heart, which grew louder and more inexorable as time went on.

We came to the lonely lighthouse, standing on the mainland, behind the bird islands, which lay purple and quiet before us, twenty miles at sea. The lighthouse keepers shook their heads. Not only had they seen nothing of her, but the comrades of the lighthouse in the furthest of the islands seaward had no report to give. They would not say the word, but I saw it in their eyes.

At Palmerston we got intelligence. A ship had made the harbour, by good luck, in the midst of the gale. The captain reported that, nigh a hundred miles to the northward, where, he could not tell, only could guess, he had passed a small screw steamer, with only her foremast standing, steaming in the teeth of it, and seeming to hold her own. The sea was getting up then, he said, and the last he saw of her was, when she was clinging to the side of a great wave, like a bat on a wall.

This was all the account of her we got, and we never, never got any more. From the wild shore, from the wilder sea-from the coral reef and sandbank, from the storm-tost sailor, or from the lonely shepherd on the forest lands above the cruel sea, no answer but this. She had sailed out of port, and she never made port again. A missing ship, with the history of her last agony unwritten for ever!

CHAPTER LXXXI.

THE END.

YES; Emma was drowned; whelmed in the depths of the cruel sea-her last work over; the final ministration of all pursued while the ship ceased to leap, and began to settle down; cheering the soul of the wretched woman who was her companion, and for whom she was dying; making, by her own high example, the passage from this world to the next less terrible to her trembling companion.

At least, so we may gain from the tenor

nothing. Not so much as a hen-coop of the Wainoora was ever picked up at sea or on shore. Arkwright and his brave men shall lounge upon the quay no more for ever.

I leave Emma Burton to your judgment; and you will, I think, deal leniently with her. We must say a few words about the other people who have borne us company so far, before we take leave of them.

Erne Hillyar, reserving for himself only a younger brother's share of the fortune, made over the rest to Sir Reuben, in order that the baronetcy might be kept up in a befitting manner; so that Sir Reuben found himself suddenly in a very elevated position, with the means of gratifying every taste.

He developed very soon into a most terrible dandy, placing steadily before him the object of being the best-dressed man in London. He never actually attained it, but he got very near the top of the tree. He was very kindly received in society, and very soon began to get on. As his father once said to him, "I have seen many a dandy made out of such stuff as you." He at first patronised the ring and the river extensively; but, since his marriage with Miss Cockpole, daughter of Sir Pitchcroft Cockpole, he has given. this up, and has taken to fox-hunting and pheasant-shooting. He is most universally and most deservedly popular.

He naturally leads one on to Samuel Burton. Samuel lives at Palmerston, and his wealth has very much increased. He does not look a bit older since we first knew him; in fact, he is not what one would call an old man even yet, and has probably many years of life before him. His life has been sufficiently decent, and his wealth sufficiently large, to enable him to enter in some sort into the ordinary society of the little township; which may possibly do him good. Nobody but Sir George ever knew of the jewel robberies; and the stolen money seems to have prospered as far as bringing excellent interest goes. That is all I know about Samuel Burton.

Those two most excellent middle-aged

James Burton, are always together at one or the other's house. They go long journeys together on horseback; and mighty pleasant it is, going through a forest at sunset, to see the two square grey heads, jogging on, side by side; and pricking on to receive their kindly salute. They are prospering as they deserve.

The Honourable James Burton, the simple good-humoured ex-blacksmith, who has told so much of this story, was over in England in 1862, as commissioner to the International Exhibition. The other Cooksland Commissioner was the Honourable Joseph Burton, his brother. Mrs. James Burton and Mrs. Joseph Burton were compared by some people as samples of Australian beauty. But, in fact, neither of them was Australian. Mrs. James Burton was a Wiltshire girl, who had once been a servant; and Mrs. Joseph was the widow of Lieutenant North, of the Engineers. Mrs. James was undoubtedly the most beautiful; and many people were very much taken by the extreme repose of her manner; but she could not for a moment compare with Mrs. Joseph in vivacity and powers of conversation. They were, both of them, however, in their different ways, thought very nice.

Mr. Compton is dead, and has left all his money (96,000l., by the way) to Baby, Sir George Hillyar's boy, who has been sent over to England by James Oxton, and is now at Harrow. This leads us to speak of the Dowager Lady Hillyar.

Some folks say that she is not quite so cracked as she was; but some, on the other hand say that she is worse than ever. Que voulez-vous? One thing we know about her which seems worth mentioning.

When she heard of Sir George's death, she secluded herself, and they feared the worst consequences. But, after a short time, her grief grew tranquil; and then they discovered that death had removed the cloud which sin had brought between George and Gerty, and that she loved him with the same passionate de

and her voice is less gay. Sometimes a solitary shepherd, far in the aisles of the dark forest, will be startled by seeing a figure in black pass slowly across the farther end of some long-drawn glade, and disappear into the boscage once more; and then he will say to himself, "The mad Lady Hillyar." Or the native, crouched by the lake in the crater, waiting for the wildfowl; by the lonely shoreless lake unfolded in the steep treeless downs, will watch with eager curiosity the black figure-the only dark thing in the blazing landscape-which slowly crosses a segment of the sunny slope, tops the hill, and is gone. But, whenever her wandering feet bring her home-and where is her home but with James Oxton?-whenever she comes into the room where he sits, his wife will notice that a shade will cross his face, as though he said to himself, "It was I did this."

Erne turned his back on a country which had become hateful to him, and, coming to England, managed to get a commission in the army (he was but just of age), and disappeared into the warcloud in the East.

There is one more figure I should like to see before I close; and part from the reader. Ah! here. Who is this tall woman, standing so steady and so firm on the very summit of this breezy cape? She has dismounted from her horse, and is quite alone; the bridle is over her left arm, and with that hand she has gathered up the loose folds of her riding habit, which fits her magnificent figure so nobly; but with her right hand, with the hand which holds her whip, she is shading her eyes, for she is gazing steadily seaward. Why loiter here, Lesbia Burke, idly dreaming? That happened five years ago, and can the sea give up its dead? Sooner shall one of those purple islands at which you are gazing, break from its moorings and ground in the surges which are thundering three hundred feet below than shall the dead come back. But goodbye, Lesbia Burke; a hundred times good-bye!

CHAPTER XLIX.

"HOLMBY is not my house," said Mr. Meredith as they drove up the avenue; "I took it to please Alice. She has a fancy for the north now, as she used to have for the south." As he said this he gave a wistful side-glance at Colin, who had scarcely spoken during all the drive; and even to this speech the young man made little response.

The

house was a pale grey house, of rough limestone, like the humbler houses, surrounded with wood, and bearing anything but a cheerful aspect. The avenue was long and straight, and the cold commonplace outline of this secluded dwelling-place filled up the vista between the two dark lines of trees, growing gradually more distinct as they approached. Everything had a certain visionary aspect to Colin at this moment, and the look of the house irritated him, as if it had been a type of the commonplace existence which he was henceforward to lead. He could not keep the cloud that was on his mind from appearing also on his countenance, though, at the same time, he could not help observing that Mr. Meredith looked at him often with a regard that was almost pathetic. To be sure, there was nothing very elevated in the aspect of this man, whose history was not one which Colin liked to think of; but still it was evident that his heart was trembling for his child, and that he was conveying to her the lover whom he had once rejected and insulted, as he might have carried a costly medicine, hard to procure and of doubtful efficacy, but still the only thing that there was any hope in. Colin recognised this wistful look by the freemasonry of a mind equally excited, though in a different way; and, as for Lauderdale, he

and uncertainty which had never yet entered into his thoughts in respect to Colin. For all this time he had been trying to think it was Alice's father, or even Alice herself, who was to blame; and now only he began to see clearly the reluctance of his friend to its fullest extent his reluctance and, at the same time, that almost fantastic honour and delicacy which kept the young man from avowing even to his closest companion the real state of his feelings. So that now, at the first moment for a long time in which the fulfilment of Colin's engagement began to appear possible, Lauderdale, who had preached to him of constancy, who had longed after Alice, who had taken every opportunity of directing to her the truant thoughts of his friend, for the first time faltered. He began to see the other side of the question just at the time when it would have been agreeable to ignore it. He saw not only that Colin's happiness was at stake, but that it would be better for Alice even to break her heart, if that was inevitable, than to be married, not for love, but for honour; and unhappily he recognised this just at the moment when Sir Bayard, Sir Quixote, whatever absurd title you may please to give him-the Mistress's son, who was incapable of leaving a woman in the lurch, or casting upon her the shame of rejection-was going on to meet his fate. From this it will be seen that it was a very subdued and silent party which was at this moment driving along the long avenue under the trees, and making Alice's heart beat, in-doors on her sofa, with every turn of those wheels on the gravel. "Is papa alone?" she asked of her little sister, who was at the window; and her heart was jumping up into her throat when she uttered that simple question, as if it

James Burton, are always together at one or the other's house. They go long journeys together on horseback; and mighty pleasant it is, going through a forest at sunset, to see the two square grey heads, jogging on, side by side; and pricking on to receive their kindly salute. They are prospering as they deserve.

The Honourable James Burton, the simple good-humoured ex-blacksmith, who has told so much of this story, was over in England in 1862, as commissioner to the International Exhibition. The other Cooksland Commissioner was the Honourable Joseph Burton, his brother. Mrs. James Burton and Mrs. Joseph Burton were compared by some people as samples of Australian beauty. But, in fact, neither of them was Australian. Mrs. James Burton was 8 Wiltshire girl, who had once been a servant; and Mrs. Joseph was the widow of Lieutenant North, of the Engineers. Mrs. James was undoubtedly the most beautiful; and many people were very much taken by the extreme repose of her manner; but she could not for a moment compare with Mrs. Joseph in vivacity and powers of conversation. They were, both of them, however, in their different ways, thought very nice.

Mr. Compton is dead, and has left all his money (96,000l., by the way) to Baby, Sir George Hillyar's boy, who has been sent over to England by James Oxton, and is now at Harrow. This leads us to speak of the Dowager Lady Hillyar.

Some folks say that she is not quite so cracked as she was; but some, on the other hand say that she is worse than ever. Que voulez-vous? One thing we know about her which seems worth mentioning.

When she heard of Sir George's death, she secluded herself, and they feared the worst consequences. But, after a short time, her grief grew tranquil; and then they discovered that death had removed the cloud which sin had brought between George and Gerty, and that she loved him with the same passionate de

and her voice is less gay. Sometimes a solitary shepherd, far in the aisles of the dark forest, will be startled by seeing a figure in black pass slowly across the farther end of some long-drawn glade, and disappear into the boscage once more; and then he will say to himself, "The mad Lady Hillyar." Or the native, crouched by the lake in the crater, waiting for the wildfowl; by the lonely shoreless lake unfolded in the steep treeless downs, will watch with eager curiosity the black figure-the only dark thing in the blazing landscape-which slowly crosses a segment of the sunny slope, tops the hill, and is gone. But, whenever her wandering feet bring her home-and where is her home but with James Oxton?-whenever she comes into the room where he sits, his wife will notice that a shade will cross his face, as though he said to himself, "It was I did this."

Erne turned his back on a country which had become hateful to him, and, coming to England, managed to get a commission in the army (he was but just of age), and disappeared into the warcloud in the East.

There is one more figure I should like to see before I close; and part from the reader. Ah! here. Who is this tall woman, standing so steady and so firm on the very summit of this breezy cape? She has dismounted from her horse, and is quite alone; the bridle is over her left arm, and with that hand she has gathered up the loose folds of her riding habit, which fits her magnificent figure so nobly; but with her right hand, with the hand which holds her whip, she is shading her eyes, for she is gazing steadily seaward. Why loiter here, Lesbia Burke, idly dreaming? That happened five years ago, and can the sea give up its dead? Sooner shall one of those purple islands at which you are gazing, break from its moorings and ground in the surges which are thundering three hundred feet below than shall the dead come back. But goodbye, Lesbia Burke; a hundred times good-bye!

CHAPTER XLIX.

"HOLMBY is not my house," said Mr. Meredith as they drove up the avenue; "I took it to please Alice. She has a fancy for the north now, as she used to have for the south." As he said this he gave a wistful side-glance at Colin, who had scarcely spoken during all the drive; and even to this speech the young man made little response. The house was a pale grey house, of rough limestone, like the humbler houses, surrounded with wood, and bearing anything but a cheerful aspect. The avenue was long and straight, and the cold commonplace outline of this secluded dwelling-place filled up the vista between the two dark lines of trees, growing gradually more distinct as they approached. Everything had a certain visionary aspect to Colin at this moment, and the look of the house irritated him, as if it had been a type of the commonplace existence which he was henceforward to lead. He could not keep the cloud that was on his mind from appearing also on his countenance, though, at the same time, he could not help observing that Mr. Meredith looked at him often with a regard that was almost pathetic. To be sure, there was nothing very elevated in the aspect of this man, whose history was not one which Colin liked to think of; but still it was evident that his heart was trembling for his child, and that he was conveying to her the lover whom he had once rejected and insulted, as he might have carried a costly medicine, hard to procure and of doubtful efficacy, but still the only thing that there was any hope in. Colin recognised this wistful look by the freemasonry of a mind equally excited, though in a different way; and, as for Lauderdale, he

and uncertainty which had never yet entered into his thoughts in respect to Colin. For all this time he had been trying to think it was Alice's father, or even Alice herself, who was to blame e; and now only he began to see clearly the reluctance of his friend to its fullest extent his reluctance and, at the same time, that almost fantastic honour and delicacy which kept the young man from avowing even to his closest companion the real state of his feelings. So that now, at the first moment for a long time in which the fulfilment of Colin's engagement began to appear possible, Lauderdale, who had preached to him of constancy, who had longed after Alice, who had taken every opportunity of directing to her the truant thoughts of his friend, for the first time faltered. He began to see the other side of the question just at the time when it would have been agreeable to ignore it. He saw not only that Colin's happiness was at stake, but that it would be better for Alice even to break her heart, if that was inevitable, than to be married, not for love, but for honour; and unhappily he recognised this just at the moment when Sir Bayard, Sir Quixote, whatever absurd title you may please to give him-the Mistress's son, who was incapable of leaving a woman in the lurch, or casting upon her the shame of rejection-was going on to meet his fate. From this it will be seen that it was a very subdued and silent party which was at this moment driving along the long avenue under the trees, and making Alice's heart beat, in-doors on her sofa, with every turn of those wheels on the gravel. "Is papa alone?" she asked of her little sister, who was at the window; and her heart was jumping up into her throat when she uttered that simple question, as if it