to the mansion to beg fortucker for us all."

Audrey, set at rest from this last great fear, escapedfrom her questioners, and retreated to Effie and theempty hut, saying reproachfully,—

"How just like Edwin! But they might havetold me what they were going to do."

It seemed a moment's reprieve. There was nothingmore to be done. Audrey sank upon the bed of fernleaves, weary and wet and worn, unable any longerto resist the craving for a little sleep.

The sailors lit a fire on the open grass beyond thehut, and grouped themselves round it to talk andrest. The poor fellows who had been dragged toshore, clinging to the rope, found their shoeless feetcut and bleeding from the sharp edges of theoyster-shells with which the sands were studded. But whenan hour or more passed by, the sunless noon broughtwith it sharper pangs of hunger to them all.

No cart had returned, no boundary rider had putin an appearance, and the men began to talk of awalk over the grass to find the mansion. They wereall agreed as to the best course for them to pursue.They must turn "sundowners"—the up-country namefor beggars—tramp across to the nearest port,begging their way from farm to farm. They knew verywell no lonely settler dare refuse supper and a night'slodging to a party of men strong enough to take byforce what they wanted.

The embankment with its swinging fence, theshepherd's hut where the girls were sleeping, toldthem where they were—on the confines of a greatsheep-run. Their route must begin with the owner'smansion, which could not be very far off, as therewas no food in the hut, and no apparent means forcooking any, so Audrey had told them. But now thestorm was dying, the captain rose to look round thehut for himself. He was wondering what to do withthe Christchurch boy he had undertaken to land atanother great sheep-run about twenty-five milesfarther along the coast It was of no use to takehim back with them, a hundred miles the other way.He hoped to leave him at the mansion. The ownermust be a wealthy man, and would most likelyundertake to put the boy on board the next steamer, whichwould pass that way in a week or ten days.

So he called to the boy to go with him, andexplained his purpose as they went. They waked upAudrey, to ask the owner's name.

"Feltham," she answered, putting her hand to herhead to recall her scattered senses; between rabbitersand sailors she was almost dazed.

To be left alone again in that empty hut, withoutfood, without her brothers, was enough to dismay astouter heart than hers. The captain spoke kindly.

"I want to see you all safe in this sheep-owner'scare before I leave you," he said. "It was stupid inthose brothers of yours to go off with the cart, foryou are too exhausted to walk."

"Did you ever hear the name of Bowen in theseparts?" asked the Christchurch boy eagerly, nursinga bleeding foot the while.

Audrey thought of the kind old gentleman inOttley's coach, and answered, brightening.

"I am his grandson," the boy replied. "I amArthur Bowen."

CHAPTER IX.

NOTHING TO EAT.

As the shock of the earthquake subsided, andBeauty rallied from his terror, his pace beganto slacken. If Edwin had not tied himself andCuthbert so securely in the cart, they might havebeen thrown out when Beauty ran away. So theknots which would not be untied proved theirprotection; and now they found themselves trottingleisurely through verdant stretches, dotted with titree and blue-gum, and overgrown with toi and flaxand rushes. Before them rose the great gates of theavenue leading to the central station-house. Thewhite front of Feltham's mansion gleamed throughthe tall stems of the trees which surrounded it;whilst beyond and around them were the sheds andwalls, the pools and bridges, comprising stock-yardsand shearing-places, where thousands of wild cattleand tens of thousands of wilder sheep were washedand dipped, and counted and branded, year after year.

The ingenious arrangement of pool and paddockand pen by which this gigantic undertaking is safelyaccomplished looked to the boys like a wooden village.

Beauty drew up at the friendly gate of his ownaccord, attracted by the welcome sounds of humanlife as stockmen and shepherds hurried out to theirmorning work. Half the hands were off to the hills;the remaining half found in consequence the moreto do. The poor terrified cattle had sufferedconsiderably. Sheep were cast in every ditch. Cowshad gored each other in their mad terror; and brokenfences told of wild leaps and escaped bulls to besought for in the neighbouring bush.

The boundary rider, whose sole duty is to paradethe vast domain and give notice at headquarters ofunwary gaps and strays, had been spurring hitherand thither, delayed by the gloom of the morningand the herds of wild bulls which had broken in,while the tame had broken out. With demolishedfences, and frightened sheep dying around them byhundreds, the little fugitives in Oscott's hut had beenforgotten.

But when the boundary rider saw a cart at hismaster's gate, blue with volcanic mud above, anddripping from below with the slime of the sea, hethought of the family from the hills waitingsomewhere for the breakfast he was to have carried in hissaddle-bag. His circuit was but half completed."I shall find them yet," he said to himself, as hegalloped up behind the cart. He saw the danglingrope, and the white faces of the two boys huddledtogether in a state of complete exhaustion. He tiedhis horse to the gate, and jumping into the cart,rattled Beauty up the avenue to his master's door,which stood wide open to all comers. For everyhour brought fresh rumours, and fresh parties offugitives who had fled precipitately from their homeswhen the storm of mud began.

He took his knife from his pocket and cut therope which tied Edwin and his brother to the cart.Some one ran out with a cup of coffee, which hepoured down their throats, and then the boys beganto revive. He wanted to take them in-doors and putthem to bed. But the relief-party had already sentdown so many sufferers from the hills every bed wasfull of children, women, and even men, who had beendug out of the muddy stream in which they weresuffocating.

As soon as Edwin could speak, he added his storyto the others, entreating the men who turned theirheads to listen, as they hurried in and out, to sendsome food to his sisters, who were left alone in Oscott'shut. As for the sailors, the feeling among Feltham'speople was decided: any one not from the hills mustbe left to take care of himself.

Just then a horseman, covered with mud and foam,came spurring towards the house, shouting to thecrowd around the door,—

"I've come for every man on the ground, by themaster's orders. Leave everything. Bring yourspades, and follow me. The nearer we get toTarawera the thicker lies the mud. Our governmentstation at Rotorua is buried beneath it, church andall. Te Ariki and Maura are nowhere to be seen.The low whares in the Maori pahs are utterlydestroyed. Wherever the roofs have been strong enoughto uphold the weight of the falling mud, the inhabitantsare alive beneath them now. Come to the rescue—come!"

The last hoarse words were scarcely audible. Theboundary rider took the unfinished cup from Edwin'slips and passed it to the man, and the boy was gladthat he did so.

A cry of "Spades! spades!" rang through theincreasing group of listeners, which seemed to gatherand disperse with equal rapidity. Mrs. Feltham madeher way through the midst to the bell-tower, andrang a frantic peal to call all hands together. Horseswere saddling; men were mounting; others werehurrying up to learn the meaning of the hastysummons. Edwin drew his cart aside under the trees towatch the departure.

Mrs. Feltham reappeared on her doorstep withknife and loaf, trying to fill every pocket with breadbefore each one rode off. She could not make herintention understood. The men, in their impatienceto be gone, would hardly stop to take it.

"Oh," thought Edwin, "they forget they will wantit all to give away."

He leaned over his brother. "Cuth, take thereins." But Cuth's numbed hands let them drop. Edwintwisted them round his arm, and with a nod and asmile made his way to Mrs. Feltham.

His voice was so weak and faint she could not hearwhat he said, but the ready hand was offering to passon the great hunches of bread she was cutting, andshe kept him at work, little dreaming how he had toturn his head away again and again to resist theimpulse to take a bite by the way. As he took thelast crust from her, and saw that it was the last, asudden faintness overcame him, and he dropped onthe stones at her feet.

"I am so very, very hungry," he said piteously.

"Why did not you tell me that before the basketwas empty?" she retorted. "You must remember, myboy, every bit of food for man and beast must beburied under this dreadful mud for miles and miles.I may have a famishing army round me before night,and how am I to feed them all? Not a crumb mustbe wasted. If you are so hungry, go into the kitchenand clear up the scraps on the men's plates. I wouldturn all the flour in the granary into bread, and feedyou every one, if I had only hands to make it andbake it. Stop," she went on; "though you are a boyyou could be of some use. You could wash and boila copperful of potatoes and pumpkins; that would besomething to set before the starving cart-loads I hopeand trust they will be successful in saving."

"No, ma'am," answered Edwin. "I must go backto my sisters. I have left them alone with a lotof rough sailors."

His "no" was round and resolute.

She took out her purse, saying almost coaxingly,"Here is a week's wage for a day's work."

"I am very sorry, Mrs. Feltham, but I really can'tstay," he persisted.

She turned away with an impatient gesture andwent in-doors.

"She takes me for some unlucky beggar," thoughtEdwin, crawling round to the kitchen door, glad toavail himself of the somewhat ungracious permissionto look out for the scraps. "It is dog's fare," thoughtEdwin, "but it is more to me than her gold." Hefound a piece of newspaper, and walked round andround the long breakfast-table, collecting into it suchmorsels as he could find. Of most of the dishes thehungry young shepherds had made a clean sweep.Still there were some unfinished crusts of bread, acorner of Melton pie, a rasher of bacon burned in thegrilling. On the dresser he discovered a bone ofmutton, evidently laid aside for the hounds. Hewould not touch the sugar in the basin, or take apeep at the contents of the cupboards, feeling himselfon his honour. The sounds within convinced himMrs. Feltham and the rest of her household were hardat work transforming the hospitable mansion into atemporary hospital, for the reception of the poorunfortunates who might be dug out alive but scarcelyuninjured.

"O Cuth, we haven't been the worst off by a longway!" exclaimed Edwin suddenly, as the brothers sattogether in their cart, enjoying their bone of mutton,quite in the doggie line, but, as Cuthbert averred,feeling themselves, as they ate, like new-made men.

Then they turned Beauty homewards. Yes, thatqueer little shanty was a kind of home. It was stilldark as in a London fog, but the shocks of earthquakewere less, fainter and farther apart.

Half-way down the road they met the party ofsailors, walking barefoot on the edge of the grass.They did not recognize the boys, but stopped to askthe way to the central station.

"We have just been there to beg for food," saidEdwin, feeling it quite "infra dig" to acknowledge thecondition in which they reached Mrs. Feltham's gate."But," he added drearily, "we could not get it. Notenough for you all."

Then he hurried on to explain the tidings from thehills and the general stampede to the rescue.

"Turn back," urged the captain, "and give us a lift."

"Lend us the cart," added Arthur Bowen. "If anyharm should come to it, grandfather will pay you forit; and as for the horse, he will get a good feed ofcorn in Feltham's stable. I will see after him."

Edwin was not sure he ought to trust the horseand cart with strangers, but the prospect of a goodfeed of corn for Beauty went a long way; for he hadnothing for the horse to eat but the winter grassaround the hut. Down he jumped.

"If there are so many men at this station," thesailors were saying, "maybe they can find us an oldpair of shoes; and if strong arms are in request, weare ready to take our turn."

They shook hands all round.

"Good-bye, my lads, good-bye. It was a brave actto back that cart into the sea, and you'll take a sailor'sblessing with you to your home, wherever it is. Ifthere is anything washed ashore from the little craft,you'll store it up high and dry until another coastercalls to fetch it away."

The promise was given on both sides. Edwinwould find his Beauty safe at Feltham's, and thecaptain his wreckage piled against the back of Oscott'shut, although they might both be miles away whenthe two were reclaimed.

Edwin took Cuthbert's hand in his and walked onin grave silence. One thing was clear—nobody wouldhave time or thought to care for them. They mustjust look out for themselves.

"It is playing at Robinson Crusoe in earnest, wefour in that little hut," said Cuthbert. "He did lotsof things to make himself comfortable, but then hewas a man."

"It won't be for long," added Edwin. "I hardlythink we shall see father to-night, but he may beback to-morrow. If we could only find something toeat. Whero and his mother lived on nuts and berriesafter the muru, but then it was autumn."

They sank again into silence. The barking of theboundary dog warned them they were near the hut,and when it died away to a low growl theydistinguished a faint, soft murmur of singing.

"Oh, hush!" they exclaimed. "Oh, listen! It isthe girls; that is Audrey."

It put fresh life into the weary feet as they heardit clearer and clearer—

"Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings."

"Heaven's gate," repeated the boys: it was the onlyword they could distinguish.

"Heaven's gate. It is a word to comfort us, forthat is never shut," added Edwin, as they stumbledagainst an uprooted ti tree. The long, tapering stem,with its waving plume of feathery leaves, barred theirprogress. Cuth was about to climb over it, for thehard brown trunk at its base was six feet round; butEdwin ran off to examine its leafy crown, where thecabbage which gave the tree its name should lie hidden.

He parted the yard-long leaflets, and felt a somethingtall and crisp growing up in their midst.

A shout of glee brought Cuth to his assistance.They pulled the pliant boughs to this side and that,and perceived what looked to them like a coil of whiteribbon, as thick and as long as a man's arm. Wasthis the cabbage of which they had heard so much,for the sake of which the lordly tree was so oftencut down and destroyed?

They tore off one of the ribbon-like flakes andtasted it.

Cuth declared it was like eating almonds, only notso hard.

"But how can we cut it without a knife?" criedEdwin, munching away at the raw flakes in his fingers,and pronouncing them a right good feed for them all,if they could but cut the cabbage out.

There might be a knife in the hut, who could say.Away they rushed to explore, guided through thetangle of flax and rushes by their sisters' voices.

The girls were sitting on the bed of fern in anabandonment of despair, scarcely daring to believetheir own ears when the refrain of their song wascaught up and repeated—

"With everything that pretty is,

My ladies sweet, arise."

"O Edwin, Edwin!" they exclaimed. "We thoughtyou too had vanished."

"We could not bear ourselves," said Effie, "so wetook to singing. We feared we were left to starveon our bed of leaves, like the 'Children in the Wood,'and we were afraid there was not a robin redbreastanywhere here to cover us up."

"Oh, but there is a robin blackbreast," retortedEdwin; "a true-born native, all the fitter for theundertaker's work. Only it is not going to be doneto-night, Dame Trot." He took the wee white facebetween his hands, and felt so strong, so vigorous, sodetermined to take care of it somehow. "I am notgoing away again, Effie." He pulled the newspaperparcel out of his pocket and tossed it into Audrey'slap. "Beggars' crumbs!" he laughed. But her cold,nerveless fingers seemed incapable of untwisting thepaper.

"Hands were made before forks!" cried Cuthbert,pushing in between his sisters, "and I've often heardthat pie-crust is made to be broken, like promises.I can spy a bill-hook in the corner, a little too big forcutting up a pie, but just the thing to chop the cabbageout of a ti tree."

Edwin spun round and shouldered it in triumph.

"There goes smash to the promise: he is off againas fast as he can go. And now for the second breakage.You must not mind my dirty pads for once, Audrey,"Cuthbert went on, pulling the pie into two pieces andmaking his sisters eat.

The slender store in the newspaper would be soonexhausted. Cuthbert, like a provident commissariatofficer, was anxious to make the most of it. He laidaside the bacon to eat with Edwin's cabbage, andpiled up the mutton-bones for their solitary neighbour,the boundary dog, who, like themselves, had beenbreakfasting on broken promise.

Audrey had recovered herself in some measure bythe time Edwin returned with his spoils.

"Who'll buy? who'll buy?" he shouted; "yardsupon yards of vegetable ribbon, white and delicateenough to make the wedding favours for the queen ofcooks."

"Oh, don't talk about cooking," put in Cuthbert;"it is so nice, let us eat it as it is."

So down they sat, breaking off flake after flakeuntil they were satisfied. As hunger diminishedspeech returned, and Audrey, who had scarcely uttereda word whilst Edwin went over all they had heardand seen at Mrs. Feltham's, became suddenly animated.A thought had struck her, but she hesitated topropose her plan too abruptly.

"Dears," she said earnestly, looking round at theother three, "father will not come back to us perhapsfor a day or two; it may even be a week. Think ofour own escape. Think if one of us had been buriedin that awful mud. How should we be feeling now?Whilst there is another life to be saved father willnot come away—no, not for our sakes, and we mustnot wish that he should."

Even Effie answered, "Oh no, we must not."

"Then," continued Audrey, still more earnestly."what are we going to do?"

"That is a poser," retorted Edwin. "The stormbrought down the ti tree, and that gave us thecabbage. The gale is dying. We had better take a walkround and look about us. We may find somethingelse. Heaven's gate is open still, Audrey. We mustbear this as patiently as we can, and help will come."

"Yes, dears," she answered, "if you can be patienthere a little longer, I think there is something I cando to help us all."

"You, Audrey?" exclaimed her brothers; "you areas white as a sheet. Let us do; we are twice asstrong as you are."

"Strength is not everything," she returned quietly."There are some things which only a girl can do.Now this is my plan. If Edwin will walk with meto the central station, I will ask Mrs. Feltham to letme help her. I will go for so much a day, and thenat night when she pays me I may persuade her tosell me some flour and meat and tea, food enough forus all, dears."

"Go out like a charwoman, Audrey!" exclaimedEdwin, in amazement. "Is that what you mean?"

"Well, yes," returned Audrey, in a considering tone,"it certainly would be the same thing, if you like tocall it so."

"'Of old men called a spade a spade,'" grumbledEdwin. "I like to give things their plain names,and then we know where we are."

"If little Mother Audrey goes out charing, Cuthwill poison himself, and then there will be no morefood wanting for him. That Mrs. Feltham looked ascross as two sticks," declared Cuthbert.

"Just listen to these proud young gentlemen,"retorted Audrey. "Erne, my dear, I turn to you tosupport me."

"I'll do as you do," returned her little sister,laying her head on her shoulder.

"Not quite so fast, Dame Trot," interposed Edwin."But if Audrey marches home at night with a bag offlour on her back, you must make it into Norfolkdumplings. Cuthbert and I, it seems, are good fornothing but to eat them."

"You ridiculous boys, why can't you be serious?"said Audrey, adding, in an aside to Edwin, "Erne istoo ill to exist on your vegetable ribbon, even if weboil it. Well, is not my plan better—"

"Than robin blackbreast and the burying business?Of course, you have shut me up," he answered.

So the decision was reached. Audrey untied herbundle. Combs and brushes, soap and towels, awell-worn text-book, a little box of her own personaltreasures, all knotted up in one of Effie's pinafores.What a hoard of comfort it represented!

"That is a notice to quit for you and me, Cuth,"remarked Edwin. "We'll take the boundary dog hisbones, and accommodate our honest charwoman witha pailful of sea-water to assist the toilet operations."

The storm had died away as suddenly as it rose,and the receding waves had left the shelving sandsstrewn with its debris—uprooted trees, old hats, andbroken boards, fringed with seaweed. A coat wasbobbing up and down, half in the water and half out,while floating spars told of the recent wreck. A kegsticking in the sand some feet below high-water markattracted the boys' attention, for Edwin was mindfulof his promise to the sailors. As they set to work toroll it up, they came upon the oysters stickingedgeways out of the sand, and clinging in clusters to therocks. With a hurrah of delight they collected agoodly heap. Here was a supper fit for a king.

CHAPTER X.

THE MAORI BOY.

The bath of sea-water which Edwin had providedin the shepherd's pail did more than anythingelse to restore poor Effie. When the arduous task ofopening the oysters was at last accomplished, by theaid of a great clasp nail and a splinter of stone, theabundant and nourishing meal which followed didthem all so much good, Cuthbert and Effie declaredthey did not mind being left alone in the hut half asmuch as when father left them by the charcoal fires.They all wanted Audrey to wait until morning, buther answer was resolute.

"No, dears; the chance might be gone. It is justwhen the men come back from the hills Mrs. Felthamwill want me. They may come in the middle of thenight. Nobody knows when, and if I am there, atleast I shall hear what they say. Perhaps they willhave been with father, and bring us a message."

This reconciled them all to her departure. Thenshe hurried away with Edwin by her side, for fearthe dark wintry day should close before she reachedher destination.

Edwin guessed the distance to be about four miles;but they were in poor order for walking, and werereduced to halting by the wayside continually. Yet,as the snail got to the top of the wall at last, so theyreached the avenue gates. Here they agreed to part.There was no more danger of Audrey losing herself,and both were uneasy at leaving Effie and Cuthbertalone so long.

During the walk they had talked over everything,which Audrey declared was the greatest comfortimaginable. Edwin did not want to go up to the houseto fetch his Beauty.

"I shall come for him to-morrow," he said; "thenI can tell you how Effie is, and we shall hear howyou are getting on."

The shades of night were gathering as Edwinturned away; but he could not lose the white lineof well-made road by which he was returning evenby starlight, yet he was afraid of encountering anyof the wild cattle, which he knew were roaming atwill among the groves and coverts which surroundedhim. He found himself a stick, and trudged along,whistling to keep his courage up.

It was a danger to which he was altogetherunaccustomed; for there is no four-footed creaturenative to New Zealand bigger than a rat, and in theprimeval forest which surrounded his home theabsence of all animal life is its marked characteristic.But here the many horses and bulls which had strayedfrom the early colonists had multiplied in the bushand grown formidable, not to speak of the pigs whichCaptain Cook let loose on the New Zealand shore,and which now, like the rabbits, overrun the island.The sound of grunting in the midst of a flax-bush orthe bleat of a bell-wether was enough to startle him.

The hoar was gathering white on the grass andsparkling like diamonds on shrivelled fronds andgloomy evergreens, when he heard the barking of theboundary dog, which told him he was nearing thehut, and his weary feet jogged on at a quicker pace.

The barking grew still more furious. A battlewas going forward. Instead of turning off towardsthe sea to find the hut, Edwin ran on to the point ofthe road where it entered another sheep-run. As itwas the public coast-road, there was no gate. Thedog was stationed there, with a chain long enough tocommand the whole breadth of the road, to keep thesheep from straying on to their neighbour's ground,and well he did his work. He seemed to know ina moment to which side the adventurous roverbelonged who dared to intrude on his beat, and senthim home with a resolute bark and a snap of thewool just to show how easily biting could follow.But the cry which succeeded the onslaught of thedog, the cry which made Edwin turn aside, was solike the cry of a child that it shot a fear throughhim Cuthbert might have been tempted to pay thedog another visit, and having no more bones to givehim, the hungry brute had seized poor Cuth instead.

As Edwin came up he could just distinguish asmall figure on the other side of the boundary vainlyendeavouring to pass. It must be Cuth, he argued,because there was nobody else about; so he shoutedto him to stand still until he came up. But insteadof obeying, the small figure darted forward once more,and a fearful yell told Edwin the dog had seized himat last.

He sprang towards them, and grasping the dog'scollar with both hands, exerted all his strength topull him off. Strong and savage as the hairy hermithad become from the loneliness of his life, he had alla dog's grateful remembrance of a kindness, andrecognizing the hand which had flung him the welcomebone earlier in the day, he suffered Edwin to chokehim off without turning on him.

"Run!" cried Edwin to the boy he had delivered;"run beyond his reach whilst I hold him."

He had no need to repeat his exhortation. Theshrieking boy fled like the wind. It was notCuthbert; Edwin knew that by the fleetness of hishare-like speed. He did his best to soothe and coax theangry dog, keeping his eye meanwhile on theretreating figure.

As the distance between them increased, Edwin letthe dog go. The fugitive changed his course, andwas circling round to regain the road. Then Edwinstarted at right angles, and so got between him andthe hut, where Effie and Cuthbert were probably asleep.

"They will be so frightened," thought Edwin, "ifhe runs in for refuge. For poor little Eff's sake Imust stop him."

So they came up face to face in the open groundbeyond the black shadow of the boundary, and eyedeach other in the starlight.

"Whero!" exclaimed Edwin.

"Ah, you!" cried the Maori boy, holding out bothhands. "To meet you is good."

"Come in with me and rest," continued Edwin."Are you hurt? It was madness to try to pass theboundary dog in the dark. He might have torn youto pieces."

Out spoke the young savage, "I would have killedhim first."

"No, no," interposed Edwin. "He is set there asa sentinel to keep the sheep from straying; he onlydid his duty."

"I," repeated Whero—"am I a sheep, to be made tofear? All the goblins in Lake Taupo should not turnme back to-night. I heard men saying in Taurangastreets the sacred three had shot forth the lightningthat made all faces pale last night and laid the talltrees low. Are not they the men from whom I springwho are sleeping the death-sleep in their bosom?Last night they awakened; they are angry. Thethunder of their voices is louder than the cannon ofthe pakeha. Why are they calling? I know not;but I answer I am theirs. I leaped out of the windowof my school, and ran as the water runs to the sea.No one could catch me, for I thought of my fatherand mother; and I said in my heart, 'Will the angerof the majestic ones fall upon the son of Hepé, orupon those who have despoiled him?'"

Edwin drew his arm within his dusky friend's."It is not the dead men's bones which are buried onTarawera but the hidden fires which have burst fromthe mountain which have done the mischief. Ourhouse went down in the shock of the earthquake,and we fled from it for our lives to the sea."

"I took the coast-road," continued Whero, "for thecoach was turned back. Trees lay everywhere in itspath; and no man knows more than I have told you."

Edwin trembled for Whero, for he rememberedhow the men had said the low whares of the nativeswere completely buried.

"Wait with us," he entreated; "wait for thedaylight."

As he began to describe the strangeness of thedisaster which had overwhelmed the district, theready tears of the Maori race poured down in torrentsfrom Whero's eyes.

Edwin led him into the hut; and finding Cuthbertand Effie fast asleep, the two lowered their voices,and sitting side by side in the starlight, went overagain the startling story until voices grew dreamy,and Edwin became suddenly aware that the eagerlistener reclining at his elbow was lost in forgetfulness.Then he too laid down his head and gained arespite from his cares and fears in the deep sweetsleep of healthy boyhood.

Effie was the first to awaken. A solitary sunbeamhad made its way through the tiny window, and wasdancing along the opposite wall. The rest of thehut was in shadow. She did not see Edwin withWhero nestling by his side, for the long fern frondsrose in heaps around her; but she heard a soundfrom the road, and called joyously to Cuthbert,—

"Get up; there is somebody coming."

Cuth tumbled to his feet; Edwin started upright.They were rushing to the door, when Whero lifteda black hand and commanded silence. His quickersense of hearing had already told him of men andhorses near at hand.

Effie eyed him in mute amazement. "Look," shewhispered at last, pointing to Whero's head, "there isa big boy-rat rustling in the leaves."

"Hush! listen!" cried her brothers.

"Is it father?" she asked, in a flutter of fear andexpectation.

The boys ran out, elate with a similar hope.But Edwin saw in a moment there was only a partyof shepherds returning for supplies. They scarcelywaited to listen to his eager questions.

"Can't stop," they shouted. "But the worst isover. All are going back to their farms. You willhave your own people coming to look you up beforelong. You are safest where you are for the present."

Their words were intended to reassure the boys—Edwinwas certain of that; but their faces were sograve, they seemed to contradict the comfortingassertion that the worst was over.

"I must hear more," cried Edwin. "I'll run afterthem and ask if any one has seen father."

The tired horses were walking slowly; one or twoseemed to have fallen lame, and all were coveredwith mud.

"We shall soon overtake them," thought Edwin;but Whero outstripped him in the chase. The shepherdslooked back. One amongst their number halted,and shouted the inquiry, "What now?"

"Did you reach the lake in the hills? How is itthere?" burst forth Whero.

"Up among the natives?" answered the shepherd,not unkindly. "Nobody knows. We did not getbeyond the road, and we found enough to do. Themud fell so thick every door and window was blockedin no time, and many a roof fell in with the weight.Everything around the mountain lies buried deep in mud."

The shriek, the howl in which poor Whero ventedhis alarm so startled the shepherd's horse it gallopedoff at a mad rate towards the mansion, just asEdwin came up, pale and panting. But Whero'sEnglish was scattered. He could only reiterate theman's last words, "Deep in mud; buried, all burieddeep in mud," and then he ran on in Maori.

Edwin and Cuthbert looked at each other in despair.It was impossible to understand what he wasevidently trying to explain.

"You wooden boys!" he exclaimed at last, as heturned away in disgust, and raced off like a haretowards the mansion.

Cuthbert was wild to follow, when a large merinoram bounded out of a group of palm trees and knockedhim over.

"Go back to Effie," urged Edwin, "and I'll watchby the roadside, for somebody else may pass."

But Cuthbert could not find his way alone, andthe brothers retraced their steps. As they drew nearthe hut, the loud barking of the boundary dog wasagain heard. Somebody might be coming by thecoast-road, somebody who could tell them more.

It was the boundary rider from the neighbouringrun, waiting and watching for the appearance of hisneighbour, to ascertain if any tidings had yet beenreceived from the lonely mountain wilds. All knewnow some dread catastrophe had overwhelmed thehills. Confused rumours and vague conjectures wereflying through the district beyond the reach of themuddy rain. Earth-slips and fallen trees blockedevery road. The adventurous few who had madetheir way to the scene of the disaster had not yetreturned.

Far as his eye could see across the grassy sweepnot a shepherd was moving. Feltham's sheep werestraying by hundreds in his master's run. Then thetwo boys came in sight, and arms were waved to attractattention; and the burning anxiety on both sides foundvent in the question, "Any news from the hills?"

As Edwin poured forth the story of their flight,another horseman was seen spurring across the open.It was a messenger Mr. Bowen had despatched theday before, to inquire among the shepherd hermits inFeltham's outlying huts, who might, who must knowmore than their seaside neighbours. But the manhad ridden on from hut to hut, all alike empty anddeserted. About nightfall, at the extreme end of therun, he came upon a man who had been struck downby the awful lightning, who told a rambling tale ofsudden flight before the strange storm.

"So," said the shepherd, "I rested my horse, anddetermined to ride round to the central station, or goon from farm to farm, to find out all I could; but atrackless swamp stretched before me. Turning aside,I fell in with a party of Feltham's men, who hadmade their way by the river-bank as far as thegovernment road. They were returning for a cartto bring off one of their number, who had beenknocked on the head by a falling tree, trying to makehis way through the bush."

"Who was it?" asked Edwin breathlessly, hisbrief colloquy with the horsem*n he had passed fullin his mind. They were the same men, but not aword as to the accident to one of the relief-party hadcrossed their lips.

The significance of their silence flashed upon him.

"It is father!" he exclaimed, "and they wouldnot tell us."

"No, Edwin, no," interposed little Cuth, with wide-eyedconsternation. "Why do you say it is father?"

"Why, indeed," repeated Mr. Bowen's man. "Itell you it was a near neighbour of the fordmaster's,who had come across to his help before the othersgot up. For Hirpington and his people were allblocked in by the weight of mud jamming upwindows and doors, and were almost suffocated; butthey got them out and into the boat when the otherscame. One man rowed them off to the nearest placeof refuge, and the others went on to look for theroadmen in their solitary huts."

Every word the man let fall only deepened Edwin'sconviction.

He grasped Cuth's hand. Was this what Wherohad tried to tell him?

The doubt, the fear, the suspense was unbearable.Their first impulse was to run after the shepherds, tohear all they had to tell. But the Bowen men heldthem back; and whilst they questioned Edwin moreclosely, Cuthbert sat down crying on the frosted grass.The boundary dog came up and seated itself beforehim, making short barks for the bone that was nolonger to be had for the asking. The noise he madeled the men to walk their horses nearer to the hut,when the debris of the wreck, scattered about thesands, met their eyes. That a coaster should havegone down in the terrific storm was a casualtywhich the dwellers by the sea-shore were wellprepared to discover. They kicked over the half-buriedboots and broken spars, looking for something whichmight identify the unfortunate vessel, and theybrought Edwin into court once again, and questionedhim closely. He assured them the sailors were allsafe, and when they heard how they had borrowedhis father's horse and cart to take them across to thecentral station, they only blamed him for hisstupidity in not having asked the captain's name.

"Yes, it was stupid," Edwin owned, "but then Idid not know what I was doing."

The sound of their voices brought Effie to the doorof the hut, and they heard a little piping voicebehind repeating, "Bowen, please sir; his name wasBowen."

"What! the captain's?" they cried.

"No, the schoolboy's," she persisted, shrinkingfrom the cold sea-breeze blowing her hair into hereyes, and fluttering her scant blue skirt, and bangingat the door until it shut again, in spite of her utmostefforts to keep it open.

Here was a discovery of far more importance inthe estimation of Mr. Bowen's men than all the rest.

"If that is our young master Arthur," they said,"coming up for the holidays, we must find him, letalone everything else. We must be off to the centralstation; and as for these children, better take themalong with us."

This was just what Edwin wanted. After a reassuringword to Effie anent the black boy-rat, he sethimself to work piling up the wreckage, with thecare of one about to leave the place.

He had not forgotten Hal's charge to stay wherehe left them.

"But better be lost than starved," said the men;and he agreed with them. Even Audrey had failedto send them food to that far-off hut. It was clearthere was no one to bring it.

"You should have gone with the sailors," said theboundary rider. "You must go with us."

He wrapped the flap of his coat over Effie asEdwin lifted her on to his knee, and his comradecalled to Cuthbert, who was hoisted up behind him;and so they set forth, Edwin walking in the rear.

As the horses trotted onwards across thefern-covered downs, the distance between them steadilyincreased, for the boy was tired. Once or twice heflung himself down to rest, not much caring aboutlosing sight of his companions, as he knew the way.

Edwin had nearly reached the gate of the avenue,when he saw Whero scampering over the grass onBeauty's back.

There was a mutual shout of recognition; andWhero turned the horse's head, exclaiming,—

"Lee! Boy! Lee! Wanderer Lee! have you lostyour horse? I went to beg bread at the station, andhe leaped over the stable-bar and followed me. Youmust give him back, as you said you would, for howcan I go to the hills without him? I want him now."

"And so do I," answered Edwin; "I want to goback with the shepherds to father."

"The men who spoke to us are gone. I saw themstart," returned Whero. "But jump up behind me,and we will soon overtake them."

For one brief moment Edwin looked around himdoubtfully. But Erne and Cuthbert were safe withAudrey by this time, and he was sure Mr. Bowen,"the old identity," their kind-hearted travellingcompanion, would take good care of all three as soon ashe heard of their forlorn condition. "His grandsonwill tell him how Cuth and I pulled him through thesurf. I had better ride back to the hills with Whero,and see if it is safe for us to go home. They mayhave taken father there already, and then I know hewill want me." So Edwin reasoned as he sprang upbehind the Maori boy. "And if I don't go withhim," he added, "we may lose our horse, and thenwhat would father say to that?"

CHAPTER XI.

WIDESPREAD DESOLATION.

As the boys rode onward a sharp and bracingwind blew in their faces. The hoar still layon the grass, and the many pools at which the sheepwere accustomed to drink were coated with ice. Butthe mysterious darkness of the preceding day wasover, and the sun shone forth once more to gild adesolated world.

Whero and Edwin were alike anxious to avoidmeeting any of Mr. Feltham's shepherds who mighthave returned to their daily work, for fear they shouldtry to stop them.

Whero, with something of his father's skill, shotforward with a reckless disregard for the safety ofEdwin's neck. But the party they were pursuingwere long out of sight.

As they reached the confines of the sheep-run, anunnatural grayness overspread the landscape. Yeton they went, encountering clouds of dust with everybreeze. The blades of grass beneath the horse's hoofs,the leaves rustling on the boughs, were all alikeloaded with it. But the cattle were still grazing,and despite the clouds of dust constantly rising, theatmosphere above was clear; and the sunshine cheeredtheir spirits.

"We will not turn back," said Edwin.

They knew, by what the shepherds had told them,the force of the eruption had expended itself; thatdanger was over. When the boys ascended higherground and gained a wider view, they coulddistinguish parties of men marching up in every direction,with their spades on their shoulders. For now thepersonal danger was diminished, the anxiety toascertain the fate of the unfortunate people living nearthe sacred heights of Tarawera predominated.

Above the range of hills there was a dense bankof steam, which rose like a wall of snowy white,extending for miles. Whero shook with terror at thesight, but Edwin urged him on. They had missedthe shepherds, but they could soon overtake the mennow in sight. Yet the longer they gazed at the hugemass of vapour, the more impenetrable it seemed. Itwas drifting slowly northwards, where it merged inanother cloud, black and restless, like smoke. It wasbut the work of the winds, stirring the vast depositof dust covering hill and forest.

Changed as the face of the country appeared to be,Whero seemed able to track his way with somethingof the unerring instinct of the hound. Emboldenedby Edwin's steadier courage, on he went, the gray,drab tint of the volcanic debris deepening aroundthem at every step, until it lay nine inches deep onthe ground, covering up all trace of vegetation. Thepoor cattle wandering in the fields were hereabsolutely without food, and the blue waters of theliquid rivulets were changed to a muddy brown, thickand repulsive. Every footfall of the horse envelopedhis riders in so dense a cloud that eyes were stingingand voices choking, until they began to exchange thisdry deposit for the treacherous, deadly mud whichhad preceded it.

This soon became so thick and sticky poor Beautycould scarcely drag his legs out again, and their pacegrew slower and slower. The time was going fast;they had scarcely gained a mile in an hour. Theydare not turn aside to view the ruins of Edwin's home.As they went deeper and deeper into the bush, theblue mud lay fifteen inches thick on all around. Theunrivalled beauty of the forest was gone. The boyscould see nothing but a mass of dirt-laden treetrunks, bending and falling beneath the weight oftheir burden. Every leaf was stripped off, and everybranch was broken short. It was a scene ofdesolation so intense Whero set up a wild wail oflamentation. All was taken from the Maori when the wealthof the bush was gone.

They gained the road; the mud was two feet thickat least, and Beauty sank knee-deep in the sulphurous,steaming slime. How they got him out again theyhardly knew. They backed him amongst the trees,seeking the higher ground. Fresh mud-holes hadopened in unexpected places, and old ones had enlargedto boiling pools, and wide areas of smouldering ashesmarked the site of the many fires the lightning hadkindled.

Could the boys have extricated themselves justthen, they might have been tempted to turn back insheer dismay. They were forced from the line whichWhero had hitherto pursued with the directnesswhich marks the flight of the crow. The trees werequivering with an earthquake shock. The hill wastrembling visibly beneath their feet. Guided by abreak in the trees, they made their way to the open.Once more the bank of cloud was visible, driftingslowly to the north; but Whero's eyes were fastenedon the distance, where he knew the lofty Tarawerareared its threefold crest.

Had the mighty chieftains of renown arisen fromtheir graves and built a wall of luminous vapouraround their sleeping-place? He quailed in abjectterror at the sight of the clouds, like ramparts risinginto the air for thousands of feet, and veined withwavy lines that glowed and shimmered with thereflection of the flames they held enshrined.

"If the arrows of their lightnings burst forth uponus," shrieked Whero, "how shall such as we escape?Better seek sleep in the cold waters of the river thanfall before the torture of their presence in the boilingmud and scorching flame."

Edwin, too, was staggered by the strangeness ofthe sight. It was the sense of unprecedented peril,the presence of dangers which no man could fathom,which overwhelmed him. But he had enough clear-sightedcommon sense to perceive the first thing to beguarded against was the frantic terror of the wilfulboy who was guiding him; for Whero, in hisexcitement, was urging Beauty to a breakneck speed. Buta change awaited them in the open glade, for there thesun and wind had dried the surface of the mud, andthe clouds of dust settling down upon it had formeda hard crust.

Edwin breathed more freely as Whero grew calmer.The horse seemed to step along with ease at first; buthis weight was too great. The crust gave waybeneath him, and they were soon all floundering in aquagmire. Edwin was flung backwards on a portionof the broken crust, which, like a floating island, wasdrifting him across the fissure. Whero clung roundthe horse's neck, clutching wildly at his mane. Beauty,with the intelligence of a fording-horse, pawed throughthe mud in quest of a firmer foothold, and found iton the trunk of a buried tree.

On this vantage-ground, being lightened of half hisload, he was preparing for a spring. At the firstmovement Whero went over his head, and Beauty,finding himself his own master, changed his mind.Under any other circ*mstances it would have beenfun to Edwin to see him feeling his way alonghis unseen bridge until he reached the roots of thetree, which, with the many tons of earth clinging inthem, rose at least ten feet into the air, a solitaryhillock around which the mud was consolidating.Here he took his stand. The boys could see himscraping away the earth and nibbling at the younggreen shoots of budding fern already forcing theirway to the upper air.

Edwin tried to propel his floating island towardsthe point where Whero was standing, like a heron,on one leg, trying to scrape the mud from the other.He edged about this way and that, until at last theboys were near enough to clasp hands. When hefelt the sinewy gripe of his dusky friend, Edwin tookthe meditated leap, and broke into the mud byWhero's side. He went down upon his hands andknees; but Whero grasped the collar of his jacket, andkept him from sinking. The crust in this place wasnearly a foot thick, and when Edwin regained hisequilibrium the two stepped lightly over it, walkinglike cats, holding each other's hands, and balancingthemselves as if they were treading on ice, until theyreached a precipitous crag, on which it was impossiblefor the mud to rest. Whero began to climb the steepascent, reaching down a hand to drag up Edwin afterhim. They gained a ledge several feet above thelower ground, and here they paused to recoverthemselves and look around for Beauty. It was a pain, agrief to both the boys to abandon him to his fate.But they dared not shout his name or attract hisattention, for fear he should attempt to cross thetreacherous waste which lay between them.

To dash the tears from their eyes, to speak as ifthey "would not care" when their hearts felt bursting,was useless; and yet they did it—risking their ownnecks in a mad desire to rush off where they could nolonger see him, and then returning for a last despairingglance, until Whero had to own he had lost his way.

Another vast column of steam hung in mid air, andwhen it lifted they could distinguish the gangs ofmen hard at work, marking the site of more than oneannihilated village. They watched them from afardigging away the mud in hopes of finding some of theinhabitants alive beneath it. A mill-sail turning inthe wind just showed itself above the blue-gray mass,and warned them that the depth of the deposit wasincreasing steadily as they drew nearer and nearer tothe sacred mountains. That moving sail told Wherowhere he was. With one hand shading his eyes hescanned the country round.

"The pakeha seeks out the pakeha, but no manturns to the Maori pah!" he exclaimed, stretching hisarms towards the wide waste of hateful blue, andpointing to the foul remains of the crystal lake—thelake by which he had been born. But where was theancient whare? where was his home?

Edwin thought only of crossing to the nearestgroup of men, throwing back the mud, right and left,with a desperate energy. He raised his voice andtried to give the "coo" for help, in the fond hope itmight reach their ears. Whero joined in the outcry,and they stood still, shouting. But the hollow echowas their sole reply.

They had wandered wide from the ford, for theywere approaching the lake from the opposite side.

They sat down on the rocky ledge, and looked ateach other in silence. A call from above startledthem. It was a shrill but far-off voice that was nothuman.

Whero, with all a Maori's belief in evil spirits,shook with terror, and his howling shrieks filled theair and drowned the distant sound.

"Oh, hush!" entreated Edwin. "Shut up! do,and let us listen."

They heard it plainly once again—the long-drawnMaori word "Hoké" (Return, return), followed, inquicker accents, by Whero's name. He looked upterror-stricken, surveying the rocky steep above theirheads, and gasped out, almost fainting,—

"You know not where you are. This hill is tapu,and he who breaks tapu is sure to die."

"Bosh!" retorted Edwin. "If you would onlyspeak English I should know what you mean."

His arms went round the poor boy, who seemedready to die, as many a Maori has died before, ofpure fright at the thought of breaking tapu—that is,touching anything the chief has made sacred. ButEdwin did not understand his dread.

"Don't be such a coward," he expostulated; "I'llstand by you."

"Hoké! hoké!" rang out the bird-like voice."Whero, hoké!"

The lofty summit of the hill gave back the cry.

"Go up," urged Edwin. "Some of your peoplemay have taken refuge here. Whatever you meanby tapu, it can't scare me. You daren't go! then letme try."

There was a rift in the scarped side of the hill,where human hands had cut a foothold here andthere, making the ascent possible. Whero crept alongthe edge and swung himself over. Edwin crawledafter him, and climbed up with less difficulty than heexpected. "Hoké" was piped above their heads, andWhero's courage failed him once again. He sankupon a stone, with every nerve quivering. TheEnglish boy climbed on, and found himself at last upona bit of table-land which from its height seemed tohave escaped the general devastation; for the groundwas still covered with the dried remains of summervegetation. He passed between the tree-like fernsuntil he came upon a spot, bare and dry, without asign of a scrap of undergrowth of any kind or at anytime. It might have been about three-quarters of anacre, and was completely arched over by theinter-woven boughs of four or five gigantic trees, whicheven the storm of mud could not penetrate. Edwingazed at their majestic trunks, full sixty feet incircumference, ranged around him like the columns ofone of nature's temples, with a kind of awe.

The ground on which he stood was hard and dusty,and yet he knew, by the fern and the creeper throughwhich he had reached it, this unusual clearance wasnot the work of the eruption. It looked as if itmight have been thus barren for ages.

The roots of the trees had grown out of the ground,and were twisted and coiled over and over like agroup of mighty serpents transfixed and fossilized byancient sorcery. Among them lay the human relicsof a barbarous age. The very stones on which hetrod had once been fashioned by the hand of man.There were axe and spear heads, knives and chisels,embedded in the fibrous coils; and were they humanskulls and bones which lay there whitening by theirside? Edwin recoiled in horror. A bird flew downfrom the leafy dome, and alighted near him, renewingits wailing cry, "Hoké, hoké." Edwin saw by thecrimson feathers of its breast it was a species ofmacaw—an escaped pet from some of the buriedhomes around him.

He called it a little nervously at first, as if it haddyed its plumage in the blood of the murderedcaptives whose bones lay white at his feet. The birdswooped round, beating the air with its outspreadwings, and darting forward as if it had half a mindto perch upon his outstretched hand.

When were Edwin's pockets ever empty? He wasfeeling in them now for a few dry crumbs wherewithto tempt the wailing bird.

It fluttered nearer at the welcome sight, for grainor insects were nowhere to be found in that place ofdearth. It came at last, and nestled, as it hadevidently been taught to nestle by its unknown master,close against Edwin's cheek. He grasped it by thewings, and gently smoothed its ruffled feathers.

"Whero," he shouted, running back with it to thebrow of the hill, "Whero, it is a bird."

The sound of his own voice seemed to break thespell of horror which had fallen over him, and herushed away from serpent root and blighted boughwith which nature herself had written on the hatefulspot, "Accursed."

He no longer wondered that the Maori boy refusedto go with him. The slightest suspicion of impatienceand contempt had vanished from his tone when hespoke again.

"Look at it, Whero."

But Whero looked not at the bird, but at his friend.

"Did you go far?" he asked.

"Only to the top," answered Edwin.

"Not to the top," persisted Whero, lowering hisvoice and whispering hoarsely. "There is a spot upthere, a fatal spot, where the grass never grows andthe air breathes death. Ask me not for more. Come away."

He seized Edwin's arm and drew him backwards.The desolate bird shook itself free, and flew to himwith a cry of joy.

"It is my kaka," he exclaimed, "my own dearredbreast, calling out, 'Return.'"

"Are you satisfied, Whero?" asked Edwin, in tonesof heartfelt sympathy. "Have we searched farenough? Shall we go back and try to make ourway to the ford or across to the diggers?"

"Not yet," answered Whero; "I would see the spotwhere the great hot stone used to be."

"It is buried," Edwin went on, "too deep in themud for us to find, I'm afraid."

Whero flung himself on the ground, exclaimingwildly, "All lost! all gone! why don't you tangi overme?"

"I would, if it would do you any good; but Idon't know how," said Edwin, bluntly. "We are notsure yet, Whero; your people may have rushed awayin the night as we did. We will hope to the last."

In his despair Whero had let the kaka fly, andEdwin watched it wheeling over the space betweenthem and the lake, until it settled down in whatappeared to him to be a hole in the all-pervading mud.

"He has found something," cried Edwin, hurryingdown the steep descent in a wave of excitement.Whero shrieked after him to stop him; so once againthe boys rested awhile, and ate up the remainder ofthe bread in Whero's pockets. It was Edwin's lastresource to revive the wild boy's failing courage, andit partially succeeded.

"Edwin," he said, "am I alone in the world—thelast of the proud race who owned the fastness in thissteep hill-top and the hot stone by yonder lake?Have I nothing left to me but this awful place wheremy grim forefathers held their victory-feast? Willyou come and live with me there?"

"In that ogre's castle!" exclaimed Edwin, with ashudder. "A moment ago you dare not follow meto its threshold, and now—"

"I have been thinking," interrupted Whero, "Imust not slight so strange an omen as the kaka'scall. Are the mighty dead using his voice to callme back (for I should have fled the place); to remindme what I have now become—a chief of the hills,who can make and unmake tapu as he pleases? Letus go up and swear to be true to each other for everand ever and ever, as my forefathers used to swearon the eve of battle."

"I will stand by you," said Edwin, earnestly; "onthe honour of an Englishman I will. I'll go downto the lake with you. Better see what the kaka hasfound than climb the hill again. Come."

He put his arm round Whero and began thedangerous descent. A fallen tree bridged their path.The tremor of an earthquake was beginning. Theyflung themselves at once on their faces, for fear theyshould be rolled over down the treacherous steep.As Edwin lay resting his arms against the fallentree, he scanned once more the break in the muddycrust round which the kaka was still wheeling.

What did he see, or what did he fancy he couldsee at such a distance? Was it a blackened fragmentof pumice-stone the bird was hovering over with itswailing cry, or was it the quaint old carving on thepointed roof of Nga-Hepé's whare? Whero's eyewas fastened on the spot. Could he too see it? Theywere afraid of losing their foothold, as the tree, likeeverything else, was covered with the sticky slime,and crawled along the trunk one after the other,Whero leading the way. It landed them on the topof the mud-heap, and they walked across the driedcrust, as they had been able to do on the other side.

The stillness of the desert was around them.Little life of any kind seemed to have escaped thewidespread destruction. A lonely gull had flown upwith the morning breeze, and was pursuing the deadfish across the lake, as they floated entangled in thedrift of the wind-torn foliage which strewed its surface.

On they walked, until Whero was satisfied that thedead level they were crossing must cover the site ofthe Rota Pah. Even the strong wall which defendedit was buried. Yet it was a wall strong enough andhigh enough to resist the attack of English assailants.

The wintry breezes sweeping over the lake haddried the mud more thoroughly on this side of thehill. The crust beneath their feet was thicker andfirmer.

The boys ran lightly across the intervening space.As Whero drew near to the hole, the bird alightedon his shoulder, and putting its beak to his ear,exchanged its painful cries for a soft, low, warblingnote.

Edwin was sure now they saw the ridge of thehigh-peaked roof of Nga-Hepé's whare.

CHAPTER XII.

EDWIN'S DISCOVERY.

Edwin rubbed off the mud from the boss at thepoint of the gable, and gazed upon the hideousface, which was neither bird's nor man's, but the same,the very same, which had attracted his attention whenhe went with Nga-Hepé to his home. Edwin lookedup. The words upon his lips seemed to die away inpity for the Maori boy. At last he whispered huskily,"Whero, there is something here."

"My home! my home!" was the passionate response,as Whero flung himself across the ridge and huggedthe wooden face as if it were a living thing.

Edwin was thinking of all Mr. Bowen's men hadsaid: how the doors and windows of the ford-househad been blocked by the mud with such rapidity therewas not time for Mr. Hirpington and his people toget away. He recalled all he had ever heard or readof the frightful colliery accidents when the minershad been entombed for days, and of cottages buriedbeneath an avalanche of snow. A bitter andoverwhelming feeling of self-reproach rose in his heart."Oh, why did we linger by the way and follow thebird? We ought to have hurried here at once. OWhero, I did not realize, I did not half understand.Help me," Edwin went on, for Whero had begun toraise his howling dirge—"help me to make a holethrough the roof, for fear there should be anybodyleft inside."

"Have I come to the hot stone of my fathers tofind it a place of graves?" groaned Whero, pausing inhis wail.

"Mr. Hirpington got away in his boat; yourfather may have taken to his canoe," urged Edwin,clinging to hope to cheer his companion.

A bound, and Whero was up among the leaflessboughs of the grand old trees which had sheltered hishome.

Were the canoes gone? His eye roved along thereedy swamp for each familiar mooring-place, but allwas changed. Mud-banks and shoals surrounded themurky pool, and his landmarks were gone. Yet morethan one canoe was embedded in the new-made morass,and he cried out in despair.

Meanwhile Edwin was tugging at the bulrushthatch with all his might. As the hole increased withhis efforts, he caught the echo of a feeble sigh. Heshouted to Whero, and tore away at the rushes withfrantic desperation. A knock made answer. Thewintry day was darkening to its close, and Edwinfelt that the task was beyond him. He could notunroof the well-built whare, with no fork to help himand single-handed.

"We must get across the bush somehow, and fetchthe men we saw at work on the other side of the hill."

But nothing which Edwin could urge could induceWhero to leave the spot. He sat on the ridge of theroof with the fidelity of a dog, howling and wailing,only pausing to bury his head in the thatch to listento the faint and feeble sounds within. Edwin watchedhim breathlessly for a moment or two. They had letin the air through the hole he had made; but thebrief New Zealand twilight would soon be over, andwhat more could they do in the darkness of night?He sprang to his feet. "I'm off, Whero," he shouted."Trust me, I'll never rest until I get you better helpthan mine."

He ran across the mud. It was growing harder andharder in the keen frosty air. He knew the wind wasblowing from the lake, so that if he were careful toturn his back to the breeze, he could not lose his way.

Edwin had almost reached the hill, when he hearda voice "cooing" in the distance. It was not Whero's.But the swift transition with which night comes on inNew Zealand shrouded him in sudden darkness; andwhilst he waited for the rising of the stars, he heardthe shouts drawing nearer, and gave the answering"coo" with all his might. He could distinguish theecho of a horse's hoofs on the hardening ground.There was no doubt about it now, the rider was comingfast. He shouted with renewed energy; and then theSouthern Cross shone out in all its brilliancy, and thehorseman perceived the small dark figure waving botharms in the air, and galloped towards him.

In another moment Edwin was grasping hands withhis old friend the coachman.

"What! you, my lad, up here?" exclaimed Ottley;and as Edwin answered, the sight of the prancinghorse that Ottley was riding shot a pain through hisheart. It was so like his own beloved Beauty,abandoned on his little islet in that sea of mud.

The tears came rushing into Edwin's eyes, until hecould see no more. He tried to answer. The horsehad turned its head to listen with quick, impatientmovements, until it fairly rubbed its nose againstEdwin's shoulder.

His arms went round its arching neck with a cryof delight. It was his own, his own, own Beauty.

"Yes," said Ottley, "I knew him again. Isupposed he had strayed, for I came upon him standingshivering against such shelter as the roots of anupturned tree could afford him. He was not difficultto catch, and he has brought me on. I got my coachalong some miles beyond Cambridge, and found theway completely blocked, so I have left it there, andcome to give what help I could. I can spare thetime it would have taken me to reach the end of myroute. I have been working with a party of diggersat Te Wairoa. Then I determined to come across andsee how it fared with my old friend at the ford, andnow I find you wandering alone. Come, get upbehind me. It is not the first time you and I havecrossed these wilds together."

"Oh no," answered Edwin; "and I want youworse than even then. You must come with me atonce to the help of the Maori chief. We have foundhim buried alive, with his whole family, beneath thisawful mud—but I think not yet quite dead. I feelas if God had sent you here to save them."

Then Edwin poured out his story, and explainedhow he had encountered Whero, and how they hadcome on together to find their fathers.

Whilst he was yet speaking Ottley alighted."Take your horse, lad," he said, "and ride as fast asyou can; the mud will bear you now. As soon asyou get to the brow of that hill, you will see thecamp-fire of the diggers in the distance. Make thatyour guide. You will find them by that in thenight when you could not have found your way inthe daylight and the dust. Trust to Beauty to avoidthe boiling jets; they are opening everywhere. Youcan give this message from me to the first party ofdiggers you come to. Tell them I want help badly,by the lake. Be a brave lad, and remember thatmore lives than we can reckon are depending on yourspeed."

Then Ottley took out his match-box, and sharingits contents with Edwin, charged him, if he happenedto lose his way or meet with any obstacle he couldnot pass, to choose a dry tree and set it on fire. "Theblaze will be seen for miles through the leafless forest,and will be sure to bring you help," he added, as heput the boy on the horse and set off at a swingingpace towards the buried whare, over which the kakawas still hovering.

The emergency was so great, Edwin felt himselfbeyond all personal fear, which might have dauntedhim at any other time had he been obliged to ridealone in the night through those desolate wilds. Hepatted Beauty's neck, and heartened himself up withthe thought of the eternal presence of the Unseen,ever ready, ever near to help and guide, givingstrength in weakness and light in darkness. Whenwill, desire, and trust meet in one point, that pointis faith, the strongest power within the human breast.It upheld Edwin, worn and weary as he was, in thatlonely ride. He had cleared the rising ground. Thecamp-fire glimmered in the distance; but Beauty, whohad had neither food nor water since the morning,began to flag. Then Edwin remembered Ottley'scharge, and looked about for a dry tree.

He found one smouldering still, in the midst of ascorched circle—the dying remains of a bush fire,kindled by the lightning on the night of the eruption.

He gathered up the charred branches fallen aroundit, and fanned the glowing embers to a flame. Oneof the incessant earthquake shocks scattered his firejust as he had got it to burn. He did his work overagain. The blaze roared up into the midnight sky.He tied Beauty to a tree at a little distance, and satdown before his fire, thankful for the momentaryrest. He could have fallen asleep. He was afraidthat he might do so unawares, for he felt he wassuccumbing to the genial warmth. The change wastoo great after being exposed for so many hours tothe chill of the night, and he fainted.

When Edwin came to himself he was lying undercanvas. A cup was held to his lips by some unknownhand, and as he tasted its warm contents, voice cameback to him. He asked feebly, "Where am I? Ican't remember."

"Never mind then, my boy," said his rough nurse,in kindly tones which were not altogether strange."You are with those who will take care of you to thelast. There, sleep, and forget your troubles."

"Sleep!" repeated Edwin, starting up. "Whatbusiness have I with sleep when Mr. Ottley sent mewith a message?"

"Ottley! who is Ottley?" asked another voice.

"The coachman fellow who helped us at TeWairoa," answered the first speaker.

Edwin roused himself, saying earnestly,—

"He wants you to go to his help. He wants helpbadly by the lake amid the hills."

"Where is that?" asked the men of each other.

"I'll guide you," said Edwin. "I'll show you the way."

"Not you," they answered simultaneously. "Youjust lie here and sleep in safety. Some of the otherfellows will know. That will be all right."

As they laid him back on the blanket, Edwin sawin the dim, uncertain light the rough sleeve of a bluejacket.

"What! surprised to meet us here, my boy?" saidthe voice, which he now knew to be the captain's."Though our feet were sore with dragging over theoyster-bed, we went back with Feltham's shepherds.When we saw your fire flash up against the nightsky, says some of the fellows, 'That is a signal,' and offthey went to see, and when they brought you intocamp I knew you in a moment."

Edwin grasped the horny hand held out to himwith a smile.

"Where is my horse?" he asked.

"Tethered outside; but there is not a bit of foodto give him—no, not a single bite. But lie still andsleep and eat yourself, and in a few hours you will beall right."

When Edwin waked again it was daylight. Apiece of camping-out bread and a cup of water stoodbeside him, but every man was gone.

He took the breakfast they had provided, andwalked to the door of the tent eating his bread.There was no one in sight but Beauty, looking verywretched for want of food. Edwin broke the crumbfrom his piece of bread, and carried it to him.

"We will go shares, old fellow," he said, pattinghim, "and then you will carry me to father.

'What must be, must;

But you shall have crumb,

If I have crust.'"

He looked about the tent, and found a small pail.The hiss and splash of bubbling water guided him tothe geyser. He knew the men would not have putup their tent unless there had been a spring at hand.He filled his pail with the boiling water, and left itto cool for Beauty's benefit. Still he thought theycould not be very far off, or they would not have lefttheir tent. But he was afraid to waste time lookingabout him. Some of the party had no doubtremained behind. He longed to follow the captain,and go back to Ottley and Whero, for when theirwork was over by the lake he knew they would helphim to find his father. Edwin found a charred stickwhere the men had made their camp fire. He wrotewith it on a piece of bark:—

"Good-bye, and thanks to all kind friends. I amgoing back to Ottley.—EDWIN LEE."

Then he gave poor Beauty his water, and startedoff for the Rota Pah. He was trusting to the horse'ssagacity. "If I give him the rein," he thought, "heis safe to take the road to his old home."

But no brief spell of sleep, with its blessedforgetfulness, had come to Whero. He had kept his lonelyvigil on the tumbled thatch, chanting his mournfuldirge until the echoes rang. There, with thestarshine overhead, and that strange cloud through whichthe fire still flashed rising like a wall between himand the sacred hills, he felt himself abandoned byearth and heaven. But his despair had reached itsclimax. The help which Edwin had gone to seekwas nearer than he thought. A long, dark shadowwas thrown across the star-lit ground, and Ottleyhastened towards him, exclaiming,—

"Stop that howling. Be a man, and help me.We'll soon see if there is any one alive beneath thatthatch."

He found himself a pole among the broken armsof the trees, and set to work tearing away the thatchuntil the starlight waned, and the darkest hour of allthe night put a stop to his efforts.

But in many places the roof was stripped to itsrafters, so that the cold night breeze could enterfreely. Whero was gathering the heaps of dustyrush which Ottley had flung off to make a fire. Thecheery flames leaped upward, but were far tooevanescent to do more than give a glimpse into theinterior of the whare. But Ottley saw something inthe dark corner of the room like a white dress,fluttering in the admitted gust. Could it be the thin whitesheet in which Kakiki had chosen to disguise himself?

Brief as the blaze had been, it had served as abeacon to guide the captain and his mates to the spotwith their spades and bill-hooks. To chop away thebeam, to build a more substantial fire with thesplintered wood, was easy now. Whero leaped throughthe hole, and reappeared with his mother in his arms.The captain swung himself down after him, directedby Ottley to "that something white in the corner." Hedragged it forward—a senseless burden. Aspade full of ice from above was dashed into theunconscious face of the aged chieftain resting on hisshoulder. As Kakiki Mahane opened his eyes, thefirst thing he saw was the well-remembered face ofOttley looking down upon him, and the first thinghe heard was the heartfelt murmur which ran throughthe little group above, "In time! thank God, in time!"

CHAPTER XIII.

FEEDING THE HUNGRY.

As Edwin crossed the desolated bush, the morningsun lit up the marvellous cloud-banks with aflush of pink and gold that held him spell-bound withthe strangeness of the sight, until the dust-drift beforehim began to tremble visibly with an earthquakeshock. He was not wrong in his estimate of Beauty'sintelligence, but the weary horse poked his headforward and walked languidly. Edwin avoided the hillwhere he had found the kaka. He shrank from thegruesome spot even by daylight.

He was trying to find a safe pathway to the lake,when he saw Ottley walking rapidly towards him.He waved his arm to the boy to stop. As they drewnear to each other, Edwin almost shuddered, expectingto hear nothing but ill news. He was bitterlyreproaching himself for not having asked the captain ifhe had heard anything of his father.

But Ottley shouted out "Well met" in a cheerytone, adding dryly, "I hope you got some breakfastat the camp, for on this side of the bush it is veryhard to find. We have been at it all night.Nga-Hepé has not yet come round; but Marileha is saved,and her white-haired father too. We have done whatwe could, with nothing to help us but the keen frostyair and muddy water. Now we must have food, formost of the villagers from the Rota Pah had takenrefuge with them. The mud slipped off the slopingroof of Nga-Hepé's whare when half the huts in thepah lay crushed beneath its weight. I am going tothe ford to see if Hirpington has come back to hisplace. He kept a full store-room at all times."

"O Mr. Ottley," exclaimed Edwin, "let me go too,for father may be with him."

"No, he is not, my boy," returned Ottley,compassionately. "He was the first in the field, and didwonders. He has been hurt by a falling tree, but anold fellow they call Hal is taking care of him in oneof the tents. I'll show you where."

"Show me at once," entreated Edwin. "I must goto father first, wherever he is. I have been such avery long while trying to find him. Is it very farfrom here?"

"No," answered Ottley; "but you must wait untilI can take you there. You had better come with menow, and get some food for your father whilst I cangive it to you. If Hirpington has not come back, wemust dig into the house and help ourselves, and reckonthe pay when we meet."

"Please, Mr. Ottley," burst in Edwin, "tell me allabout father. Is he much hurt?"

"My boy," exclaimed Ottley, "I know no morethan you do; but if he is roughing it, as our fellowsdo up there alone, better wait and see what I can find."

Edwin felt the force of this reasoning, and said nomore. Ottley laid his hand on Beauty's rein, andwalked beside him.

Suddenly Edwin looked up, exclaiming, "This isSunday morning!"

"And a strange Sunday it is," answered Ottley,somewhat dreamily, as his thoughts went back toSundays long ago, bringing with them an echo of thechurch-going bells, to which his ear had so long beena stranger. "Sunday up country in New Zealand,"he went on, "is little beside a name, except to thosewho can hear the sermon of the stones and read thebooks—"

"In the running brooks," added Edwin; "and goodin everything. But is it so?"

"Nature's voices have been speaking in tones towhich all must listen," continued Ottley. "Yet theLord was not in the earthquake and the storm, but inthe still small voice."

His words were slow and grave, so unlike his usualtones Edwin listened in silence, and in silence theyapproached the ford. Even Beauty's footsteps wereinaudible, for the mud by the river had not dried asfast as elsewhere.

The boy's heart was heavy with apprehension ashe looked up, expecting to see the familiar gate; butnot one trace of post or gate remained. The acaciatree in which the lamp used to hang was riven asunder.The grassy mound and the gorse hedge were gone.The road had been raised by the mud and dust to thelevel of the farm-yard wall. Almost without knowingthey did so, they went straight over it, and foundthemselves even with the window of the hay-loft.The roof of the house was crushed in, and its doorsand windows banked up with mud. As they lookedround at it, Edwin pointed to the hole his father musthave made when he extricated his friend's family. Aman was getting out of it at the moment. They stoodquite still and watched him draw up a full sack after him.

"There is some one before us on the same errand,"said Edwin; but Ottley hushed him without replying.

The man looked round as Edwin's voice broke theprofound stillness. Ottley shouted to him, "Waitwhere you are, mate, and I will come to your help."

The coachman knew if the man were on honestwork intent he would gladly accept his offer, for thesack was so full he could hardly move it. But hethought, if the fellow is a thief, he will try to get ridof me. Ottley turned to Edwin, saying carelessly,with the air of one at home in the place, "You willfind some hay for your horse inside that window.Give him a good feed, whilst I look round and see ifall is safe."

He was speaking loud enough for the man to hearhim. He was trying to make the fellow understandthat he was there to protect Mr. Hirpington's property.He left Edwin to feed his horse, and walked quicklyacross the heaps of mud Mr. Lee had shovelled awayfrom the window nearest to the water.

The man had let the sack drop, and now stood idlyon the main beam, which had not been displaced, asif he too were surveying the extent of the mischief.Ottley leaped across and stood beside him, observing,"The colonists are everywhere returning to theirhomes. The general opinion seems to be that thedanger is over. Hirpington may be expected anyminute. I came over to help him."

The men stood looking at each other, and Edwinrecognized the fellow on the roof. It was the rabbiterwho had spoken to him in the dark when he thoughtno one could hear him but his father.

"O Mr. Ottley," he called out, "it is one of therabbiters who came to our help."

"And are you the farmer's son?" asked the man,descending from the roof to speak to him.

Edwin was feeling very grateful to the rabbiters.Hal was nursing his father, and he looked on them asfriends. So when the man approached and asked himwhat he had come to the ford for he answered himfreely, explaining all that had happened since theyparted. Edwin ended his account with the dismayingintelligence, "Mr. Ottley says there is no food to behad—nothing to give the poor Maoris to eat—so wehave come to look if we can find any food amongthese ruins."

"No harm in that," returned the man quickly."We are all on the same errand."

These were Edwin's own words, and he smiled, notknowing anything of Ottley's suspicion that the manwas bent on plunder. The rabbiter walked off, andthey saw no more of him.

Ottley continued his examination of the premises.The house to the river-side was not greatly damaged.If the roof were repaired, Mr. Hirpington couldinhabit it again, and clear away the mud from thegarden side at his leisure. But Ottley had no idea wherehis friend had taken refuge. He could send him nowarning to return and see after his property. Thewindow of the store-room looked to the river. Ashe went round to examine it, he found the oldford-horse wading about in the water, cropping at theweeds which grew on its margin. When Dunter lethim loose—for no power on earth could make himtravel on land—he swam down stream, and returnedto his beloved ford, which he had crossed and recrossedseveral times, for his own gratification. Ottley calledhim out of the water, and led him round to sharethe hay with Beauty. He was anxious about hisown coach-horses, for whose benefit the store of hayhad been provided. They were gone. ProbablyMr. Hirpington had opened the stable-doors at the firstshock of earthquake. The hay was his own, and hetold Edwin to tie up a bundle and take it away withhim for Beauty. He was glad to see the man had goneoff quietly, and said no more about him. He saw nooccasion to put Edwin on his guard, as he was goingto take him back to his father directly. He had notmuch faith in any boy's discretion, and he thought hemight talk about the man to Hal.

Ottley knew well, when there were so manyabandoned homes and so many homeless wanderers, whatwas sure to follow. "But," he said to himself, "thisstate of things will not last many days; yet a lot ofmischief may be done, and how is the property to beprotected? Life must stand first. A good dog wouldguard the ruins, but Hirpington's must all havefollowed their master."

He crawled into the hay-loft and pulled out atarpaulin, which, with Edwin's assistance, he spread overthe broken roof, and fastened as securely as he could,to keep out the weather and other depredators. Thenhe cut away the lattice of the store-room windowwith his pocket-knife, until he had cleared a spacebig enough for Edwin to slip through.

"This feels like house-breaking," said the boy witha laugh, as his feet found a resting-place onMrs. Hirpington's chopping-block, and he drew in hishead and stood upright.

"Ah! but it is not," returned Ottley gravely."All this is accommodation provided for my 'coach,'and paid for. It will be all right between me andHirpington. If anybody talks of following in oursteps, tell them what I say. Now hand me up thatcheese, and the ham on the opposite shelf, and look ifthere is a round of beef in salt. There should bebovril and tea and sugar somewhere. We may wantthose for your father. Now for the flour!"

Edwin undid the window from the inside, but hecould not lift a sack of flour. He handed up abiscuit-tin, and pound after pound of coffee, until Ottleybegan to think they had as much as they could carryaway. Like a careful housekeeper, Mrs. Hirpingtonkept the door of her store-room locked, so they couldnot get through to the kitchen to find the bacon.Where Mrs. Hirpington kept her bread was a puzzle.Then Ottley remembered there was another pantry;but they could not get at it. He discovered twogreat baskets in the loft, used in the fruit-gathering.He slung them over Beauty's back, and filled themfull. Edwin got out of the window again, and shutit after him. Mrs. Hirpington's pastry-board wasconverted into a temporary shutter. But as allOttley's fastenings had to be done on the outside,they could also be undone if any one were so minded.Yet this consideration could not weigh against thestarving people by the lake. Ottley pulled the haystill in the loft close up to the window, which theyleft open, so that the old forder could help himself.Then they attempted once again to cross the bush.Poor Beauty was terribly annoyed by his panniers.He conceived the wild idea of rolling over on theground, to get rid of them. But Ottley promptlycircumvented all such attempts. As for the load ofhay on his back, Beauty was decidedly of opinion thebest way to free himself from that was to eat it up.Edwin contented him with an occasional handful, andmuch patting and coaxing to soothe his ruffled temper.

It was the middle of the day before they reachedNga-Hepé's whare, which the kindly band of excavatorshad so expeditiously unroofed. When their workwas over in that direction, they had dug into themud heaps which marked the site of the Rota Pah,and many a poor Maori had been lifted into lightand air.

Some of the inhabitants of the village had rushedout at the first alarm, and had escaped in their canoes;others had taken refuge in Nga-Hepé's strongly-builtwhare; but many had perished beneath their fallingroofs.

The captain and his mates had bent all theirenergies to the task. They had shovelled away themud from the council-hall, which was also, accordingto Maori custom, the sleeping-room of the tribe.Here they found men, women, and children huddledtogether, for the stronger beam of its roof had notyet given way under the weight of the mud. Theyhad carried the survivors to the fire on the bank ofthe lake, and left them in Whero's care, to awaitOttley's return with the food. There was nothingmore that the captain and his companions could dohere. But other lives might yet be saved elsewhere;and they hurried back to the help of the comradesthey had abandoned when Ottley's message reached them.

The natives, swathed in their mats and blankets,were lying in groups on the frozen mud, still gaspingand groaning, suffering as much from terror as fromphysical exhaustion. But the rich men of the tribe,who may always be known by some additional bit ofEuropean clothing, were not among them.

The aged patriarch Kakiki, who had been amongthe first to rally, had raised himself on his elbow, andwas asking eager questions about them.

"Where is Pepepe? Hopo-Hopo where? Arethere none to answer?" he demanded, gazing at thedazed faces around him. "Then will I tell you.They are struck by the gods in their anger. Whoare the gods we worship? who but the mightyones of the tribe—men whose anger made the bravetremble even here on earth. Who then can hope tostand against their anger in the dwelling of the gods?Is not Hepé the terrible one foremost among them?Did ye at all appease him when ye sent the tana toa son of his race? See his vengeance on Pepepe!He lies dead in the pah, he who proposed it. Whoshall carry up his bones to the sacred mountain, thathe may sleep with his fathers? The gods will havenone of him, for has he not eaten up their child? Yewho brought hunger to this whare, in this place hashunger found you. Ye left Nga-Hepé naught buta roof to shelter him; he has naught but that shelterto give you now. As the lightning shrivels up thefern, so shame shall shrivel up the tongue which asksof him the food of which ye have robbed him."

He ceased speaking as Ottley came in sight. Wherowas hidden among the reeds, filling a pail he hadexhumed with the muddy water from the lake. Fouror five of the other Maoris staggered to their feet andintercepted the horse, clamouring and snatching atthe food in its panniers. They had eaten nothingsince the night of the eruption. The supply Ottleyhad brought looked meagre and poor amongst so many,and whilst he promised every man a share, he steadilyresisted all their attempts to help themselves until hecame up with the little cluster of women and childrencowering between the heaps of thatch, when a dozenhands were quickly tearing out the contents of thebaskets.

Old Konga seized a stick and tried to beat themoff, while Marileha stood behind her imploring herold friends to remember her famishing babes.

Edwin was pushed down, but he scrambled up andran to meet Whero, as Kakiki Mahane rose slowlyfrom the ground and laid a detaining hand upon thehorse's mane. "Who fights with starving men?" heexclaimed, and the stick fell from Ronga's hand inmute obedience.

"What is the matter?" asked Whero, as the boysstood face to face. "There is trouble in your eyes,my brother—a trouble I do not share."

"Ottley has promised to take me on to father;the time is flying, and he cannot get away," saidEdwin.

Whero's cheek was rubbed softly against his, aword was whispered between them, and Whero wentround to where his own father lay groaning on theground, leaving his pail behind him. "Father, father,rouse yourself," he entreated, "or the men of the pahwill tear the kind coachman to pieces!"

Edwin caught up the pail and threw away themuddy water which Whero had taken such pains toreach, but no vexation at the sight brought theslightest cloud to his dusky face.

"Throw me that tin of coffee," shouted Edwin tothe resolute Ottley, who was dividing the food sothat every one should have a share, according to hispromise.

The desired tin came flying through the air. Edwinemptied its contents into his pail. "Whoever wantscoffee," he cried, "must fill this at the geyser."

Nga-Hepé lifted his head from the ground wherehe had been lying, apparently taking no notice, andsaid something to his wife. She moved slowly amidstthe group until she reached her old friend thecoachman. "Go," she whispered. "The boiling spring ischoked by the mud. The men are scattering to findanother. Go before they return. In their heartsthey love you not as we do. Go!"

He put the remainder of his stores into her hands,sprang upon Beauty, and caught up Edwin behindhim. They looked back to the old man and thechildren, and waved their hands in farewell, takingnothing away with them but the bovril and the teain Edwin's pocket.

They rode on in silence until they felt themselvesbeyond the reach of the excited crowd. Both werelooking very grave when at last they reached thetent where Mr. Lee was lying. The lowering skiesbetokened a change of weather.

"Rain," said Ottley, looking upwards; "but rainmay free us from this plague of dust."

Hal, who had heard their steps approaching, cameout to meet them. Whilst he was speaking to Ottley,Edwin slipped off the horse and ran into the tent.He found his father lying on the ground, apparentlyasleep. He knelt down beside him and listened tohis heavy breathing. The dreamy eyes soon openedand fastened on his face.

"Don't you know me, father?" asked Edwin, takingthe hand which hung down nervelessly in both of his.

"Where are the little ones?" asked Mr. Lee.

"Safe by this time with Mr. Bowen's grandson,father," answered Edwin. But the reply was hardlyspoken when the dreamy eyelids closed, and Mr. Leewas fast asleep again.

Edwin looked out of the door of the tent, wherethe men were still talking.

"If it had not been for those surveying fellows,"Hal was saying, "who hurried up from the southwith their camp, what should I have done? Theylent me this tent and gave me some bread."

"Where are they?" asked Edwin, glancing round."I want to thank them all."

"Why, lad," exclaimed Hal, "they are miles awayfrom here now. They say the mud has fallen fromTaheka to Wairoa. Not your little bit of a place,but a big village. We've lots of Wairoas; it is aregular Maori name."

"Yes," added Ottley, "they have gone on; for themud has fallen heavy for ten miles round themountain—some declare it is a hundred feet deep at TeAriki—and there may be other lives to save even now."

"Ah, but you have done a bad day's work, I fear,"persisted the old rabbiter. "You have brought backto life a dangerous neighbour; which may make ithardly safe for us to stay where we are. His peoplewill follow the horse's tracks, and come and eat upall my little hoard; and how can an old man like medefend himself? They would soon knock me over,and what would become of poor Lee? He will sleephimself right if we can let him lie still where he is;but if these Maoris come clamouring round us, it willbe all over with him."

Edwin grew so white as he overheard this, Ottleyurged him to go back to his father and rest whilstthey lit a fire and prepared the tea.

He gave Beauty his feed of hay, and gatheringup the remainder he took it in with him, to try tomake his father a better bed than the old rug onwhich he was lying.

It would be a bad day's work indeed if it were toend as Hal predicted. He trembled as he slipped thehay beneath his father's head, wondering to find himsleeping undisturbed in the midst of such calamitiesas these. "If he could only speak to me!" he groaned.

He had found at last one quiet Sunday hour, buthow could he have knelt down to pray that night ifhe had refused to help Whero? His fears were forhis father, but he laid them down. Had he to livethis day over again to-morrow he would do the same.His heart was at rest once more, and he fell asleep.

He was wakened by Hal and Ottley coming insidethe tent. It was raining steadily. There was nosuch thing as keeping a fire alight in the open. Thetea had been hastily brewed. It was none the betterfor that; but such as it was, they were thankful forit. They roused up Edwin to have his share. Itwas so dark now he could scarcely see the hand whichheld the cup. Hal spread the one or two remainingwraps he had, and prepared for the night. They alllay down for a few hours' sleep. Edwin was thenearest to his father.

The two men were soon snoring, but Edwin wasbroad awake. Mr. Lee moved uneasily, and threwaside the blanket which covered him. Edwin bentover him in a moment.

"Is there anything I can do for you, father?" hesaid.

Mr. Lee was feeling about in the blanket. "Whereis my belt?" he asked.

Edwin did not say a word to rouse the othersleepers; but although it was perfectly dark, he soonsatisfied himself the belt was gone.

It was a wash-leather belt, in which Mr. Lee hadquilted his money for safety. Edwin knew it well.He realized in a moment what a loss it would be tohis father if this were missing. Hal had set Mr. Lee'sleg with splints of bark; whilst he was doing this hemight have taken off the belt. Perhaps it would befound in a corner of the tent when it was light.Edwin felt he must mind what he said about it toHal, who was taking such care of his father. Hesaw that more clearly than anything else.

No; he would only tell Ottley, and with thisdecision he too fell asleep.

He was so tired out, so worn, so weary, that heslept long and heavily. When he roused it was broaddaylight, and Ottley, whose time was up, had departed.Hal had made a fire, and was preparing a breakfastof tea. He agreed to save the bovril Edwin hadbrought for his father alone.

They made a hole in the floor of the tent, not deepenough to break the crust of the mud, and lined itwith bark. Here they kept the little jar, for fearany of the Maoris should see it, if they came acrossto beg for food.

Whilst the two were drinking their tea and watchingthe lowering clouds, which betokened more rain,the other rabbiter whom Ottley had surprised in theford-house strolled out from among the leafless treesand invited himself to a share. Edwin and Hal,who knew he needed it as much as they did, felt itwould indeed be selfish to refuse him a breakfast.

As they sat round the fire Hal took counsel withhis mate, and talked over the difficulties of theirposition.

Ottley had promised to try to send them help toremove Mr. Lee to a safer place. But Hal, who wasexpecting one of those torrents of rain which mark aNew Zealand winter, feared they might be washedaway before that help arrived.

Lawford—as he called his mate—was of the sameopinion, and offered, if Edwin would accompany him,to go across to the ford-house and see if theHirpingtons had returned.

This seemed the most hopeful thought of all, andEdwin brightened as he ran off to catch Beauty.

He had left his father comfortably pillowed in thehay, which he had made to serve a double purpose,but he was now obliged to pull a bit away for thehorse's breakfast.

As he started with Lawford, Hal called after themto be sure to wrench off a shutter or a loose bit ofboard. They must bring back something on whichpoor Mr. Lee could be laid, to move him.

Beauty trotted off briskly. After a while Lawfordlooked over his shoulder at Edwin, who was ridingbehind him, and said shortly, "Now we are safe, Ihave something to tell you."

CHAPTER XIV.

RAIN AND FLOOD.

Edwin felt a cold shiver run over him asLawford made this announcement.

"Something to tell me!" he exclaimed. "Oh,please speak out!"

"Do you see those spades?" replied Lawford,halting beside a tree, against which two spades wereleaning. "Whero has sent them to you. He wantsyou to show me where he buried that bag of treasure.I am to dig it up and take it to Nga-Hepé. Hemeans to use it now to buy food for the people abouthim. You know the place: it is between the twowhite pines by the roadside. As soon as Nga-Hepéhas got his money, he will row down the river in hiscanoe and bring it back with a load of bacon andflour, and whatever he can get in the nearest township."

This seemed so natural to Edwin he never doubtedit was true. There were the spades, just like the twohe had seen in the whare.

"Oh yes," he answered, "I can find the place. Isaw the trees only yesterday."

"Nga-Hepé sent you a charge," added Lawford,"to mind and keep a still tongue; for if it gets airwhilst he's gone for the food, there will be such acrowd waiting for the return of the canoe, it wouldbe eaten up at a single meal, and his own childrenwould be starving again."

"I shall not speak," retorted Edwin. "Nga-Hepémay safely trust me."

They reached the road at last, and made their wayalong it as before, until they came to the two talltapering trunks—not quite so easily identified nowthey had lost their foliage.

"This is the spot!" cried Edwin, slipping off thehorse, and receiving a descent of mud upon hisshoulders as he struck the dirt-laden tree.

Lawford gave him the spades he was carrying, andgot down. They tied Beauty at a safe distance, andset to work. It was comparatively easy diggingthrough the crust, but when they reached the softmud beneath it, as soon as they cleared a hole it filledagain.

Their task seemed endless. "I don't believe wecan get at the money," said Edwin, in despair. "Imust go on and see if Mr. Hirpington has returned,for I want to get back to father."

"All right," answered Lawford. "Leave me at thework. A boy like you soon tires. Take your horseand ride down to the ford; but mind you do not sayanything about me."

"You need not fear that," repeated Edwin, as heextricated himself from the slime-pit they had opened,and mounted Beauty. It was not very far to the ford,but he found it as he had left it—desolate and deserted.No one had been near it since yesterday, when hevisited it with Ottley. The good old forder neighed awelcome, and came trotting up from the river-bankto greet him. He pulled out more hay to feed bothhorses, and whilst they were eating he examined thehouse.

The river was swollen with last night's rain. Ithad risen to the top of the boating-stairs. Once morethe house was standing in a muddy swamp, fromwhich the tall fuchsia trees looked down disconsolateon the buried garden. It was past anybody's powerto get at the store-room window. In short, the riverhad taken possession, and would effectually keep outall other intruders.

Edwin chose himself a seat among the ruins, andturned out his pockets in quest of a little bit ofpipe-clay which once found a lodging amongst theirheterogeneous contents. He wrote with the remainingcorner, which he was happy enough to find had notyet crumbled to dust, "Lee, senior, waiting by lake,badly hurt, wants food and help."

He had fixed upon the shutter of the hay-loftwindow for his tablet, and made his letters bold andbig enough to strike the eye at a considerable distance.He tried to make them look as if some man hadwritten them, thinking they would command moreattention. Then he hunted about for the piece ofloose board Hal had charged them to bring back.

Edwin wrenched it off from the front of thehayloft, and discovered a heap of mangel-wurzel in thecorner. He snatched up one and began to eat it, asif he were a sheep, and then wondered if he had doneright. But he felt sure Ottley would say yes.

He balanced the board on his head, but found itimpossible to mount Beauty, and equally difficult tomake him follow a master with head-gear of suchan extraordinary size. So he had to drive Beautyon before him, and when he reached the white pinesLawford was gone.

"He ought to have waited for me," thought Edwin,indignantly. "How can I get across the bush withthis board? The men care nothing about me; theydrive me along or they leave me behind to follow asI can, just as it happens. It is too bad, a great dealtoo bad!"

Beauty heard the despairing tone, and turningsoftly round, tilted the board backwards in spite ofEdwin's efforts to stop him.

There was no such thing as getting it into positionagain. All Edwin could do was to mark the spot andleave it lying on the ground. Then he jumped onBeauty and trotted off to the tent, for the rain whichHal had predicted was beginning fast. The soddencanvas flapped heavily in the storm-wind. Thetent-poles were loosened in the softened mud, and seemedready to fall with every gust, as Edwin rode updisheartened and weary, expecting to find Lawford hadarrived before him. No such thing. Hal was wornout with waiting, and was very cross.

It is only the few who can stand through such daysof repeated disaster with patience and temperunexhausted. There has been some schooling in adversitybefore men attain to that. Edwin was taking hislesson early in life, but he had not learned it yet.

Hal would have it Edwin had lost himself, andcalled him a young fool for not sticking close to hiscompanion, who was no doubt looking for him.

He started off in high dudgeon to "coo" for Lawford,and bring on the board Edwin had left by the way.

Father and son were alone. The rain pouringthrough the tent seemed to rouse Mr. Lee toconsciousness.

"I am hurt, Edwin," he said; "yet not so muchas they think. But is there not any place of shelternear we can crawl into? This rain will do me moreharm than the fall of the tree. If this state ofthings continues, we shall be washed away into the mud."

Edwin's heart was aching sorely when Hal returnedwith the board. Mr. Lee looked up with eyes whichtold them plainly the clouded understanding wasregaining its power.

The old man saw it with pleasure, He knew evenbetter than Mr. Lee that the steady rain was changingthe mud to swamp. They must lose no time ingetting away, at least to firmer ground.

He was looking about him for the nearest hill.He had made his plan; but he wanted Lawford's helpto carry it out.

"He will come back soon," said Edwin confidently,feeling pretty sure Lawford had gone across to thelake to give Nga-Hepé his bag.

Hal was more puzzled than ever at his mate'sdisappearance, and again he wanted to know why thetwo had parted company. Edwin was sodownhearted about his father, and so badgered by Hal'squestionings and upbraidings, he knew not what tosay or do.

Hal wrapped Mr. Lee in the blanket, and withEdwin's assistance laid him on the board. It was alittle less wet than the sodden ground. He boundhim to it with the cord which had tied up Beauty's hay.

"There," he said, as he pulled the last knot tight,"we can lift you now without upsetting my splints.They are but a bungling affair, master; but bad isthe best with us."

Try as Edwin would he was not strong enough tolift the board from the ground. The old man saw ittoo, and pushed him aside impatiently.

"See what you have brought on us all," he said,or rather muttered.

"I could not help it," repeated Edwin bitterly; "butI don't mind anything you say to me, Hal, for youhave stuck by father and cared for him, when hewould have died but for you. Don't despair; I'll goand look for Lawford."

"You!" returned Hal contemptuously; "you'll loseyourself."

But Edwin, who thought he could guess whereLawford was to be found, could not be turned fromhis purpose.

"Can't I cross the bush once more, for father'ssake," he asked, "whilst I have got my horse?"He called up Beauty and told him to go home.Edwin found the whare by the lake deserted. Afterhis abrupt departure with Ottley, Nga-Hepé hadroused himself to assist his father-in-law in makingan equal distribution of the food; and then theygathered the men around the fire and held a council.

With two such leaders as Nga-Hepé and Kakiki,they reached the wise decision to seek a safer placebeyond the anger of the gods, and build a temporarykainga, or unwalled village, where food was to beobtained, where the fern still curled above the ground,and the water gushed pure from the spring. Themen of the pah yielded as they listened to theeloquent words of the aged chief; and though theypassed the night in speechifying until the malcontentswere overawed, the morning found them hard atwork digging out their canoes.

As Edwin approached the lake he saw the littlefleet cautiously steering its way through themud-shoals and boulders towards the river.

The wind was moaning through the trees, and theunroofed whare was filling with the rains.

While Edwin surveyed the desolate scene, heperceived a small canoe coming swiftly towards his sideof the lake. He watched it run aground amongst thebent and broken reeds, swaying hither and thither inthe stormy wind. Suddenly he observed a small,slight figure wading knee-deep through the stickyslime. It was coming towards him.

A bird flew off from its shoulder, and thenever-to-be-forgotten sound of "Hoké" rang through the air.

"Whero, Whero!" shouted Edwin joyfully; andturning Beauty's head he went to meet him.

But Whero waved him back imperiously; for heknew the horse could find no foothold in thequagmire he was crossing. He was leaping now like afrog, as Edwin averred; but there are no frogs inNew Zealand, so Whero could not understand theallusion as Edwin held out his hand to help him on.Then the kaka, shaking the water from his drippingwings, flew towards Edwin and settled on his wristwith a joyous cry of recognition.

"Take him," gasped Whero; "keep him as youhave kept my Beauty. The ungrateful pigs wereto kill him—to kill and eat my precious redbreast;but he soared into the air at my call, and theycould not catch him."

Edwin's boyish sympathies were all ablaze for hisoutraged friend. "Is that their Maori gratitude," heexclaimed, "when it was your kaka which guidedme to the spot?"

"When I told them so," sobbed Whero, "theylaughed, and said, 'We will stick his feathers in ourhair by way of remembrance.' They shall not havehim or his feathers. They shall eat me first. I willtake him back to the hill which no man cares toclimb. I will live with dead men's bones and despisetheir tapu; but no man shall eat my kaka."

During the outpouring of Whero's wrath, Edwinhad small chance of getting an answer to his anxiousquestion. "Are not those your people rowing acrossthe lake? Is Lawford with them? Did he bringthe bag to your father all right?"

Whero looked at him incredulously. Edwin wavedhis hand, and the Maori boy leaped up for once behindhim. He took the kaka from Edwin's wrist andhugged it fondly whilst he listened to his explanationsabout Lawford.

"It was I," interposed Whero, "who was stayingbehind to dig up the bag by the white pines. Didmy father think I would not go when I ran off tocall away my kaka? Where could he meet thispakeha and I not know, that he should trust him tolook for his hoard? as if any one beside me or mymother could find it. Kito!" (lies.)

But the pelting rain cut short his wonder, asEdwin urged everything else must give way to thepressing necessity of finding some better shelter forMr. Lee. It was useless to look for Lawford anylonger.

"You will help me, Whero?" entreated Edwinearnestly, as they turned the horse's head towards thesmall brown tent. It was lying flat, blown down bythe wind in their absence. Hal had folded up thecanvas, and was pacing up and down in a very dismalfashion.

"Father," said Edwin, springing to the ground,"I can't find Lawford; but this Maori boy was goingto a sheltered place high up in the hills. Will you letus carry you there?"

"Anywhere, anywhere, out of this pond," replied Mr. Lee.

"Have at it then!" cried Whero, seizing hold ofthe board; but Hal called out to them to stay a bit.By his direction they lifted Mr. Lee on his board andlaid it along the stout canvas. Hal tied up the endswith the tent ropes, so that they could carry Mr. Leebetween them, slung, as it were, in a hammock. Halsupported his head, and the two boys his feet.

It was a slow progression. Whero led them roundto another part of the hill, where an ancient fissure inits rugged side offered a more gradual ascent. It wasa stairway of nature's making, between two walls ofrock. Stones were lying about the foot, looking as ifthey might have been hurled from above on the headof some reckless invader in the old days of tribalviolence.

Edwin had well named it an ogre's castle. It wasa mountain fastness in every sense, abandoned anddecayed. As they gained the summit, Edwin couldsee how the hand of man had added to its naturalstrength. Piles of stones still guarded the stairwayfrom above, narrowing it until two could scarcelywalk abreast, and they lay there still, a ready heap ofammunition, piled by the warrior hands sleeping inTarawera.

Whero sent his kaka on before him. "See," heexclaimed to Edwin, "the bird flies fearless over theblighted ground, and you came back to me unharmed.I will conquer terror by your side, and take possessionof my own. Who should live upon the hill of Hepébut his heir! Am I not lord and first-born? Countoff the moons quickly when I shall carry thegreenstone club, and make the name of Hepé famous amongthe tribes, as my mother said. This shall be myhome, and my kaka shall live in it."

They were trampling through the dry brown fernon the hill-top, and here Whero would willingly havebivouacked. But Hal, who knew nothing of thetraditionary horrors which clung to the spot, pushed onto the shelter within the colonnade. No tent wasneeded here. They laid their helpless burden on theground and stretched their cramped arms. Whero'stall talk brought an odd twinkle of amusem*nt intothe corner of Hal's gray eye as he glanced around himhumorously. "It is my lord baron, as we say inEngland, then," he answered, with a nod to Whero:"but it looks like my barren lord up here." Wherodid not understand the old man's little joke, andEdwin busied himself with his father.

Whero descended the hill again and fetched upBeauty, who was as expert a climber as his formerowner, and neighed with delight when he foundhimself once more amid the rustling fern. Dry andwithered as Edwin had thought it, to Beauty it wasassociated with all the joys of early days, when hetrotted a graceful foal by his mother's side. LikeWhero, he was in his native element.

The proud boy rolled a big stone across the end ofthe path by which they had climbed up, and then feelinghimself secure, began to execute a kind of war-dance.

"Stop your antics," said Hal, cowering against thegigantic trunk which was sheltering Mr. Lee from thekeen winds, "and tell us what that means." Hepointed to a huge white thing towering high abovehis head, with open beak and outstretched claw—agiant, wingless bird, its dry bones rattling with everygust.

"It is a skeleton," said Edwin, walking nearer toit to take off the creepy feeling it awakened.

"It is a moa," said Whero, continuing his dance—"thebig old bird which used to build among thesehills until my forefathers ate him up. They hadlittle to eat but the fern, the shark, and the moa,until the pakeha came with his pigs and his sheep.There may be one alive in the heights of MountCook, but we often find their skeletons in desolateplaces." Then Whero went up close to the quiveringbones, and cried out with exultation when hediscovered the hole in its breast through which the spearof the Hepé had transfixed this ancient denizen ofhis fortress.

"It is an unked place," muttered Hal, "but dryto the feet."

He lit his pipe, and settled himself on the roots ofthe tree for a smoke and a sleep. He had beenexisting for so many days in the midst of the stiflingclouds of volcanic dust and the choking vapours fromthe ground, through which chloride of iron gas wasconstantly escaping for a space of fifty-six miles, thatthe purer air to which they had ascended seemed likelife, and robbed the place of its habitual gloom.

Even Whero, with the Maori's reverential horror ofa dead man's bones, coiled himself to sleep in therustling fern by Beauty's side, his dream of futuregreatness undisturbed by the rattling bones of themoa, and the still more startling debris whichwhitened amidst the gnarled and twisted roots.

But it was not so with Edwin. He sat beside hisfather, feeding him with the undiluted bovril—forwater failed them on the rocky height—andwondering how long the slender store would last. Herefused himself the smallest taste, and bore his hungerwithout complaint, hiding the little jar with scrupulouscare, for fear Whero should find it and be temptedto eat up the remainder of its contents. So he kepthis silent vigil. The storm-clouds cleared, and thegrandeur of the view upon which he gazed banishedevery other thought. He could look down upon theveil of mist which had hidden the sacred mountains,and Tarawera rose before him in all its grandeur.He saw the awful rent which had opened in the sideof the central peak, and from which huge columns ofsmoke and steam were fitfully ascending. He watchedthe leaping tongues of flame dart up like rockets tothe midnight sky, once more ablaze with starshine,and a feeling to which he could give no expressionseemed to lift him beyond the present,—"Man doesnot live by bread alone."

CHAPTER XV.

WHO HAS BEEN HERE?

"Edwin," said Mr. Lee, when he saw his sonshivering beside him in the gray of thewintry morning, "what is the matter with you?Have you had enough to eat?"

"Not quite. Well, you see, father, we have to doas we can," smiled Edwin, in reply.

"Certainly; but where on earth have we got to?"resumed the sick man, as he glanced upwards at theinterlacing boughs.

"We are high up in the hills, father, in one of theold Maori fastnesses, where the mud and the floodcannot reach us," answered Edwin.

"And the children?" asked Mr. Lee.

"Are all safe by the sea," was the quick reply.

Mr. Lee's ejacul*tions of thankfulness were anunspeakable comfort to Edwin.

"Did not I hear the splash of oars last night?"asked his father.

"You might when Whero came. He guided ushere," said Edwin.

"Then," resumed his father, "try to persuade thisMaori to row you in his canoe down the river untilyou come to an English farm. The colonists are allso neighbourly and kind, they will sell or lend orgive you what we want most. Make the Maori bringyou back. You must pay him well; these Maoris willdo nothing without good pay. Remember that; butthere is plenty in the belt." Mr. Lee ceased speaking.He was almost lost again, and Edwin dare not remindhim that the belt was gone. But Edwin knew ifWhero would do it at all, he would not want to be paid.

"With this leg," sighed Mr. Lee slowly and dreamily,"I—am—a—fixture."

Sleep was stealing over him, and Edwin did notventure to reply.

A sympathetic drowsiness was visiting him also,but he was roused out of it by seeing Hal busilyengaged in trying to capture the kaka.

"It is a good, fat bird," whispered the old man;"they are first-rate eating in a pie. We can cookhim as we did the duck I found; put him in theboiling mud as the natives do!"

Up sprang Edwin to the rescue. "No, Hal, no;you must not touch that bird!"

He caught the old man's arm, and scared the kakaoff. The frightened bird soared upwards, andconcealed itself in the overarching boughs.

Whero was awakened by its screams, and got up,shaking the dry moss from his tangled shock of hair,and laughing.

Edwin called off attention from the kaka bydetailing his father's plan.

The breakfastless trio were of one mind. It mustbe tried, as it offered the surest hope of relief. Theriver was so much safer than the road. Ottley mightnever have it in his power to send the promised help.Some danger might have overwhelmed him also. Whatwas the use of waiting for the growing of the grass, ifa readier way presented itself? Hal spread out thecanvas of the tent to dry, and talked of putting it upin the new location. Legs and arms were wonderfullystiff from keeping on wet clothes. But themost pressing want was water. Dry ground andpure air were essential, but thirst was intolerable.They took the cup by turns and went down to aspring which Whero pointed out. Beauty had foundfor himself a little pond, which nature had scoopedout, and the recent rains had filled with greenishwater which he did not despise.

Whilst Hal was away, Edwin intimated to Wherothat it was not very safe to leave his kaka with him;for he feared the bird would be killed and eaten assoon as they were gone, although he did not say so tohis Maori friend.

Whero's eyes were ablaze with rage in a moment."Let him touch it!" he snorted rather than hissed."I'll meet him. If it's here on the hill, I'll hurl himover that precipice. If—if—" Edwin's eye wasfastened on the boy with a steady gaze. Wheroraised his clinched hand, as if to strike. "Tell him,"he went on—"tell him in our country here the mudis ever boiling to destroy the Maori's foes. I'll pushhim down the first jet we pass." He looked aroundhim proudly, and kicked away the skull beneath hisfoot, as if to remind his listener how in that veryspot the threats in which he had been indulgingfound plenty of precedent.

Edwin exerted all his self-command. He wouldnot suffer one angry or one fearful word to pass hislips, although both anger and fear were rising in hisheart. But the effort to keep himself as cool andquiet as he could was rewarded. Whero saw that hewas not afraid; and the uncontrollable passion of theyoung savage expended itself in vain denunciations.

Edwin knew how the Maoris among themselvesdespise an outburst of passion, and he tried to shameWhero, saying, "Is that the way your warriors talkat their councils? Ours are grave, and reason witheach other, until they find out the wisest course totake. That is what I want to do as soon as we havecaught the kaka."

The catching of the macaw proved a safety-valve;and Whero went down to the lake to get the canoeready, with the bird on his wrist.

Edwin ran back to beg Hal to return to his father,as he and Whero were hurrying off to the lake. Hehad saved a dangerous quarrel, but it left him verygrave. He was more and more afraid of what Wheromight do in a moment of rage. "Oh, I am excessivelyglad, I am thankful," he thought, "that I wasnot forced to leave him alone with Effie and Cuthbert!" Itwas well that Whero was rowing, for the exertionseemed to calm him. Edwin escaped from the difficultyof renewing their conversation by beginning tosing, and Whero, with all the Maori love of music,was easily lured to listen as "Merry may the keelrow" echoed from bank to bank, and the splash ofhis paddle timed itself to the words of the song.

Edwin assured him he was singing to keep thekaka quiet, which had nestled on his folded arms,and was looking up in his face with evident enjoyment.As they paddled on the old ford-horse steppedout into the water to hear him, so they stopped thecanoe and went ashore to pull him out his hay. Hefollowed them for nearly half-a-mile, and they lostsight of him at last as they rounded the bend in theriver. He was fording his way across the huge bedof shingle, over which the yellow, rattling, foamingtorrent wandered at will. The tiny canoe shot forward,borne along without an effort by the force of thestream. With difficulty they turned its head tozigzag round a mighty boulder, hurled from its mountainhome by the recent convulsions.

Even now as the river came tearing down from theheights above, it was bringing with it tons upon tons ofsilt and shingle and gravel. The roar of these stones,as they rolled over each other and crashed and dashedin the bed of the flood, was louder than the angrysurges on the tempestuous shore when Edwin saw thecoaster going down. The swift eddies andundertows thus created made rowing doubly dangerous,and called forth Whero's utmost skill.

But the signs of desolation on the river-banks weregrowing fainter. Between the blackened tracts wherethe lightning had fired the fern broken and storm-benttrees still lifted their leafless boughs, and shookthe blue dust which weighed them down into the eyesof the travellers.

Here and there a few wild mountain sheep, whichhad strayed through the broken fences of the run,were feeding up-wind to keep scent of danger. Butother sign of life there was none, until they sightedan English-built boat painfully toiling along againstthe force of the current. They hailed it with a shout,and Edwin's heart leaped with joy as he distinguishedMr. Hirpington's well-known tones in the heartinessof the reply. "Well met, boys. Come with us."

They were soon alongside, comparing notes andanswering inquiries. Dunter, who plied the other oar,nodded significantly to Edwin. He had encounteredOttley, and received his warning as to the depredationslikely to ensue if the ford-house were left toitself much longer. He had started off to find thegovernor.

The good old forder was still scraping amongstthe shingle, and when he saw his master in theboat, he came plunging through the water to meethim with such vehemence he almost caused an upset.But the stairs were close at hand, and as Mr. Hirpingtonoften declared, he and his old horse had longago turned amphibious. They came out of the waterside by side, shaking themselves like Newfoundlanddogs. It was marvellous to Mr. Hirpington todiscover that his old favourite had taken no harm.

"He is a knowing old brute," said Dunter. Butwhen they saw the writing on the shutter, they knewwhere he had found a friend. The pipe-clay wassmeared by the rain, but the little that was legible"gave me a prick," said Mr. Hirpington, "I cannotwell stand."

A great deal of the mud had been washed on toOttley's tarpaulin, which had been pushed aside bythe fury of the storm, as Mr. Hirpington was inclinedto think. But there were footprints on the bank ofmud jamming up doors and windows—recent footprints,impressed upon it since the storm. Duntercould trace them over the broken roof. They werenot Edwin's. Dunter pointed to the impression justleft by his boot as the boy climbed up to them. Thatwas conclusive.

"If it were any poor fellow in search of food undercirc*mstances like these, I would not say a word,"remarked Mr. Hirpington.

Dunter found a firmer footing for himself, andgetting hold of the edge of the sheet of iron, he forcedit up, and with his master's help dislodged a half-tonweight of mud, which went down into the river witha mighty splash. To escape from the shower-bath,which deluged both them and the roof, the threejumped down into the great farm kitchen. There allwas slime, and a sulphurous stench vitiated the atmosphere.

"We can't breathe here," said Mr. Hirpington, seizingEdwin's arm and mounting him on the dining-table.

The muddy slush into which they had plunged wasalmost level with its top. The door into the bedroomwas wrenched off, and lodged against it, forming akind of bridge over the mud. But there was onething which the earthquake, the mud, and the stormcould never have effected. They could not have filledthe sacks lying on the other end of the long tables.That could only have been done by human hands.

They were all three on the table now. Mr. Hirpingtonuntied the nearest sack, and pushed his arminside.

"Some of our good Christchurch blankets and mybest coat," he muttered. "I have no need to makethem in a worse state with my muddy hands. Leavethem where they are for the present," he continued,turning to Dunter, who began to empty out thecontents of the other sacks.

Mr. Hirpington looked about for his gun. It wasin its old place, lying across the boar's tusks, fixedlike pegs against the opposite wall. It wasdouble-barrelled, and he knew he had left it loaded for thenight as usual.

"You must get that down, Dunter," he said, "andmount guard here, whilst I take young Lee back tohis father. That must be the first concern. When Ireturn we must set to work in earnest—bail out thisslush, mend the roof over the bedroom to the river,where it is least damaged, and live in it whilst weclear the rest. Light and air are to be had there still,for the windows on that side are clear. More's thepity we did not stay there. But when that awfulexplosion came, my wife and I rushed into the kitchen,and so did most of the men. I was tugging at theouter door, which would not open, and 'cooing' withall my might, when the crash came, and I knew nomore until I found myself in the boat."

"I was a prisoner in my little den," put in Dunter;"and I kept up the 'coo' till Mr. Lee came, for Icould not open door or window though I heard yourgroans."

"Yes, Lee must be our first care. We owe ourlives to him alone; understand that, all of you. Hehad us out before anybody else arrived," Mr. Hirpingtonwent on, as he heaved up the fallen door andmade a bridge with it from the table to the back ofthe substantial sofa, over which his gun was lying.From such a mount he could reach it easily. Wasthere anything else they required? He looked aroundhim. Dunter had got possession of a boat-hook, andwas fishing among the kettles and saucepans underthe dresser. The bacon, which had been drying onthe rack laid across the beams of the unceiled roof,had all gone down into the mud; but the solid beamsthemselves had not given way, only the ties weredislodged and broken, with the iron covering. All thecrockery on the shelves of course was smashed. Aflying dish had struck Mrs. Hirpington on the headand laid her senseless before the rain of mud began.But her husband had more to do now than to recountthe how and the why of their disaster.

He was hastily gathering together such thingswithin reach as might be most needed by the suffereron the hills. A kettle and a pan and a big cooking-spoon,which Dunter had fished out, were tied up inthe Christchurch blanket dislodged from the sack, andslung across Mr. Hirpington's shoulder. Dunter madehis way into the bedroom, and pulled out a couple ofpillows. Here, he asserted, some one must have beenbefore him; for muddy footsteps had left their markon the top of the chest of drawers and across thebed-quilt, and no mud had entered there ere theHirpingtons fled. Yet muddy fingers had left theirimpress high up on wardrobe-doors and onwindow-curtains, which had been drawn back toadmit the light. Over this room the roof had not givenway. The inference was clear—some one had entered it.

Mr. Hirpington glanced up from the bundle he wastying, and spoke aside to Edwin: "You knew the manOttley surprised in the house?"

"Yes," answered Edwin; "he was one of therabbiters. I thought he was looking for food, as wewere. Mr. Ottley did not say anything to me abouthis suspicions. Somebody else may have got in sincethen, Mr. Hirpington."

"Certainly, certainly," was the answer, and thethree emerged again into daylight.

As they stood upon the roof shaking and scrapingthe mud from each other, Edwin looked round forWhero.

"Whoever filled these sacks," observed Mr. Hirpington,when he was alone with Dunter, "means to comeback and fetch them. Be on the watch, for I mustleave you here alone."

Dunter was no stranger to the Maori boy, andinvited him to share in the good things he wasunloading from the boat, thinking to secure himself acompanion. Whilst he was talking of pork-pies andcheese, Edwin suggested the loan of a spade and a pail.

"A' right!" exclaimed Whero, with a nod ofintelligence; "I'll have both."

"Ay, take all," laughed Edwin, as he ran down theboating-stairs after Mr. Hirpington, who wasimpatient to be off. Whero followed his friend to thewater's edge to rub noses ere they parted. Thegrimaces with which Edwin received this final tokenof affection left Dunter shaking with laughter.

"I go to dig by the white pines," said Whero.

"But you will come back to the hill of Hepé. Weshall have food enough for us all," returned Edwin,pointing to the boat in which Mr. Hirpington wasalready seated.

CHAPTER XVI.

LOSS AND SUSPICION.

The great hole which Lawford had made in themud was not yet filled up. He had walledthe sides with broken branches, damming up the mudbehind him as he dug his way to the roots of thewhite pines.

Of course the mud was slowly oozing through thesedefences, and might soon swallow them up. ButWhero felt he was just in time. He dipped out apail or two from the bottom, and felt about for theoriginal hole in which he had hidden the bag. Hisfoot went into the hole unawares. He was not longin satisfying himself that the treasure was gone. Itwas too heavy to float away. However great thedepth of mud might be above, it should still be inthe hole where he had hidden it. He had covered itover with bark. The bark was there, but the bagwas gone.

He went back to the ford. Dunter was at workdipping out the slime from the farm-house kitchen.The boy did not wait to speak to him, but pushed offhis canoe and paddled away down the river to findhis mother. Dunter had promised to take care of hiskaka during his absence. Well, if that wereprolonged, he would take care of it all the same, soWhero reasoned, as he was carried along by the rapidcurrent.

He was watching for the first sign of the Maoriencampment, which he knew he should find beyondthe vast tract which had been desolated by the rainof mud. The canoe shot onward, until the first leafbecame visible on the evergreens, and the fish wereonce more leaping in the water. The terraced banksof the river were broken here and there with deepgulches and sunken canyons. It was in one of theseretreats that he was expecting to find the Maoritents.

The river was rushing deep and swift as before, butit* margin was now studded with reeds and ti trees.The crimson heads of the great water-hens werepoking out of their midst to stare at him, and flocksof ducks rose noisily from their reedy beds.

Whero began to sing one of the wild and plaintivenative melodies. But his voice was almost drowned bythe roar of the whirling stones, and his passage wascontinually impeded by the masses of drift-wood—greatarms of trees, and uprooted trunks—striking againstthe boulders and threatening him with an upset.

Yet he still sang on, until a low, sweet echoanswered him from the bank, and he saw his mothergathering fern by the water's edge.

The canoe was quickly run aground, and he leapedashore to join her. Then he saw that his grandfatherKakiki Mahane was sitting on a stone not far off.Whero walked up a little ashamed of his behaviour;but for him Marileha had no reproaches, for he wasthe bitter-sweet which changed her joy to pain andher pain to joy continually.

She hailed his return, for her heart was aching forher baby, which could not survive their terribleentombment. She pointed to the bend in the ravine,where one or two small whares had been hastily built.Two uprights in the ground, with a pole across, hadbeen walled with mats, roughly and quickly wovenfrom flax-leaf and bulrush. Every Maori had beenhard at work, and work could get them all theywanted here, except the hot stone and the geyser-bath.

With her own hands Marileha had cooked themwhat she called a good square dinner.

But the ideal life of the Maori is one of perfectlaziness, and as a Maori lady Marileha had enjoyedthis from her birth. Her old father was trying tocomfort her. She should go back with him to herown people. She should not stay where the fish hadto be caught, and the wild duck snared, and the wildpig hunted, and then brought to her to kindle a fireto cook them, when he was a rich man, who couldlive like his kinsmen at Hawke's Bay, hire a grandhouse of the pakeha, and pay white servants to doeverything for them.

The prospect was an alluring one, but Marileha didnot believe anything would induce Nga-Hepé toabandon his native hills even for a season.

"Have I not sat in the councils of the pakeha?"argued Kakiki. "Do I not see our people givingplace to theirs? The very rat they have broughtover seas drives away our kiore [the native rat], andwe see him no more. Have I not ever said, Let youryoung lord and first-born go amongst them, that hemay learn their secret and hold his own in manhoodagainst them?"

"I have learned it," put in Whero: "it is 'work.' Wasit for this, mother, you sent a pakeha to dig upthe bag we buried by the white pines?"

Marileha hushed her son as she glanced nervouslyaround, for none of her Maori companions must knowof the existence of that bag.

"Foolish boy," she said softly, "what pakeha hadwe to send? The bag is safe where we hid it; no onebut you or I could find it."

"Then it is stolen," exclaimed Whero, "for the bagis gone."

They questioned him closely. How had hediscovered that the bag was gone? As they walkedaway to find Nga-Hepé, the old patriarch laid hishand on his daughter's arm, remarking in a low aside.which was not intended for Whero's ear, as he didnot wish to excite his indignation,—

"It is the farmer's son who has had it; no oneelse knew of it. Our own people cannot help in thismatter; we must go to the pakeha chiefs."

In the meantime, whilst Whero was disclosing theloss of the buried treasure, Edwin was marching overthe waste by Mr. Hirpington's side. The heavy loadthey had to carry when they left the boat made themvery slow; but on they toiled to the foot of the hill,when Mr. Hirpington's ready "coo" brought Hal totheir assistance.

He looked very white and trembling—a mereghost of his former self. Mr. Hirpington couldhardly recognize him. He was down in heart aswell, for his pipe, his sole remaining solace, hadburned out just half-an-hour before he heard thewelcome "coo" at the foot of the hill.

For a moment the two men stood regarding eachother as men regard the survivals of a dread catastrophe.

"Lord bless you, sir," said Hal. "I never thoughtto see you again, looking so hale and hearty."

"Don't talk about looks, Hal. Why, you are buta walking skeleton!" exclaimed Mr. Hirpington."But cheer up," he added,—"the worst is over; weshall pull ourselves together now. Lend a hand withthis basket up the steep."

The climb before them was something formidableto the genial speaker.

Edwin was already lost to view beneath theoverhanging wall of rock which shadowed the cleft.They had trodden down a pathway through the fern;but the ascent was blocked by Beauty, who seemedresolute to upset the load on Edwin's head, as he hadupset the board in the bush. In vain did Edwinapostrophize him, and thunder out a succession of"whoas" and "backs," and "Stand you still, youstupid, or you will roll me over." It was all of nouse. He was obliged to shunt his burden on to theheap of stones; and Beauty, with a neigh of delight,came a little closer, so that he too might rub his noseagainst Edwin's cheek.

"Don't you mean to let me pass, you silly oldfellow? Well, then, I won't turn baker's boy anymore; and what I want to carry I'll carry on myback, as you do. There!"

But Edwin at last seized Beauty by the forelock,and forcing him to one side, squeezed by.

"Edwin!" called his father, and a feeble hand waslifted to beckon him nearer, "what are you bringing?"

"Pillows, father, pillows," he cried, as hestumbled over the twisted roots, half blinded by thesombre gloom beneath those giant trees where hisfather was lying. Edwin slipped out of his sandwichwith exceeding celerity. A pillow was under thepoor aching head in another minute, and a secondpropping the bruised shoulders, and Edwin stood byhis father, smiling with the over-brimming joy of agrand success.

Then he denuded himself of the blanket, whichhe had been wearing like a Highlander's plaid, andwrapped it over the poor unfortunate, cramping inthe bleak mountain air with cold and hunger.

"Father," he went on cheerily, "the worst is over.Mr. Hirpington is here. He has come to see afteryou."

"Too late, too late," moaned Mr. Lee. "I fear Iam done for. The activity of my days is over, Edwin;and what remains to us?"

"We don't know yet, father," answered the boy,gravely. "I'm young and ever so strong, and if I'veonly got you to tell me what to do, I can do a lot."

"But, Edwin, have you seen anything of my belt?"asked Mr. Lee, collecting his wandering thoughts.

Edwin shook his head.

"What has become of it?" repeated the sick mannervously, as Mr. Hirpington appeared above thestones. Edwin went to meet him, and to gathertogether the remainder of his load, which he had leftfor Beauty to inspect at will.

"A horse up here!" exclaimed Mr. Hirpington."He must have the feet and knees of a goat."

"I think he has," answered Edwin, backing hisfavourite to a respectful distance as Mr. Hirpingtonstepped on to the top of the hill, panting and puffingfrom the toilsomeness of the long ascent.

He looked around him bewildered, and followedEdwin into the dim recesses beyond the gloomycolonnade of trees, whose hoary age was beyond theirreckoning.

"I am the most miserable of men!" he exclaimed,as he stooped over his prostrate friend, and claspedthe hand which had saved him at such a cost. "Howdo I find you?"

"Alive," answered Mr. Lee, "and likely to live, aburden—"

"No, no, father," interposed Edwin.

"Don't say that!" exclaimed Mr. Hirpington,winking hard to get rid of a certain moisture about theeyelids very unusual to him. "To think how I havebeen living in clover all these days whilst you werelying here, it unmans me. But where on earth areyou bivouacking? in a charnel-house?" He ceasedabruptly with a shudder, as he discovered it was ahuman skull he was crushing beneath the heel of hisboot.

Hal was busy with the basket, and Edwin ran offto his assistance.

"Sit down, Hal, and begin to eat," urged Edwin."Now I have come back let me see after father."

But the sight of the longed-for food was too muchfor the old man. He began to cry like a child.

If the first glance into the full basket had beenmore than poor Hal could bear, the first taste was asight from which Mr. Hirpington had to turn away.The one great object before him and Edwin was toget the two to eat, for the starving men seemed atfirst to refuse the food they were craving for; in factthey could hardly bear it. Mr. Lee put back thecold meat and bread, unable to swallow more; soEdwin at once turned stoker, and lit up a jolly fireof sticks and drying roots.

"We must get them something hot," said Mr. Hirpington,opening one of the many tins of soup whichhe had brought with him. Soon the savoury contentsof the steaming kettle brought back a shadow ofEnglish comfort.

Mr. Hirpington had passed many a night of campingout before he settled down at the ford, and he set towork like an old hand. The canvas of the tent wasstretched from tree to tree and well pegged down, soas to form a screen on the windward side. The drymoss and still drier fern that could be collected aboutthe brow of the hill where Beauty was ranging, werebrought in and strewed over the gnarled and twistedroots, until they gained a warm and comparativelylevel floor, with an excrescence here and there whichserved them for a seat. The basket was hung up topreserve its remaining contents from the inspectionof centipedes and crawling things, for which Edwin asyet had no nomenclature.

Then the men pulled up their collars to their ears,set their backs against the wind, lit a well-filled pipe,and laid their plans. The transfer of Mr. Hirpington'stobacco-pouch to Hal's pocket had brought backa gleam of sunshine—wintry sunshine, it must beconfessed; but who could look for more? Mr. Lee,too, was undeniably better. The shake his brainshad received was going over. He was once moreable to listen and understand.

"I have telegraphed to Auckland," explainedMr. Hirpington. "I shall have my store of corrugatediron by the next coaster, and Middleton's barge willbring it up to the ford. Thank God for ourwaterways, there is no stoppage there! I have alwayskept to the river. But, old friend, before we mendup my own house we must get a roof over your head.There is not a man under me who will not be eagerto help us at that; and we cannot do much to theroad until the mud hardens thoroughly, so for oncethere will be help to be had. We are booked for thenight up here; but to-morrow I propose to take yourboy with me, and go over to your place and see thestate it is in. A wooden house stands a deal ofearthquaking. Edwin thinks it was the chimneycame down. We must put you up an iron one. Youhave plenty of timber ready felled to mend the roof,and rushes are growing to hand. It is only the workthat has to be done, and we all know how to work inNew Zealand."

"Oh ay," chimed in old Hal; "most on us sartinlydo, and this little chap ain't no foreigner there."

He was already nodding. The comforting influencesof the soup and the pipe were inviting thereturn of "tired nature's sweet restorer." By-and-byhe slipped from his seat upon the soft moss, and waslost to every trouble in balmy sleep. Edwin coveredhim up, feeling rich in the possession of a blanket forevery one of the party.

The wintry twilight was gathering round them,cold and chill. The skeleton of the bird monsterrattled and shook, and gleamed in spectral whitenessbetween the blackness of the shadows flung by theinterlacing boughs. A kiore working amongst thedry bones seemed to impart a semblance of life tothem which effectually banished sleep from Mr. Hirpington,who persuaded Edwin to come closer to him,declaring the boy looked frightened; and well hemight, for who but a clod could lay his head on sucha floor?

Assured at last that Hal was lost to all outwardperception, Mr. Lee whispered the story of his loss.The belt was gone—taken from him whilst he wasunconscious. No doubt about that. Mr. Hirpingtondescribed the state in which he found his house—thethree sackfuls ready to be carried off. Edwinthought he had better tell his father now of thedigging up of Whero's treasure.

"There is a thief amongst us," said Mr. Hirpington,"and suspicion points to the gang of rabbiters."

"No, not to Hal," interposed Mr. Lee; "not to all.We may yet find the belt."

He was growing excited and restless. He hadtalked too much.

"I must have this matter over with Dunter," wasMr. Hirpington's conclusion, when he saw how unablepoor Mr. Lee was to bear any lengthened conversation.Before they settled to sleep he charged Edwin to bevery careful, and not let any alteration in his mannerput the old man on his guard.

The three arose in the gray of the morning withrenewed energy. To take Beauty to water, to lighta fire and prepare a breakfast in the solitary fastness,left scant time for any further discussion. But secondthoughts told Mr. Lee that in such strange circ*mstancesloss was almost inevitable. If his belt had beentaken off when his leg was set, it might have beendropped in the all-surrounding mud and never missed.

"True, true," answered Mr. Hirpington, and leavingMr. Lee to his son's care, he strolled across to the fire,where Hal was brewing the morning coffee, and beganto question him about the accident—how and wherethe tree fell. But no new light was thrown uponthe loss. It was hopeless to dig about in the mud,supposing Mr. Lee's last surmise to be correct. Hedetermined to ride Beauty to the ford and look roundthe scene of the disaster with Edwin.

The day was well up when he stepped across thesunken fence which used to guard his own domain,and found Dunter fixing a pail at the end of theboat-hook to facilitate the bailing out of the mud.

The Maori boy had deserted him, he said, and afellow single-handed could do little good at work likehis. No one else had been near the place. He hadkept his watch-fire blazing all night as the best scareto depredators. In Dunter's opinion prevention wasthe only cure. With so many men wandering homelessabout the hills, and with so many relief-partiesmarching up in every direction, there was sure to beplenty of pilfering, but who could track it home?

The hope of discovering the belt appeared to growless and less.

"What shall we do without the money?" lamentedEdwin, as he continued his journey with his father'sfriend. "Trouble seems to follow trouble."

"It does," said Mr. Hirpington; "for one growsout of another. But you have not got it all, my boy;for my land, which would have sold for a pound anacre last Saturday week, is not worth a penny withall this depth of volcanic mud upon it. Nothing cangrow. But when we get to your father's, where thedeposit is only a few inches deep, we shall find the landimmensely improved. It will have doubled its value."

As they drew nearer to the little valley the roadgrew better. The mud had dried, and the fernbeneath it was already forcing its way through thecrust. The once sparkling rivulet was reduced to amuddy ditch, choked with fallen trees and stones,which the constant earthquaking had shaken downfrom the sides of the valley.

Beauty took his way to the familiar gate, andneighed. Edwin jumped down and opened it. Allwas hopeful here, as Mr. Hirpington had predicted.The ground might have been raised a foot, but thehouse had not been changed into a cellar. Thedaylight shone through the windows, broken as theywere. The place was deluged, not entombed.

"You might return to-morrow," said Mr. Hirpington."This end of the house is uninjured."

The chimney was down, it was true, the sleeping-roomswere demolished, but the workshop and storeroomwere habitable. Whilst Mr. Hirpington consideredthe roof, Edwin ran round and peeped in atthe broken windows. Dirt and confusion reignedeverywhere, but no trace as yet of unwelcome visitors.A feeble mew attracted his attention, and Effie's kittenpopped up its little head from the fallen cupboard inwhich it had evidently been exploring. It was fatand well. An unroofed pantry had been itshunting-ground; not the little room at the other end of theveranda, but a small latticed place which Mr. Leehad made to keep the uncooked meat in. The leg ofa wild pig and a brace of kukas or wild pigeons,about twice the size of their English namesake, werestill hanging on the hooks where Audrey had left them.

The leg of pork had been nibbled all round, andthe heads were torn from the pigeons.

"Lucky Miss Kitty," said Edwin. "We thoughtyou had got the freedom of the bush, and here you'vebeen living in luxury whilst the rest of the worldwas starving. Come; you must go shares, you darling!"

It clawed up the wall, and almost leaped into hisarms, to be covered with kisses and deafened withpromises which were shouted out in the joy of hisheart, until Mr. Hirpington began to wonder whathad happened.

"My boy, have you gone quite crazy?" heexclaimed. "Why don't you look after yourhorse? you will lose him!"

Edwin looked round, and saw Beauty careering upthe side of the valley. He shut the kitten carefullyinto the workshop. Mr. Hirpington had just got theother door open, and came out to assist in recallingBeauty to his duty.

Edwin started off after his horse; but he had notgone far when he was aware of another call, to whichhis Beauty paid more heed than he seemed disposedto show to Edwin's reiterated commands to come back.

The call was in Maori, and in a few minutesNga-Hepé himself emerged from the bush and seized thehorse by the forelock.

CHAPTER XVII.

EDWIN IN DANGER.

When Mr. Hirpington came up he found hislittle English friend in earnest argumentwith the Maori warrior.

Nga-Hepé's looks were excited and wild. He wascarrying the famous greenstone club, which hebrandished every now and then in the heat of theconversation.

"Come with me," he was saying peremptorily—"comewith me and find the man."

"I cannot," answered Edwin, toughly. "I cannotleave my father. Take the horse, if you will, andfollow the tracks in the mud. I will show you whichis Lawford's footprint."

"Show me the man, and I will believe you,"retorted Nga-Hepé, swinging himself lightly uponBeauty's back as he spoke.

Edwin glanced round at Mr. Hirpington. It wasa look which said, "Stand by me." The appeal wasmute, and he answered it neither by word nor sign.Edwin thought despairingly he had not understoodhim, but a hand was laid on his shoulder. He almostfancied he was pushed aside, as Mr. Hirpington spoketo Nga-Hepé in his cheeriest tones:—

"Well met, old neighbour. Both of us aboveground once again, thank God in his mercy. As forme and mine, we were fairly buried alive, and shouldhave died under the mud but for this lad's father.We left everything and fled for our lives, and so itwas with most of us. But now the danger is over,I have come back to look after my property, and finda thief has been there before me. According to thisboy's account, I am afraid the same fellow has walkedoff with something of yours. But I have a plan tocatch him, and you are the one to help me."

"A' right," answered the Maori. "You catch yourman, I catch my boy. Man and boy go hand in hand."

"No," said Edwin stoutly; "I have nothing to dowith Lawford."

Nga-Hepé raised his club. "You, who but you,"he asked, "watched my wife dig hole? Who butyou set foot on the spot? Who but you say, 'Mandig here'? I'll make you say a little more. Whichhad the bag?"

"I have never seen or touched the bag since I gaveit back to your wife Marileha on the night of thetana's visit," answered Edwin.

"A' right," repeated Nga-Hepé. "No, you are nota' right, or you would go with me to find the man;for who but you knows who he is? If you won't,you are a' wrong, and I have come here to kill you."

An exasperated savage on horseback, with a clubin his hand, was no mean foe. Edwin thought ofold Hal's words. Was it a bad day's work whichrestored Nga-Hepé to life? But he answered himselfstill with an unwavering "No."

"You are returning me evil for good," said Edwinquietly. "Whero would not have dared to follow thekaka over the mud if I had not gone with him; butfor me you would have been a dead man. AskWhero—ask your own son."

"I take no counsel with boys," answered the Maoriloftily.

"Neither do I think overmuch of boys," interposedMr. Hirpington; "but we will keep young Lee withus, and all go together and find the man if possible.Yet with you on his back that horse will go like thewind. How are we to keep up with you?"

"You have ridden behind me before," saidNga-Hepé, turning to Edwin; "you can do it again."

"Only I won't," thought Edwin; but aloud he said,"So I could, but then there is Mr. Hirpington. Whatis he to do?"

"Ah!" put in the latter, taking out his pipe andlighting it deliberately, "the question is not how weshall go, but which way. The relief-parties arebeginning to disperse. Now, Nga-Hepé, I am asearnestly desiring to help you as I am to defendmyself. Only I see plainly if we try to follow thefellow among these wild hills we shall miss him.He belongs to a gang of rabbiters. I know theirleader. Let him call his chums together. I'll providethe lure—a reward and a jolly good dinner for everyone of the poor fellows who came so gallantly to ourhelp at the risk of their own lives. We must bearin mind that after Mr. Lee these rabbiters were thefirst in the field. If there is a black sheep amongthem, we shall have him. But I must get my ownmen about me, and then we will confront him withEdwin Lee, in the presence of them all."

"Your plan is good," answered the Maori. "Tryit and I try mine; then one or other of us will catchhim."

"That will be me," remarked Mr. Hirpington, in aknock-down tone.

"Jump up!" cried Nga-Hepé, turning to Edwin.

"No, no," interposed Mr. Hirpington; "it is Iwho must have young Lee. I have left a watchmanat the ford ready to pounce on the thief if he shouldreturn there for his booty. I may want this boy anyminute. Ride fast from camp to camp. Ask for anyof my roadmen among them, and give my message tothem. Ask if there are any rabbiters, and give theother in Hal's name. I'll make it right with theold man. We shall throw our net so wide this Lawfordcan't escape our meshes. He must have got yourbag about him, and the other money I suspect he hastaken. We'll make him give it all up."

No one was noticing Edwin. He made a slightsound, which set Beauty off trotting, as he knew itwould.

The delight of feeling his own good horse beneathhim once again induced Nga-Hepé to quicken the trotto a gallop. He did not turn back to prolong thediscussion, but only waved his arm in reply.

Edwin thought to increase the distance betweenthem by running off in the opposite direction.

"No, no," said Mr. Hirpington; "just stand still byme. If he saw you begin to run, he would be afteryou in a minute. If the ape and the tiger liedormant in some of us, the wild animal is rampant inhim. Face him to the last."

Edwin looked up with admiring gratitude at thefriend who had so skilfully delivered him.

They watched the vanishing figure as Edwin hadwatched him on the day of his first acquaintance withthe Maori warrior.

"He will never give back my Beauty," he sighed,as horse and rider were lost to view in the darklingbush.

"Your horse may prove your ransom," saidMr. Hirpington, as they retraced their steps. He knewthat the boy's life was no longer safe within the reachof the angry savage. What was he to do? Send himoff to a friend at a distance until the affair had blownover? Yes; row him down the river and put him onboard one of the Union steamers.

He began to question Edwin. "Had they any otherfriends in New Zealand?"

"None," answered the boy.

"More's the pity," said Mr. Hirpington; "for itwill not do for you and your father to remain alonewith Hal on that hill any longer. We must separateyou from the rabbiters, for the gang will be sure todraw together soon. It is nearly a week since theeruption. I hope and trust some of my men mayget my message, and come to us before Nga-Hepéreturns."

"If any of the surveying party are about still, theywould help us," said Edwin. "Mr. Ottley told mehow to signal to them, and they answered at once.They said we were to signal again if we wanted them.The captain of the coaster is with them. He wouldbe sure to come."

Mr. Hirpington knew nothing about the captain,but he assented. "Signal by all means. If we haveEnglishmen enough about us, we shall carry thisthrough. We must get your father home. One ortwo men will soon mend the roof. I'll spare youDunter; he would keep a sharp look-out. As therelief-parties disperse, we shall see who comes ourway. Chance may favour us."

Then the two started again for the ford, leavingpuss* once more in possession of the valley farm.Mr. Hirpington was struck when he saw the differencea single day's hard work had effected.

"I want to be by your side, Dunter, putting myown shoulder to the wheel, and we should soon fetchthe mistress home. But we are in for an awful dealof trouble with these poor Lees, and we can't failthem. Somehow they do not square it with theirMaori neighbours," he sighed.

"Not quite up to managing 'em yet, I guess,"replied Dunter, as he showed his master a kitchenclear of mud, although a stranger still to thescrubbing-brush. A few loose boards were laid down aspathways to the bedroom doors, which all stood wide,letting in the clear river breeze from the windowsbeyond. Dunter was washing his hands to have aspell at the bedmaking, as he said.

"We are all relegated to the cellar," sighed hismaster, "and we cannot stay to enjoy even that. Weshall have a row with Nga-Hepé's people if we arenot on the alert. I want to get this young Lee outof their way. Where will he be safest for to-night?"

"Here with me, abed and asleep," answered theman unhesitatingly.

Mr. Hirpington glanced into the range of bedrooms,still left as at the moment when their occupants rushedout in the first alarm. "That will do," he assented."Trust a boy to go to sleep. He will tumble in justas the beds are. Anything for his supper?"

"Plenty, but it is all poisoned with the horridsulphurous stench. Something out of the tins is best,"groaned Dunter.

"Give him one or two to open for himself, and shuthim in. Drive that meal-barrel against the door, anddon't you let him out till I come back," wasMr. Hirpington's parting charge, as he pushed off in hisboat for the lake, to light the beacon-fires on thehills around it, to summon the help he so much needed.

Edwin, who had been hunting up the kaka, wasdisappointed to find himself left behind.

"All the better for you," retorted Dunter. "Takethe bird in with you, and get a sound sleep, now youhave the chance."

"Oh, you are good!" exclaimed Edwin, when hesaw a jug of river-water, a tin of sardines, andanother of brawn, backed by a hunch of mouldy bread,provided for his supper.

The door was shut, and he lay down without asuspicion of the kindly-meant imprisonment on whichhe was entering. Both men were sure he would neverhave consented to it had he known of their intentionsbeforehand. They did not want to make the boy toomuch afraid of his dusky neighbours; "for he has gotto live in the midst of them," they said. "He willlet them alone after this," thought Dunter. "He hashad his scare for the present; let him sleep andforget it."

The deep and regular breathing of a sleeper soontold Dunter his wish was realized.

It was a weary vigil for Mr. Hirpington. He kepthis watch-fire blazing from dusk till dawn.

It was a wakeful, anxious night for Hal andMr. Lee, who saw the beacon-lights afar, and wonderedmore and more over the unlooked-for sight.

"It is some one signalling for help," groanedMr. Lee, feeling most painfully his inability to give it.It might be Edwin, it might be some stranger. Hewanted his companion to leave him and go to see.But the old man only shook his head, and muttered,"There is no go left in me, I'm so nearly done."

Mr. Hirpington had given up hope. He had coiledhimself in his blanket, laid his head on the hardground, and yielded to the overwhelming desire forsleep.

The returning party of surveyors, who started ontheir march with the first peep of the dawn, caughtthe red glow through the misty gray. They turnedtheir steps aside, and found, as they supposed, a sleepingtraveller. It was the only face they had seen on thehills which was not haggard and pale. In the eyesof those toilworn men, fresh from the perils of therescue, it seemed scarcely possible that any one therecould look so ruddy and well unless he had beenselfishly shirking his duty to his neighbour, and thegreeting they gave him was biting with its caustic.

"There is no help for me out of such a set of churls,"thought Mr. Hirpington bitterly, as he tried to tell hisstory, without making much impression, until hementioned the name of Edwin Lee, and then theyturned again to listen, for the captain was amongstthem.

But as for this stranger, had he not food andfriends of his own? what did he want of them? theyasked.

"Help for a neighbour who has saved morelives than can be counted, and is now lying on thehills with a broken leg; help to convey him to hishome," Mr. Hirpington returned, with increasingwarmth, as he showed them there was but one wayof doing that. They must carry the poor fellowthrough the bush on a stretcher. "When didcolonists turn their back on a chum in distress?" heasked reproachfully.

"Shut up," said the captain, "and show us wherehe lies."

They would have set to work on the broken boughsand twisted them into a stretcher; but there wasnothing small enough for the purpose left aboveground. They must turn the tent into a palanquinonce again, and manage as Hal had done before them.

One and all agreed if the Maoris had been usingthreatening language to the suffering man's boy, theycould not go their ways and leave him behind in theMaoris' country. "No, no," was passed from lip tolip, and they took their way to the hill.

Mr. Hirpington was himself again, and his genialitysoon melted the frost amongst his new friends.

"So you have carried him blankets and food?" theysaid; and the heartiness of the "yes" with which heresponded made them think a little better of him.

The steep was climbed. Mr. Lee heard the steadytramp approaching, and waked up Hal.

"Humph!" remarked the foremost man, as hecaught sight of Hal. "I thought you said you broughtthem food."

"Are you sure you did not eat it all by the way?"asked another of Mr. Hirpington.

"Look at that poor scarecrow!" cried a third, asthey scaled the hill and drew together as if loath toenter the gloom of the shadow flung by those tremendoustrees. They gazed upwards at the giant branches,and closed ranks. More than one hand was pointingto the whitened skeleton.

"Do you see that?" and a general movement showedthe inclination to draw back, one man slowly edginghis way behind another. It left the captain in theforefront. Mr. Lee lifted a feeble hand.

"Oh, it is all right; there he is!" exclaimed theman of the sea, less easily daunted by the eeriequalms which seemed to rob his comrades of theirmanhood.

"We've come to fetch you home, old boy," he added,bending over Mr. Lee and asking for his sons. "Haveyou not two?"

"Yes, I've a brace of them," said the injured man,"Edwin, where is Edwin?"

"Edwin and Cuthbert," repeated the captain. "Ihave something to tell you about them. They arejust two of the boldest and bravest little chaps I evermet with. If my mates were here they would tellyou the same. But they have followed the fall ofmud, and gone across the hills by Taupo. I was toofootsore for the march, and so kept company withthese surveying fellows."

The said fellows had rallied, and were groupedround Mr. Hirpington, who was pointing out the routethey must take to reach the valley farm.

Two of the men started to carry their baggage toMr. Hirpington's boat, intending to row to the fordand wait there for their companions. The canvaswas taken down from the trees. Mr. Lee was boundto his board once more and laid within the ample folds,and slid rather than carried gently down the steepdescent. The puzzle remained how one old man andtwo boys ever got him to the top alive. The partywas large enough to divide and take turns at thecarrying, and the walk was long enough and slowenough to give the captain plenty of opportunity tolearn from Mr. Hirpington all he wanted to knowabout Mr. Lee and his boys. He gave him in returna picture of the deserted coast. "Every man," he said,"was off to the hills when my little craft went downbeneath the earthquake wave. It was these younglads' forethought kept the beacon alight when thenight overran the day. They saw us battling withthe waves, and backed their cart into the sea to pickus up. Mere boys, they had to tie themselves to thecart, sir. Think of that."

Mr. Hirpington was thinking, and it made himlook very grave. What had he been doing in themidst of the widespread calamity? Not once hadhe asked himself poor Audrey's question, but he askedit now as the captain went on: "A shipwreckedsailor, begging his way to the nearest port, has notmuch in his power to help another. But I will findout a man who both can and will. I mean old Bowen.He is one of our wealthiest sheep-owners, and hestands indebted to these two lads on the same countas I do, for his grandson was with me."

"His run is miles away from here," saidMr. Hirpington. "You cannot walk so far. Look outfor some of Feltham's shepherds riding home; theywould give you a lift behind them."

The party halted at the ford, where Mr. Hirpingtonfound several of his own roadmen waiting for him.Nga-Hepé had faithfully delivered his message.

"Ah!" said Mr. Hirpington, "I knew he would,and I am going to keep my part of the bargain too.We are always friendly." He turned to Hal, andexplained how he had sent to his mates to meet himat the ford. "Until they come," he added, "rest andeat, and recover yourself."

Since the arrival of the boat, Dunter had beengetting ready, for he foresaw an increasing demand forbreakfast, and his resources were very restricted. Buthe got out the portable oven, lit his fires, not so muchin the yard, correctly speaking, as over it."Breakfasting the coach" had given every one at the fordgood practice in the art of providing. When thewalking-party arrived they found hot rolls andsteaming coffee awaiting them without stint. It broughtthe sunshine into many a rugged face as they votedhim the best fellow in the world.

They circled round the fire to enjoy them. Nobodywent down into the house but Hal, who resigned thecare of Mr. Lee somewhat loathly. "I should haveliked to have seen you in your own house before weparted," he muttered.

"No, no," said Mr. Lee; "you have done too muchalready. You will never be the man again that youhave been, I fear."

The hearty hand-clasp, the look into each other'sfaces, was not quickly forgotten by the bystanders.

The air was full of meetings and partings.Mr. Hirpington was in the midst of his men. He wasbound by his post under government to make thestate of the roads his first care.

"When will the coach be able to run again?" wasthe question they were all debating, as a governmentinspector was on his way to report on the state ofthe hills; for few as yet could understand the natureof the unparalleled and unprecedented disaster whichhad overwhelmed them.

CHAPTER XVIII.

WHERO TO THE RESCUE.

The busy sounds of trampling feet, the manyvoices breaking the silence of the past days,roused Edwin effectually, and then he discovered thatthe door of the room in which he had slept resistedhis most strenuous efforts to open it.

He called to Dunter to release him. No reply.A louder shout, accompanied by a sturdy kick at theimmovable door, gave notice of his growing impatience.The kaka, which had been watching his determinedefforts with exceeding interest, set up its cry of "Hoké,hoké!"

"We are caged, my bird," said Edwin; "both of uscaged completely."

His eye wandered round in search of any outletin vain. All his experiences since the night of theeruption had taught him to look to himself, and heturned to the window. It was securely shutteredand apparently barred.

"How strange!" he thought, as a sudden shock ofearthquake made the iron walls around him rattleand vibrate, as if they too were groaning insympathetic fear.

The kaka flew to him for protection, and strove tohide its head. Another tremor all around sent itcowering to the floor. Edwin stooped to pick it up,and saw that the thin sheet of iron which formed thepartition between that room and the next had startedforward. He found the knife which Dunter had lefthim, and widened the crack. He could slip his handthrough it now. The walls were already twistedwith the shocks they had sustained. He got hold ofthe iron with both hands, and exerting all his strengthbent it up from the floor. His head went through.Another vigorous tug, another inch was gained; hisshoulders followed, and he wriggled through at lastin first-rate worm fashion.

"It is something to be thin," thought Edwin, as heshook himself into order on the other side. He wasin another bedroom, exactly similar to the one hehad left. Both were designed for the reception of"the coach;" but door and window were securelyfastened, as in the other room. The sounds whichhad awakened him must have been the noiseaccompanying some departure, for he thought he coulddistinguish the splash of oars in the water, and wordsof leave-taking. But the voices were strange voices,which he had never heard before, and then all wasprofoundly still.

It dawned on Edwin now that perhaps he had notbeen shut in by accident, but that something hadoccurred. He was getting very near the truth, forhe recalled Nga-Hepé's threats, and wondered whetherfriend or foe had made him a prisoner.

Well, then, was it wise to keep making such a rowto get out? He began to see the matter in a differentlight. He lay down on the bed in the second room,determined to listen and watch; but in his worn-outcondition sleep overcame him a second time.

The kaka missed his society, and followed to perchon his pillow. He was awakened at last by itsscream. The window was open, and the bird wasfluttering in and out in a playful endeavour to eludea hand put through to catch it. Edwin was springingupright, when his recent experiences remindedhim of the need of caution. But the movementhad been heard, and a voice, which he knew to beWhero's, said softly, "Edwin, my brother, are youawake?"

"Awake? yes! What on earth is the matter?"retorted Edwin.

"Hush!" answered Whero, looking in and layinga finger on his own lips. "Come close to the window."

Edwin obeyed as noiselessly as he could. Wheroheld out his hand to help him on to the sill.

"Escape," he whispered; "it is for your life."

His hands were as cold as ice, and his teeth wereset. Edwin hesitated; but the look on Whero's faceas he entreated him not to linger frightened him,already wrought up to a most unnatural state ofsuspicion by the tormenting feeling of being shut inagainst his will.

Any way, he was not going to lose a chance ofgetting out. It was too unbearable to be caged likea bird. He took Whero's hand and scrambled up.The Maori boy looked carefully around. All wasdark and still. Again he laid his finger on his lips.

"Trust in me, my brother," he murmured, pointingto his canoe, which was waiting in the shadow of therushes.

"Where are we going?" asked Edwin under his breath.

"To safety," answered Whero. "Wait until weare out of hearing, and I will tell you all."

He grasped Edwin's hand, and led him down thebank to the shingly bed of the river.

"Stop a minute," interposed Edwin, not quite surethat it was wise to trust himself altogether to theguidance of the young Maori. "I wish I could catchsight of Dunter. I want a word with him, and thenI'll go."

"No, no!" reiterated Whero, dragging him on ashe whispered, "No one here knows your danger. Itis my father who is coming to take your life; but Iwill save you. Come!"

Edwin lay down in the bottom of the canoe asWhero desired, and was quickly covered over withrushes by the dusky hands of his youthful deliverer.A low call brought the kaka to Whero's shoulder, andkeeping his canoe well in the shadows, he rowedswiftly down stream.

The brilliant starshine enabled him to steer clearof the floating dangers—the driftwood and thestones—which impeded their course continually.

"Are you hungry?" asked Whero, bending low tohis companion. But Edwin answered, "No."

"Then listen," continued the excited boy. "Myfather has found this Lawford, the rabbiter you toldme about. He was with one of the biggest gangs ofpakehas, going back from the hills, every man withhis spade. Had my father raised his club, it wouldhave been quickly beaten out of his hand among somany. He knew that, and the pakehas talked fair.But this Lawford did not say as you say. He mademy father believe it was you who asked him to gowith you to the roadside, and dig between the whitepines, to find a bag you had dropped in the mud;and so he dug down until you found it and took itaway. You then went alone to the ruins at the ford,and he thinks you hid it in the hayloft. It wasbefore the fordmaster and his people had returned.My father wanted these pakehas to come with him,and take it from you; but they all declared thatwas against the law of the pakehas. They wouldgo their ways and tell their chief, who would sendhis soldiers for you. It was but a bag of talk.My father has been watching round the ford, waitingfor them, yet they have not come."

"But, Whero," interposed Edwin, "Nga-Hepé cannotbe sure that I was at the ford, for it was at thevalley farm that he met me and took the horse."

"Does my father sleep on the track of an enemy?"asked Whero. "Has he no one to help him? Mygrandfather was following in the bush when he tookthe horse from you. The one went after Lawford,the other stayed to watch your steps. Mygrandfather saw you enter the ford; he saw the masterleave it alone. A Maori eye has been upon the placeever since. They know you have not come out ofthe hole where you went in. Nothing has been done.What were the fordmaster's promises? what wereLawford's? A bag of talk. My father feels himselfthe dupe of the pakeha. A geyser is boiling in hisveins. If you meet him you fall by his club. Hewill wait until the day breaks; he will wait no longer.At nightfall the old man, my grandfather, rowed backto the little kainga our people have made on thebank of the river."

"A kainga?" interrupted Edwin, breathlessly."What is a kainga?"

"That is our name for a little village without awall," explained Whero, hurrying on. "He came.He called the men together. They have gone upwith clubs and spears. They will come upon theford-house with the dawn, and force their way in tofind the bag. The master cannot resist so many.O Edwin, my brother, I said I saved my kaka whenthey would have killed it; shall I not save my friend?I wanted to go with the men, that I might tell myfather again how you have stood by me. And shouldI not stand by you? But my mother, Marileha, heldme back. My grandfather kept on saying, 'I knewfrom the first it was the farmer's son who had robbedyou. Was it he who helped us out of the mud? Isaw him not. It was Ottley, the good coachman.Have we not all eyes?' 'Go not with them,' said mymother. 'What is talk? Your father will make youthe same answer. Do they know the young pakehaas we do?' So I listened to my mother, and wemade our plan together. I knew our men could notconceal themselves in the water; they must all behidden in the bush. I filled my canoe with rushes.I rowed after them up the river, gliding along in theshadows. I climbed up the bank, under the row oflittle windows at the back of the ford-house, andlistened. I heard my kaka scream, and I guessed itwas with you. I was sure you would take care ofit. I could see the windows were all cracked andbroken with the earthquakes. The shocks come stillso often I knew I had only to wait, and when I feltthe ground tremble under my feet I smashed thewindow. Nobody noticed the noise when everythingaround us was rocking and shaking. You know therest. We have an hour before us yet. I am rowingfor the coast as hard as I can. Once on board asteamer no Maori can touch you. I have plentyof money to pay for our passage. My grandfathercame to see me when I was at school, and gave me alot to persuade me to stay. He was taking his moneyto the Auckland bank, for fear another tana shouldcome. Then we can go and live among the pakehas."

"But where shall we go?" asked Edwin, struckwith the ability with which Whero had laid hisplan, and the ease with which he was carrying it out."I only wish I could have spoken to Dunter orMr. Hirpington before we came away; for what will theythink of me?"

"Think!" repeated Whero; "let them think. CouldI betray my father to them? Our hearts are true toeach other. We have given love for love. Would theybelieve it? No. Would they have let you come awaywith me, Nga-Hepé's son? No. One word, my brother,and you would have been lost. A steamer will takeus to school. They told me at Tauranga there was aschool in every great town on the island, so it does notmatter where it lands us; the farther off the better."

Marileha was watching for them on the bank.Whero waved his arms in signal of success, and shotswiftly past in the cold gray light of the coming day.

The eastern sky was streaked with red when thefirst farm-house was sighted. Should they stop andbeg for bread? Whero was growing exhausted withcontinued exertion. He lifted his paddle from thewater, and Edwin sat upright; then caution whisperedto them both, "Not yet! wait a little longer." Sothey glided on beneath the very window of the roomwhere Mrs. Hirpington was sleeping. One half-hourlater she might have seen them pass.

The ever-broadening river was rolling now betweenlong wooded banks. Enormous willows dipped theirweeping boughs into the stream, and a bridge becamevisible in the distance as the morning sun shone out.The white walls of many a settler's home glistenedthrough the light gauzy haze which hung above thefrosted ground. Whero's aching arms had scarcelyanother lift left in them, when they perceived a littleriver-steamer with its line of coal-barges in tow.

Should they hail it and ask to be taken on board?No; it was going the wrong way. But Edwinventured, now that the hills were growing shadowy inthe dim distance, to sit upright and take his turn withthe paddle, whilst Whero rested.

How many miles had they come? how manyfarther had they yet to go?

They watched the settlements on either side of theriver with hungry eyes, until they found themselvesnear a range of farm-buildings which looked as ifthey might belong to some well-to-do colonist, andwere in easy hail of the river-bank. They ran thecanoe aground, and walked up to the house to beg forthe bread so freely given to all comers through thelength and breadth of New Zealand.

Invigorated by the hearty meal willingly bestowedupon a Maori boy on his way to school, they returnedto the canoe; but the effort to reach the coast wasbeyond their utmost endeavour. Edwin felt theywere now out of the reach of all pursuit, and mightsafely go ashore and rest, for Whero was ready to fallasleep in the canoe.

They were looking about for a landing-place, when,to his utter amazement, Edwin heard Cuthbert shoutingto him from the deck of one of the little steamersplying up and down the river.

"By all that is marvellous," exclaimed Edwin, "ifthat isn't my old Cuth!"

He turned to his companion, too far under theinfluence of the dustman to quite understand whatwas taking place around him.

Cuthbert's shout of "Stop, Edwin, stop!" wasrepeated by a deep, manly voice. The motion of thesteamer ceased. Edwin brought the canoe alongside.

"Where are you bound for?" asked his oldacquaintance the captain of the coaster.

"Come on board," shouted Cuthbert.

The captain repeated his inquiry.

Whero opened his sleepy eyes, and answered, "Christchurch."

"I am a Christchurch boy," cried another voicefrom the deck of the steamer. "But the Christchurchschools are all closed for the winter holidays."

There were hurried questions exchanged betweenthe brothers after father and Effie. But theanswers were interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Bowen.

"Pay your rower," he shouted to Edwin, "and joinour party. I am taking your little brother and sisterhome, for I am going to the hills to make inquiriesinto the state of distress."

Before Edwin could reply, Whero, with a look atthe old identity as if he defied the whole world tointerfere with him, was whispering to Edwin,—

"These men are fooling us. They will not take usto Christchurch. They are going the wrong way."

Edwin was as much alarmed as Whero at thethought of going back; but he knew Mr. Bowen hadno authority to detain him against his will.

"Our errand admits of no delay," he answered, ashe resigned the paddle to Whero.

The canoe shot forward.

"Good-bye! good-bye!" cried Edwin.

Sailors and passengers were exclaiming at theirreckless speed, for Whero was rowing with all hismight. The number of the boats and barges increasedas they drew nearer the coast.

"Lie down again amongst the rushes," entreatedWhero, "or we may meet some other pakeha whowill know your English face."

Their voyage was almost at its end. They werein sight of the goal.

Black, trailing lines of smoke, from the coasting-steamersat the mouth of the river, flecked the clearbrilliancy of the azure sky.

Edwin was as much afraid as Whero of anotherchance encounter. Audrey might turn up to stop him.Some one might be sending her home by water, whocould say? Another of the shipwrecked sailors mightbe watching for a coaster to take him on board. Sohe lay down in the bottom of the canoe as if he wereasleep, and Whero pulled the rushes over him.

CHAPTER XIX.

MET AT LAST.

The boys were recovering their equanimity, whenthe stiff sea-breeze blowing in their facesscattered the rushes and sent them sailing down thestream.

Whero drew his canoe to the bank as they came toa quiet nook where rushes were growing abundantly,that he might gather more.

Whero was out of his latitude, in a terraincognita, where he knew not how to supply the want ofa dinner. How could he stop to discover the hauntsof the wild ducks to look for their eggs? How couldhe reach the cabbage in the top of those tall andgraceful ti trees, which shook their waving fronds inthe wintry breezes? Ah! if it had been summer,even here he would not have longed in vain. Hisbundle of rushes was under his arm, when he noticeda hollow willow growing low to the river-side. Aswarm of bees in the recent summer had made ittheir home, and their store of winter honeycomb hadfilled the trunk. Swarms of bees gone wild hadbecome so frequent near the English settlements, wildhoney was often found in large quantities. But toWhero it was a rare treat. He was far too hungryto be able to pass it by. He scrambled up the bank,and finding the bees were dead or torpid with thecold, he began to break off great pieces of the comb,and lay them on his rushes to carry away.

As he was thus engaged a man came through theclustering ti trees and asked him to give him a bit.

Whero was ready enough to share his spoils withthe stranger, for there was plenty. As he turned tooffer the piece he had just broken off, he saw he wasan ill-looking man, with his hat slouched over hiseyes, carrying a roll of pelts and a swag at the endof a stick, which had evidently torn a hole throughthe shoulder of the wretched old coat the man waswearing.

"Much craft on the river here?" asked the man."Any barges passing that would take a fellow downto the coast?"

"I am a stranger here," answered Whero; "I donot know." As he spoke, his quick eye detected thestains of the hateful blue volcanic mud on the man'sdirty clothes.

"I'll be off," he thought. "Who are you? Youare from the hills, whoever you are."

He gave him another great piece of the honeycomb,for fear he should follow him to ask for more.

"That is so old," objected the man; "look howdark it is. Give me a better bit."

But he took it notwithstanding, and tried to put itin his ragged pocket. The holes were so large it fellthrough.

"There is plenty more in the tree," said Whero."Why do you not go and help yourself?" He tookup his rushes and walked quickly to the canoe.

Edwin was making a screen for his face with thefew remaining rushes. Whero saw that he waslooking eagerly through them, not at the honeycomb hewas bringing, but at the man on the bank.

"Do you know him?" asked Whero.

"Yes, yes; it is Lawford," answered Edwin, underhis breath. "Look, he has got his rabbit-skins andhis swag. How careful he is over it! He has set hisfoot on it whilst he gets the honey."

The canoe was completely hidden by the tall tuftsof bulrush growing between it and the willow, so theycould watch unseen. The man was enjoying thehoneycomb immensely. He was choosing out the bestpieces. Whero gave Edwin the kaka, lest it shouldbetray them.

"You are sure it is Lawford?" asked Whero.

"Yes, quite," replied Edwin, beginning to eat.

The best of the honeycomb was higher up in thehollow trunk, where the rain could not wash out itssweetness. As Lawford was stretching up his arm toget at it, the sweet-brier, now so plentiful in NewZealand, that was growing about its roots caught theragged old coat. They heard the rent; something fellout of the pocket on the other side.

He picked it up hastily, shaking off the dirt intowhich it had fallen. "It is my father's belt!"exclaimed Edwin. Whero was over the side of thecanoe in a moment, and crawling through the bed ofrushes with the noiseless swiftness of a wild animalwatching its prey.

He saw Lawford unpack what New Zealanders calla swag—that is, a piece of oil-cloth provided withstraps, which takes the place of knapsack orportmanteau amongst travellers of Lawford's description.If a man has not even got a swag, he is reckoned asundowner in colonial eyes. Swags are always to bebought at the smallest stores. No difficulty about that.As Whero drew nearer, he saw the swag was a newone. Everything else about the man looked worn out.

Lawford was unpacking it on the ground, throwingsuspicious glances over his shoulder as he did so; buthis recent companion seemed to have vanished. Hestood up and looked all round him, but there was noone to be seen.

He took out a small bundle packed up in flax-leaves,which he began slowly to unwind.

Did not Whero know the bag which his ownmother had woven? Could anything produce thosetell-tale stains but the hateful mud from which ithad been dug up?

Lawford wrapped the belt round the bag, andbound the flax-leaves over both as before. When hebegan to strap up the swag, Whero crept back to thecanoe. His eyes were ablaze with passion.

"Pull off your coat," he whispered, "and leave itin the rushes. Take mine, or he will know you."

Edwin eagerly complied.

"Sleep deep; lie on your face!" whispered Whero,covering him over with the rushes he had brought.Then, before Edwin had the least idea of what hewas purposing, Whero pushed out his canoe into themiddle of the river, and paddled quickly to a handylanding-place a little farther on. He ran up thebank shouting to Lawford, "If you want a boat togo down river to meet a coaster, I'll row you in mycanoe. But you will have to pay me."

"You would not work without that if you are aMaori, I know," retorted the other, taking out awell-worn purse.

"Come along," shouted Whero; "that's a' right." Theunsuspecting Lawford took his seat in the canoe,and gave Edwin an unwary kick.

"Who have you got here?" he asked.

"A chum asleep," answered Whero, indifferently, ashe stroked his kaka.

Edwin was feeling anything but indifferent. Heknew not how to lie still. "If we are not deadunlucky," he thought, "we shall get all back—Nga-Hépé'sbag, and father's belt too. We must mind wedo not betray ourselves. If we can manage to go onboard the same steamer, when we are right out to seaI'll tell the captain all; and we will give Lawford incharge as he lands." Such was Edwin's plan; but hecould not be sure that Whero's was the same. Hedare not exchange a look or sign; "for," he said tohimself, "if Lawford catches sight of me, it is allover."

They passed another little steamer going up theriver, with its coal-barge in tow.

Edwin felt as if Audrey's sedate face would belooking down upon him from its deck, but he waswrong.

"Nothing is certain but the unforeseen," he sighed;but he remembered his part, and the sigh became asnore, which he carefully repeated at intervals, forLawford's benefit.

He little thought how soon his words would befulfilled. The steamer was some way ahead, andWhero was making towards it steadily. The bargebehind them was lessening in the distance, when theMaori boy fixed his fingers like a vice in the strap ofLawford's swag, and upset his canoe.

Whero knew that Edwin could swim well, andthat Lawford was unused to the water. Whero haddetected that by the awkward way in which hestepped into the canoe.

The two struggled in the water for the possessionof the swag. At last the man relinquished his hold,and Whero swam to shore triumphantly, leaving himto drown.

"He shall not drown!" cried Edwin, hasteningtowards him with vigorous strokes; but before hecould reach the spot, Lawford had sunk. Edwinswam round and round, watching for him to rise.

It was a moment of anguish so intense he thoughtlife, reason, all within him, would give way beforethe dreadful question, "What have I been? Anaccomplice in this man's death—all unknowing,it is true; but that cannot save him. Oh! it doesmatter," he groaned, "what kind of fellows a boy isforced to take for his chums."

The drowning man rose to the surface. Edwingrasped him by the coat. For a little while theyfloated with the current, until Lawford's weightbegan to drag Edwin down.

"Better die with him than live to know I havekilled him," thought Edwin. One hurried upwardglance into the azure sky brought back theremembrance of One who is ever present, ever near, andstrong to save us to the uttermost. This upheld him.A tree came floating by; he caught at its branches.Lawford had just sense enough to follow his exampleand cling for dear life to the spreading arms.

A bargee, unloading his freight of coal upon thebank, perceived their danger, and swam out witha rope. He threw it to Lawford, but he missed it.A second was flung from the barge, and the noose atthe end of it caught among the branches flapping upand down in the water. Men's lives were at stake,but as the value of the drift-wood would well repayits capture, they hauled it in with the bold youngswimmer clinging to its boughs; for the first of thewatermen who came to their help had seized Lawford,who relinquished his hold on the tree to snatch atthe rope he brought him.

The two men swam to the barge. Edwin wasdrawn in to shore. He scrambled up the bank andlooked around him for Lawford.

He saw the rabbiter half lying on the deck of thebarge, panting with rage and fear, and shouted tohim, "Safe! all safe!"

But Lawford answered with a bitter imprecationon the son of the cannibal, who had purposely flunghim over, tossed him like a bone to the hungry sharks.

"Ask yourself why," retorted Edwin. "And whatmight not I have done to you, if I had never heardsuch words as, 'Neither do I condemn thee: go, andsin no more'?"

"Come," interposed the waterman to Lawford,"shut up. Such language as this is wonderfullyunbecoming from the mouths of fellows scarce snatchedback from a watery grave, and we don't care to hearit. Say what you will to the young 'un, he madea bold fight with the tide to save you. Let himalone."

"Where were you bound for?" said the bargeeaside to Edwin, as the boy poured out his gratitudefor their timely assistance.

"I wanted to take a passage on board the steamerfor Christchurch, and a Maori boy was rowing medown to meet it. This man was in the same canoe,and had robbed the boy who was rowing us. In thestruggle between them the canoe was upset."

"Go on with him, then," advised the bargee, "andgive him in charge when he lands."

"No," answered Edwin resolutely, "for the boyrecovered his own. But this man is a bad one, and Iwould rather stay where I am than be in his companyanother hour."

"Run off, then," returned the bargee kindly; "rununtil you are dry, and you will take no harm. As forthis fellow, we will ship him off to the South Island,if that is where he wants to go."

Edwin wrung the bargee's horny hand, and followedhis counsel with all speed. Lawford's jeering laughwas ringing in his ears.

"He thinks I am running away from him; if hefancies I am afraid, he makes a mistake, that is all,"reflected Edwin, racing onward.

But where was Whero? A run of half-a-milebrought Edwin back to the river-brink again, butnearer to the spot where the canoe was upset. Wherohad recovered it, and was looking about for his friend.Edwin could see his tiny "dug-out" zigzagging roundthe boulders, and still rushing seawards, as he pausedto reconnoitre a leafless bush on the water's edge,which seemed to bear a fancied resemblance to thefigure of a crouching boy. Edwin pulled off his jacketand waved it high in the air. He threw up his arms.He shouted. He did everything he could think of toattract Whero's attention. But his back was towardshim. All his signals seemed in vain, but not quite;for the kaka was swinging high up among thetop-most branches of an enormous willow near the sceneof the upset. From such an elevation it espied Edwin,and recognizing Whero's jacket, which he was wavingflag-like over his head, it swooped down upon himwith an angry scream, and seizing the jacket by thesleeve, tugged at it with all its might. If Wherocould not distinguish the shout of his friend from therush of the water, the doleful "Hoké" of his bird couldnot be mistaken, and Edwin soon saw him rowingswiftly towards them.

"What for?" demanded Whero; "what for gobother about a thief? What is he good for? Throwhim over, and have done with him."

"Ah!" retorted Edwin, "but we never should havedone with him. The life we had let him lose wouldhave lain like a terrible weight on us, growing heavierand heavier as we too drew nearer to the grave. ForChrist himself refuses to lift the murderer's load.But you do not know; you are not to blame, as Ishould have been."

The overmastering feelings which prompted Edwinto say this shot from his eyes and quivered in hisvoice, and Whero, swayed by a force he could notunderstand, reaching him only by words, yielded tothe influence of the light thus vibrating from soul tosoul.

"Yes," he said, reflectively, "there is somethinggreater than killing, and I want the greatest things."

CHAPTER XX.

JUST IN TIME.

"What an ass Lawford must have been not toput on father's belt! If he had, we couldnot have got it away from him," said Edwin, as thetwo seated themselves on the sunny bank and unpackedthe swag. Whero took out the precious bag, slung itround his own neck, and concealed it under his shirt.Edwin claimed his father's belt, and as he shook offthe mud and dirt which had accumulated upon itduring its sojourn in Lawford's pocket, he saw whythe man had been unable to wear it. In his haste toget it off Mr. Lee whilst he lay unconscious, he hadnot waited to unbuckle it, for fear Hal should see him.He had taken out his pocket-knife and ripped itopen. This helped to get it into his possession, andhelped him to lose it too. The apparent gain wasnothing but the earnest-money of the self-soughtcalamity which drove him a beggar from thegangway of the San Francisco mail before many monthswere over.

As the boys weighed the weight of coin in theirhands, they nodded significantly at each other. Nowonder it wore Lawford's old pockets into holesbefore the end of his journey. Reluctant as he musthave been, he was forced to buy his swag at one orother of the would-be townships, with their fine names,which dot the lower reaches of the bush road. Theyturned the poor unlucky bit of oil-cloth over and overwith contempt and loathing, and finally kicked it intothe river. Edwin folded his father's belt together,and once more resuming his own jacket—to the greatsatisfaction of the kaka—he changed the belt into abreastplate, and buttoned his jacket tightly over it.

To get back to the ford as quickly as they couldwas now their chief desire. It was aggravating—itwas enough to make a fellow feel mad all over—tothink that Effie and Cuthbert and the Bowens hadpassed them just that little bit too soon. Edwin grewloud in his regrets. Audrey would have called itcrying over spilt milk. He could do nothing butthink of Audrey and her philosophical proverbs. Topractise the patience which was their outcome wasa little more difficult. To sit down where they wereand wait for the next steamer up stream to help themon their way was tantalizing indeed, when nobodycould tell what might be taking place at the ford atthat very moment.

But they had not long to wait, for the sight of aMaori boy, a Hau-Hau from the King country, in theheart of the hills, had a special attraction for everyNew Zealander coming from the coast. All werebreathless for the particulars of the dire eruption,which had overwhelmed their sunny vales, andchanged their glassy lakes to Stygian pools.

Not a sailor who could pull a rope, not a passengerlounging on its tiny deck, would willingly forego thechance of hearing something definite and detailed.The steamer stopped, and the man at the wheel askedeagerly for news, any more news from the doomedhills, looming gaunt and gray in the dim distance.

No sooner did they touch the deck than the twoboys found themselves the centre of an earnestquestioning group, athirst for the latest intelligence. Itwas a grave responsibility for both of them. Theychose to remain on deck, keeping as near to themaster of the vessel as they could without attractingattention. For each one knew that he was carryinghis father's hoard, and their recent experiences madethem regard the rough appearance of most of the menaround them with mistrust.

It was a secret belief with both the boys that theywere safer alone in their canoe; but Whero's strengthwas expended. He leaned on Edwin's arm forsupport, and was only restrained from falling into oneof his cat-like dozes by the fear that another thievishhand might steal away his treasure while he slept.They could not return as they came; rest and foodmust be had.

A coil of rope provided the one, and the stewardpromised the other. But before the boys werepermitted to taste the dinner so freely offered, Edwin hadto describe afresh the strange and startling phenomenaappearing on that night of terror, which rumour withher double tongue could scarcely magnify. Hedescribed them as only an eye-witness, with the horrorof the night still over him, could describe them; andthe men stood round him spell-bound. All the whilehis words were painting the vivid scenes, his thoughtswere debating the very practical question, "Ought I,or ought I not, to spend some of father's money,now I have got it back, and buy more meat and flourand cheese to carry home?" He thought of thewidespread dearth, and he knew that the little storehe had found unhurt at the valley farm might all begone on his return, and yet he was afraid to venturewith the wealth of gold he had about him intodoubtful places. No, he dare not risk it again. Theymust trust for to-morrow's bread.

When they quitted the steamer the short wintryday had long passed its noon, and the wind blew coldaround them as they returned to the open boat.Edwin was rowing now; for when they drew nearerto the hills, both he and Whero agreed that he mustlie down again beneath the rushes. The kaka hadhidden its head under its wing when the exchange wasmade. The weary Maori boy could scarcely make hisway against roaring wind and rushing water. Theywere long in getting as far as the ravine where thetiny kainga nestled.

Whero moored his canoe in a little cleft of therock, where it was concealed from view, and landedalone. Edwin's heart beat fast when he heard lightsteps advancing to the water's edge. His hand wascold as the ice congealing on the duck-weed as adusky face peered round the ledge of rock and smiled.It was Marileha.

"Good food make Ingarangi boy anew," she said,putting into Edwin's hand a steaming kumara, orpurple-coloured Maori potato. Whilst he was eatingit Whero brought round a larger "dug-out," used nowby his father. It was piled with savoury-smellingroasted pig, newly-baked cakes of dirty-looking Maoriwheat, with roasted wekas or wingless moor-henshanging in pairs across a stick. Like a wise woman,Marileha had spent the day in providing the savourymeat much loved by one she wanted to propitiate.

"They have not yet come back," said Whero,beckoning to Edwin to join him in the larger canoe,where he could be more easily concealed beneath themats on which the provisions were laid.

"We are going to take them their supper," addedWhero. "When the men are eating I can get myfather to hear me; then I put this bag in his handsand tell him all. Then, and not till then, will it besafe for you to be seen."

"The Ingarangi boy lies safely here," whisperedMarileha, smiling, happy in her womanly device forkeeping the peace. "My skirt shall cover him. Ileave not the canoe. You, Whero, shall take frommy hand and carry to your father the supper webring to himself and his people."

Edwin guessed what Marileha's anticipation mightembrace when he found his pillow was a bundle ofcarefully-prepared flax fibres, enveloping little bunchesof chips—the splints and bandages of the bush.Edwin had a vision of broken heads and gapingspear-thrusts, and a ride in an ambulance after the battle.What had taken place that day?

But the question was shortly answered. Theywere not bound for the lake, or the ruins of theRota Pah, but the nearer wreck of the ford-house.

His visions grew in breadth and in detail; smokeand fire were darkening their background when thecanoe stopped at the familiar boating-stairs. Whatdid he see? A party of dusky-browed and brawny-armedfellows hard at work clearing away the lastremains of the overturned stables.

Mr. Hirpington, giving away pipes and tobacco witha lavish hand, was walking in and out among them,praising the thoroughness of their work, andexhorting them to continue.

"Pull them down," he was repeating. "We willnot leave so much as a stick or a stone standing. Ifthe bag is there we will have it. We must find it."

The emphasis on the "will" and the "must" calledforth the ever-ready smiles of the Maori race. Motherand son were radiant.

With a basket of cakes in his hand and a joint ofroast-pig on a mat on his head, Whero marched upthe landing-stairs, and went in amongst his countrymenas they threw down their tools and declaredtheir work was done.

He was talking fast and furiously in his nativetongue, with many outbursts of laughter at theexpense of his auditors. But neither Edwin norMr. Hirpington could understand what he was saying,until he flung the bag at his father's feet with a shoutof derision—the fifth commandment being unknownin Maori-land.

Nga-Hepé took up the bag and changed it fromhand to hand.

Kakiki Mahane leaned forward and felt itscontents. "Stones and dirt," he remarked, choosingEnglish words to increase the impression.

"Sell it to me, then," put in Mr. Hirpington."What shall I give you for it? three good horses?"

He held out his hand to receive the bag of manyadventures, and then the cunning old chief could bethe first to bid Nga-Hepé open it and see. But theremembrance of the tana was too vivid in hisson-in-law's mind for him to wish to display his secretedtreasure before the greedy eyes of his tribe. He waswalking off to deposit it in Marileha's lap, whenMr. Hirpington intercepted him, saying in a tone of firmcontrol and good-natured patience, in the happyproportion which gave him his influence over hisunmanageable neighbours: "Come now, that is not fair.Untie the bag, and let us see if it has come back toyou all right or not. You have pulled down mystables to find it; who is to build them up again?"

"Give us four horses for the loss of time," saidone of the Maoris.

"Agreed, if you will give me five for the mischiefyou have done me," he answered readily.

"You can't get over him," said Nga-Hepé. "It isof no use talking."

Kneeling down on the landing-stairs, he opened histreasure on his wife's now greasy silk, displayingsharks' teeth, gold, bank-notes, greenstone, kaurigum—every precious thing of which New Zealand couldboast. They began to count after their nativemanner.

Mr. Hirpington stepped aside to Kakiki. "Youtook my advice and Ottley's: you carried your moneyto the Auckland bank. Make Nga-Hepé do the same."

"Before another moon is past I will," the old chiefanswered, grasping the hand of his trusty counsellor,who replied,—

"It may not be lost and found a second time."

"True, it may not," said the old gray-beard, "if, ashe meant to do, he has killed the finder."

Mr. Hirpington started and turned pale.

"He has not killed the finder," said Marileha, risingwith the dignity of a princess; and taking Edwinby the hand, she led him up to Mr. Hirpington. The"Thank God" which trembled on his lips was deepas low. But aloud he shouted, "Dunter, Dunter! hereis your bird flown back to his cage. Chain him,collar him, keep him this time, if you brick him in."

Dunter's hand was on the boy's shoulder in amoment. Edwin held out his to Nga-Hepé, whotook the curling feathers from his own head-dressto stick them in Edwin's hair. The boy was strokingthe kaka's crimson breast. He lifted up his faceand shot back the smile of triumph in Whero's eyes,as Dunter hauled him away, exclaiming, "Now I'vegot you, see if I don't keep you!"

CHAPTER XXI.

THE VALLEY FARM.

Edwin laughed a merry laugh as Mr. Hirpingtonand his man led him away between them. Aladder had been found in the pulling down of thestables. It greatly assisted the descent into the"dungeonized" kitchen, as Edwin called it. Butwithin, everything was as dirty and comfortless as before.

"They laugh who win," he whispered, undoing asingle button of his jacket, and displaying a corner ofthe wash-leather belt. "Where is father?" he asked,looking eagerly along the row of open doors, andsingling out his recent cage as the most comfortableof the little dormitories. A glance told him it wasnot without an inhabitant. But it was Hal's voicewhich answered from the midst of the blankets, intones of intense self-congratulation, "I'm in bed, lad.Think o' that. Really abed."

"And mind you keep there," retorted Edwin, lookingback to Mr. Hirpington for a guiding word, as herepeated impatiently, "Where's father? Has he seenthe captain?"

"Father," echoed Mr. Hirpington, "is safe, safe athome; and we will follow him there as soon as I getrid of these troublesome guests."

"Sit down, boy, if you do not mind the mud andcold. Sit down and eat," said Dunter kindly. Heopened the kitchen cupboard, and pointed to somebiscuits and cheese which he had reserved for theirown supper. "It is all they have left us," he sighed."We have fed them a whole day just to keep theQueen's peace. We thought they would eat us upwhen they marched down on us, clamouring for youand the bag you had stolen from Nga-Hepé andhidden in our hayloft. But master is up to 'em.'Well,' says he, 'if the bag has ever been in myhay-loft, it is there still; and if it is there, we'll find it.Pull the loft down. Clear out every stick and stonethat is left of my stables, an' welcome.' You see, itmust all be cleared down before we could begin tobuild up again," added Dunter, confidentially.

"It was a happy thought," said Mr. Hirpington,rubbing his hands, "and it took. I ran myself toset the example, and knocked over the shakydoor-post, and then the work of demolition went forwardwith a will. Nothing like a good spell of hard workto cool a man down. Of course they did not findthe bag. But Nga-Hepé's neighbours have found somany old nails and hooks and hinges they have stuckto their task; they are at it yet, but the dusk willdisperse them. Their excuse is gone. Still," he wenton, "'all is well that ends well.' You might havefound the place a smouldering ash-heap. We knowtheir Maori ways when they mean to dislodge anEnglish settler. They come as they came last night,set fire to his house, pull up his fences, and ploughup his fields. The mud preserved me from anythingof that sort beginning unawares. Nothing wouldburn. We have picked up more than one charredstick, so they had a try at it; and as for the fences,they are all buried. When the coast is clear youand I must prepare for a starlight walk through thebush to your father's farm."

"Will they molest father?" asked Edwin anxiously.

"No, no," answered both in a breath. "Yourfather's farm is on the other side of the river, noton Hau-Hau ground. It belonged to another tribe,the Arewas, who are 'friendless,' as we say. We toldyou your father was safe if we could but get himhome. And so am I," continued Mr. Hirpington, "forI can always manage my neighbours and appreciatethem too; for they are men at heart, and we likeeach other. And there is a vein of honour inNga-Hepé and his son according to their light which youmay safely trust, yet they are not civilized Englishmen."

"But Whero will be—" Edwin began; but his brightanticipations for the future of his Maori friend werecut short by a strange, unearthly sound—a wild,monotonous chant which suddenly filled the air. Asthe dusk fell around them, the Maoris still sittingover Marileha'a supper had begun to sing to driveaway the fairies, which they imagine are in everydancing leaf and twittering bird. Then, one by one,the canoes which had brought them there began tofill, and as the swarthy faces disappeared, silence andloneliness crept over the dismantled ford.

Nga-Hepé proved his friend's assertions true, forBeauty was honourably returned. They found himtied by the bridle to the only post on the premiseswhich had been left standing. Perhaps it had beenspared for the purpose. The gun was loaded, suchwraps as Dunter could get together were all put on,and Edwin and Mr. Hirpington started. The first stepwas not a pleasant one—a plunge into the icy riverand a scramble up the opposite bank, from which evenBeauty seemed to shrink. But the gallop over thefrosty ground which succeeded took off the comfortlesschill and dried their draggled coats. Mr. Hirpingtongot down and walked by Beauty's head, as they feltthe gradual descent beginning, and heard the splashof the rivulet against the stones, and saw the brightlights from Edwin's home gleam through the eveningshadows. A scant half-hour that almost seemed ayear in its reluctance to slip away, a few morepaces, and Beauty drew up at the gateless enclosure.A bar thrown across kept them outside. A gleefulshout, a thunderous rain of blows upon the bar, andthe impatient stamping of Beauty's feet broughtCuthbert and Arthur Bowen almost tumbling overone another to receive them. The welcome sound ofthe hammer, the stir and movement all about theplace, told Edwin that the good work of restorationhad already begun. The bar went down with athud. It was Cuthbert, in his over-joy at seeing hisbrother, who had banged it to the ground. The noisebrought out the captain.

"It is a short journey to Christchurch," exclaimedCuthbert. "How many miles?"

"I'm in no mood for arithmetic," retorted Edwin,bounding up the remnant of a path beside thecaptain, with Cuthbert grasping him by the other hand.Arthur Bowen took Beauty by the bridle.

"I'll see after him," said Mr. Hirpington.

But young Bowen responded gaily, "Think me toofresh from Greek and Latin to supper a horse, do you?I'll shoe him too if occasion requires it, like atrue-born New Zealander."

"Brimful of self-help," retorted Mr. Hirpington;"and, after all, it is the best help.— Well, well," headded, as he paused in the doorway, "to take themeasure of our recuperative power would puzzle astranger. You beat me hollow."

He had walked into the sometime workshop; but allthe debris of the recent carpentering had been pushedaside and heaped into a distant corner, while an ironchimney, with a wooden framework to support it, hadbeen erected in another.

"In simply no time," as Mr. Hirpington declaredin his astonishment.

To which the old identity, Mr. Bowen, retortedfrom the other room, asking if two men with a hammerto hand and a day before them were to be expectedto do nothing but look at each other.

Mr. Lee was reposing on a comfortable bed by theblazing fire, with Effie standing beside him, holdingthe tin mug from which he was taking an occasionalsip of tea; everything in the shape of earthenwarehaving gone to smash in the earthquake. The kittenwas purring on the corner of his pillow, stretchingout an affectionate paw towards his undefended eyes.

"I am reaping the fruit of your good deeds," smiledthe sick man. "Is not this luxury?"

With a leap and a bound Edwin was at the footof the bed, holding up the recovered belt before hisfather's astonished eyes.

Audrey peeped out from the door of the store-room.With a piece of pumice-stone to serve her for ascrubbing-brush, she was endeavouring to reduce itsshelves to cleanliness and order.

"You here!" exclaimed Edwin, delighted to findthemselves all at home once more; "ready for thefour-handed reel which we will dance to-night if itdoes not make father's head ache," he declared,escaping from Effie's embracing arms to Audrey's probingquestions about that journey to Christchurch.

"Since you must have dropped from the skiesyourself to have reached home at all, it need exciteno wonder," he said.

"Me!" she replied demurely. "Why, I arrived atmy father's door, like a correct young lady, longenough before any of you wanderers and vagabondsthought of returning. Our good friend the oyster-captain,as Cuth will call him, sent me a message byone of Mr. Feltham's shepherds that my father wantedme to nurse him, and I hastened to obey. Mrs. Felthamlent me her own habit, and I rode home withmy groom, behind me, in grand style for an honestcharwoman just released from washing teacups andbeating eggs. My wages taken in kind loaded thepanniers of my steed, and I felt like a bee or an antreturning to the hive with its store of honey."

"That is my best medicine," murmured Mr. Lee, asthe merry laugh with which Audrey's words weregreeted rang through the house.

Mr. Lee was slowly counting his remaining coin.He looked at Audrey. Without another word sheled her brothers away, Effie following as a matter ofcourse, and left him with his friend.

"Come and look round," whispered Audrey to Edwin.

"And help," he answered. "It does not square withmy ideas to let strangers put a prop against the fallingroof and I stand idle."

"Conceited boy!" cried Audrey, "to match yourskill against our oyster-captain's."

She ran lightly down the veranda steps and pointedto the bluff sailor, hammering at a sheet of iron he hadbrought from the ruins of the stable to patch thetumble-down walls of the house.

With the rough-and-ready skill of a ship-carpenterhe had set himself to the task the moment he arrived.

"No, no thanks, my boys," he said, as Edwin andCuthbert looked up at the strong framework of beamand cross-bar which he had erected in so brief a space,and burst into exclamations of wonder and delight.

"It was the one thing we could not do; it wasbeyond us all," added Edwin. "It is true, the poleslay ready on the ground and the nails were rustingon the workshop floor, but the skill that could splicea beam or shore up a rafter was not ours. Therewas nobody about us who could do it."

"I saw what was wanting when I helped to bringyour father home, and it set my compass, so I cameback to do it. A Jack-of-all-trades like me I knewcould make the old place ship-shape in a couple ofdays, and when the old gentleman and his grandsonsaw what I was after, their coats were off in a moment,and they have worked beside me with a will all day,"replied the captain.

Finding Mr. Lee awake, Mr. Bowen had taken theopportunity to join the quiet council over ways andmeans which he was holding with his friend.

"Now just look on me as a neighbour, for what isfifty miles in New Zealand? and remember I do notwant anybody to tell me this disaster leaves you bothin an awkward strait. If there is one thing wehave learned in our far-off corner in the SouthernOcean, it is to practise our duty to our neighbour.Dr. Hector bears me out in thinking that after suchan eruption as this there will probably be peace inthe hills again, perhaps for hundreds of years. Noone remembers such an outbreak of subterraneanforce, no one ever heard of such an one before, andall we can do is to help each other. If a loan willbe of use to you to tide over it, just tell me the figure,and I'll write it down. No counting, Mr. Lee, if youplease; I tell you the debtor account is all on my side.Those little lads—"

The thud of the captain's hammer drowned his voice.

"The same feeling," he added, "which lends itsring to that hammer points my pen, and you mustjust remember, while you are lying here, how we allenvy you your quartette."

They could hear the merry laughter from the groupin the veranda, where Audrey was singing,—

"What lads ere did our lads will do;

Were I a lad, I would follow him too."

Effie gravely expostulated with her sister. "Ireally do think, Audrey, we ought to say now whatour lads have done."

"Ah! but I fear they have something more to do,"cried Edwin, suddenly catching his little sister roundthe waist, not in play but in panic fear, as he heardthe trampling as of many horses crossing the bush.He whirled her into the house and pushed Audreyafter her, as the captain ceased nailing to listen.

Arthur Bowen was by Edwin's side as he spoke.With one impulse the bar was lifted to its place, andthe trio retreated to the veranda. A long train ofpack-horses came winding down the valley.

Which was coming—friend or foe?

The boys stood very close to each other, ready tobolt in-doors at a moment's warning. Edwin was atonce the bravest and the most apprehensive.

"You had better go to father and leave us two towatch," he said to his brother.

"But old Cuth won't go," muttered the little fellow,squaring his shoulders and planting his foot firmly onthe ground as he took his stand between them.

"Holloa! ho! oh!" shouted a cheery voice they allknew well.

"It is Ottley! it is Ottley!" was echoed from sideto side.

Down went the bar once more. Out ran the trio,leaping, jumping, chasing each other over the unevenground, strewed with the broken arms from the fallengiants of the neighbouring forest. They raced eachother across the valley in the exuberance of theirboyish spirits, let loose by the momentary relief fromthe pressure and the fetters which had been crushingthem to earth.

"Until the coach can run again," said Ottley, asthey came up to him laughing and panting, "I havestarted a pack-horse team to carry up supplies. Theroadmen are rebuilding their huts, and as I camealong they warned me one and all to avoid the fordto-night. They were anticipating a bit of warm workup there with their Maori neighbours, and wereholding themselves ready to answer the fordmaster'ssignal at any moment. They told me of a crossinglower down the stream. The fords were sure to shifttheir places after such a time as we have had. Ifound myself so near the valley farm, I turned asideto water my horses at the rivulet, and rest for thenight."

"Come along," cried Edwin; "father will be gladto see you. But there has been no scrimmage at theford; trust Mr. Hirpington for that."

Ottley paused to release his weary team, and letthem slake their thirst with the so-called water attheir feet, which really was not all sulphur and sludge.

"I am not sure," he said compassionately, as hebrought up the tired horses one after another, "thatthe poor animals have not had a worse time of it thanwe men; for their food and drink are gone, and itgrieved me to see them dying by the wayside as Icame."

The boys helped him to measure out the corn andhobble them for the night in the shelter of thevalley.

Then Ottley looked around to ascertain the state ofMr. Lee's new fields. Three men were lingering bythe site of the charcoal fires.

"There are the rabbiters," said Cuthbert, "just asusual!"

"Nonsense," returned his brother; "the gang isdispersed."

"Well, there they are," he persisted; and he wasright.

They marched on steadily, as if they were takingtheir nightly round, but instead of the familiar traps,each one carried a young pig in his arms.

Pig-driving, as Pat does it at Ballyshannon fair,is a joke to pig-carrying when the pig is a wild one,born and reared in the bush. On they came withtheir living burdens, after a fashion which called forththe loudest merriment on the part of the watchers.

"Is Farmer Lee about again?" they asked, as theycame up with the pack-horse train.

Ottley shook his head and pointed to the laughingboys beside him, saying, "These are his sons."

"No matter," they replied, with a dejected air. "Wecannot get our gang together. Hal is down, andLawford missing. We've been hunting a pig or two overFeltham's run, and we've brought 'em up to FarmerLee. They are good 'uns, and they will make himthree fat hogs by-and-by, if he likes to keep 'em.We have heard something of what that Lawford hasbeen after, and we are uncommon mad about it, forfear the farmer should think we had any hand in it."

"He knows you had not," returned Edwin. "Itis all found out. But I do not think Lawford willshow his face here any more. I am sure my fatherwill be pleased with such a present, and thank youall heartily." As he spoke he held out his hand, andreceived a true old Yorkshire gripe.

"There are three of us," he went on, glancing atArthur and Cuthbert; "but can we get such giftieshome?"

"And what will you do with them when they arethere?" asked Arthur; "unless, like Paddy, you housethem in the corner of the cabin."

Ottley, always good at need, came to the help, andproposed to lend his empty corn-bags for the transit.

Back they went in triumph, each with a sack on hisback and a struggling pig fighting his way out of it.

The kicking and the squealing, the biting and thesqualling, the screams and the laughs, broke up theconference within doors, and augmented the party atthe supper, which Audrey and Effie were preparingfrom the contents of the panniers.

"The pack-horse train a realized fact!" exclaimedMr. Bowen.—"Come, Arthur; that means for us therest of our journey made easy. We must be readyfor a start at any hour."

"If your time is to be my time," interposed Ottley,who was entering at the moment, "we shall all waitfor the morning."

"Wait for the morning," repeated the captain, as helit his pipe. "There is a bigger world of wisdom inthat bit of advice than you think for. It is what wehave all got to do at times, as we sailors soon find out."

A light tread beneath the window caught Edwin'sear. Surely he knew that step. It was—it must beWhero's.

He was out on the veranda in a moment. Therewas his Maori friend wandering round the house inthe brilliant starshine, stroking his kaka.

"I cannot live upon my hill alone," said Whero."I have followed you, but I should cry hoké to youin vain. I will take my bird and go back toTuaranga—it will be safe among my Maori school-fellows—untilhunger shall have passed away from the hills."

Edwin's arm went round him as he cried out gleefully,"Ottley, Ottley, here are two more passengersfor the pack-horse train!"

THE END.

********

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The Coral Island. A Tale of the Pacific.

The Young Fur-Traders; or, Snowflakes and Sunbeams from the FarNorth.

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Martin Rattler. A Boy's Adventures in the Forests of Brazil.

Ungava. A Tale of Esquimau Land.

The Dog Crusoe and His Master. A Story of Adventure on theWestern Prairies.

Hudson Bay; or, Everyday Life in the Wilds of North America,during a Six Years' Residence in the Territories of theHon. Hudson Bay Company. With Memoir of the Author and Portrait.Also Twenty-nine Illustrations drawn by BAYARD and other Artists,from Sketches by the Author.

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The British Legion. A Tale of the Carlist War. By HERBERTHAYENS, author of "An Emperor's Doom," etc., etc. Crown 8vo.With Six Illustrations by W. H. MARGETSON.

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The Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus. By WASHINGTONIRVING. Author's Revised Edition. With Illustrations.

Maury's Physical Geography of the Sea. With Charts, Diagrams,and Illustrations.

The Bible in Spain; or, The Journeys, Adventures, and Imprisonmentsof an Englishman in an Attempt to Circulate the Scriptures in thePeninsula. By GEORGE BORROW, author of "The Gipsies in Spain."With Illustrations.

Journal of a Voyage Round the World of H.M.S. "Beagle."By CHARLES DARWIN, M.A., F.R.S. With Sixteen Full-page andSix Double-page Illustrations.

Kane's Arctic Explorations: The Second Grinnell Expedition inSearch of Sir John Franklin. With a Chart and numerous Illustrations.

Wanderings in South America, etc. By CHARLES WATERTON, Esq.With Sixteen Illustrations.

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Women Who Win; or, Making Things Happen. By W. M. THAYER,author of "From Log Cabin to White House," "Men Who Win,"etc. Crown 8vo, cloth extra.

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HISTORICAL TALES.

A Clerk of Oxford, and His Adventures in the Barons' War.

The Young Pioneers; or, WithLa Salle on the Mississippi.

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Shut In. A Tale of the Wonderful Siege of Antwerp in theYear 1585.

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Evil May-Day. A Story of 1517.

In the Wars of the Roses. AStory for the Young.

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The Secret Chamber at Chad. A Tale.

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Molly Melville. With Illustrations.

Olive Roscoe; or, The NewSister. With Eight Illustrations.

The Heiress of Wylmington.

Temple's Trial.

Vera's Trust. A Tale.

Winning the Victory; or, DiPennington's Reward. A Tale.

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Squib and his Friends. A Storyfor Children.

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Dulcie and Tottie; or, The Storyof an Old-Fashioned Pair.

Dulcie's Love Story.

Fighting the Good Fight; or,The Successful Influence of Well Doing.

True to the Last; or, My Boyhood's Hero.

Sir Aylmer's Heir. A Story for the Young.

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