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A New Zealand Courtship and other Work-A-Day Stories

A New Zealand Courtship

page 59

A New Zealand Courtship

A Thick, drizzling rain was falling over the Canterbury plains. It does sometimes drizzle there, in July and August; though, as a rule, when it does not rain outright in that part of New Zealand, it shines; and when it rains, it 'pays attention to it,' as the Irishman said.

Sallie Chuckers stood in the back entry, with a great pitcher in her hand, looking towards one of the outhouses, whence sounds of hammering proceeded. Ducks waddled along the green slope before her, enjoying the rain.

'It's as wet as wet!' she said, not agreeing with them. But no one else coming in sight, she caught up her calico skirts, and ran down to the well to fill her pitcher for dinner. She had reached the back verandah again, when a man, roughly clad, page 60but with a fine, well-knit frame and pleasant face, came striding after her.

'There now, Sallie, why didn't 'ee wait for me to do that for you? You might as well ha',' he said, in a tone of fond reproach that brightened the colour in her sunburned cheeks.

Sallie was a plain girl, with a round, plump face all freckled and burned, bluish-grey eyes, and brown hair and eyebrows neither light nor dark. Her mouth was wide, her nose insignificant, and her hands almost as rough as nutmeg-graters and as red as tomatoes. But she had a broad, smooth forehead, with no lumpy 'fringe' to hide it; and when her eyes met John's, he thought (and it was true) that never lass need give a nicer look. That was worth a great deal more than being only nice-looking. There was a shadow, though, to-day, in her honest eyes. She looked ready to cry.

'Why, what's the matter?' he asked. 'Have you got wet?'

'It's you who are wet, John,' she answered. 'Look at your sleeves! Won't you come in to the fire, for once?'

'No, no, thank you,' said John, smiling. 'That's coming it rather too strong, my girl.'

Sallie had lived with her uncle and aunt ever since she was left an orphan at twelve years old. She had to work harder than most servants do, page 61even on colonial farms, and had less money than she could have commanded in almost any other house in the township where a servant was kept—for her worth was known. But she never complained of that. What she did mind was that when her John came carpentering on the premises, she might never ask him in to dinner. Sometimes, as a great favour, she was allowed to carry him out a cup of tea in the back verandah; but John did not like that. He would never have swallowed a drop of old Chuckers' tea, but for his regard for the feelings of Sallie, and of the good old auntie who could hardly be restrained from feeding him on the sly.

He and Sallie had been engaged four years; and it speaks something for their honour that, in spite of all Chuckers' unreasonableness, they never had done anything on the sly. They had their little talks in the back regions, of course; but John took care to come in audibly and make a noise when he went out. The four years had been a happy time. Young lovers full of hope, who waste no energy in doubting one another, can put up with a good deal from other people. And although their conduct appeared to make no impression on the churlish uncle, it had raised them high in the esteem of all their friends and neighbours. They had been respected from their youth page 62up, for hard work and dutifulness; now, they were admired.

John was a good-tempered fellow, and cared very little for Chuckers' rudeness on his own account; but he felt it for Sallie. There was so much he wanted to do for her, and he could not! He lived himself in a happy home, with a dear old mother, and a tribe of loving brothers and sisters whom he had fathered tenderly ever since his father died. He was king of the castle there; and Sallie slaved on, up at Chuckers'!

She knew that he felt it, and generally contrived to keep a very cheerful face for him. But when she saw him wet and cold, and he was too proud to go in and dry himself, when the dinner he would not be asked to taste was on the table, something choked her. The tears stood in her eyes.

'Why, bless the girl, what is there to fret about?' said John.

'Uncle's so nasty to you,' said Sallie.

'Well, if he is—I ain't married to him,' said John independently. 'No more are you. Look ye here, Sallie,'—by this time he had her comfortably in his strong arms, and he made her lift up her face,—'you've only got to say the word, and before this time next year you shall be mistress instead of maid.'

'Oh, John, no. We shan't have enough,' page 63exclaimed Sallie, very red and fluttered, and hiding her face again.

'Bless you, how much are you going to want?' asked John. 'I didn't know you had such an eye to the main chance.'

'Oh, John! You know I only meant not enough for your mother too,' said Sallie quickly.

'Now you don't think I haven't counted for that,' began John; but a harsh voice called from within—

'Sall, how much longer'll you be drawin' that water?'

Sallie sprang from her lover, seized her jug and hurried into the front room, spilling a little water on the way, for her hands shook. The dinner was but just taken up, she knew, for till the last two minutes she had been watching for the sound of its coming off the fire; but Chuckers was not likely to lose the chance of finding fault with her.

'That's the way,' he said gruffly. 'Get a young man in to do anything, and you get no more out of the girls. They're good for nothing but to run after him. What have you splashed all that wet for? Your eyes were in the back of your head, looking behind you.'

Sallie grew scarlet, between her modesty and her indignation; but her heart bounded up with a silent defiance. 'This time next year, John will be my master, not you,' she thought.

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She wiped the floor, and sat down to dinner. It was a very nice dinner—thick mutton steak, fresh from the fire, and bountiful heaps of good floury potatoes and winter greens. The fire burned brightly. John must have had a waft of the warmth and the nice smell of dinner as the door opened and shut—and there he was, eating his dry, cold bit of bread and mutton, out in the scullery! But again her heart beat fast to think, 'Only next year, and he will be my master, and I shall get dinner for him.'

John had not heard Chuckers' insulting speech, for Sallie shut the door; but he heard the sound of the gruff voice, and heard it again during the meal; and each time he thought triumphantly, 'Before a year's out, she shall be mistress instead of maid.'

The Rakawahi, where Chuckers lived, was a district of small farms and scattered cottages, interspersed with tracts of waste land and swamp. The high-road which crossed the swamp ran past the boundary of his farm: the 'lot' behind his belonged to Mrs. Harkiss, John's mother. She had been left a widow with seven children when John, the eldest, was only sixteen, and serving his time to a carpenter. His master let him off in the busy season for farm work; at other times he worked page 65on the land before and after he went to work at his trade. All the children did their share. When their father died, there was still a heavy sum to pay up on the land he had taken. Within eight years that was cleared off, the farm well stocked, with good buildings and a cosy dwelling-house, and the second son, six years younger than John, was old enough to take charge, under his mother. Then Mrs. Harkiss and John thought it was time for him to think about doing his duty by Sallie.

Those were times of depression in New Zealand, and great men were failing on all sides; but the little men held on their way—married, and wanted houses for themselves and their stock—all of wood, in that land of slight shocks of earthquake, where brick or stone houses are liable to be irretrievably damaged at any moment. A carpenter who could put in such a day's work as John Harkiss did, never wanted for employment with high pay. In two years, John had saved enough to build a house for himself, and leave a nice little sum behind in the bank. The farm was thriving in his two young brothers' hands. One of his sisters was well married—the others honourably employed at home or abroad; and all agreed that John ought to take his seventh part of their sixty-acre lot, and settle as fast as he could.

The soil of the district bordering the swamp in page 66Rakawahi is among the richest in the world. The country is so flat that a rise of two or three hundred feet puts you in a position to shake hands with every wind that blows, and gives quite an extended view over the long Canterbury plains—once treeless, now dotted all over with rows and clusters of English or Australian trees. On such an eminence John meant to build.

He took Sallie to the spot on Sunday afternoon, and told her his plans, sitting on the wood he had had carted there already, for fencing. They were both teachers in the Sunday school of the Methodist chapel which was the only place of worship in Rakawahi; but once a month someone gave an address to the whole school, and if they chose, they could take a holiday. When first they were engaged, they had been sorely tempted to give up their classes. Sallie's time out in the afternoon only just allowed of hurrying to school as fast as she could, and back again, without a moment for lingering along the way. But teachers were hard to find; there was no one to take their place; so they stayed on; and from that time they began to see the first little tokens of real impression made on their discouraging pupils. Whether the boys and girls had sentiment enough to appreciate the sacrifice—whether the teachers improved one another—or whether it was simply that God blessed page 67their faithfulness—there was a difference. The seed, patiently sown, began to find a lodgement in two or three young hearts, and the interest, once roused, spread through each class. Now, both to John and Sallie, it would have been more a sacrifice to give up teaching than to go on; and their work had one advantage they had not thought of—all these long years they had never worn out each other's subjects of conversation. There was always something fresh to talk over, either in their lessons or their pupils, to save them from all temptation to spend their time in harping on Uncle Chuckers' disagreeable ways.

John had been counting on this monthly holiday. He had made up his mind to have an understanding with Sallie then, and their little talk at the back door had led up to it unexpectedly. He explained to her, now, how he could make time to get forward with the fencing, and dig the foundation, before the next busy season; then, as soon as harvest was over, he could be ready to build. And then—while the winter evenings were long and cosy still, he wanted her to come and 'missus it' over him and all he had.

She sat by him in the warm winter sunshine, looking away to the great Port Hills that shut the plain from the sea, and felt what wonderful joy it would be to see her own little home rise up in page 68this dear place, and to have a right to live for John.

'Well—if you think I know how to keep house to your mind by this time,' she said demurely.

John's heart was so brim full, for once it very nearly ran over. Words did not come easily to him, but he could have told her, then, what he felt about her hardships and her patience—her cheerful, never-failing patience. But, just as he was opening his mouth, she said, 'John, what is the time by your watch?' And when, reluctantly, he showed it, she started up, exclaiming, 'I must cut along, or auntie will catch it as well as me.' She had nine cows to milk and all sorts of things to do besides, before evening chapel.

'Then all, the sweet speech he had fashioned took flight,' for he must be a desperate lover who could manage to pour out tender words while striding along, post haste, over rough tussocks, beside a sweetheart with nine cows on her mind. No matter. His chance was coming to let actions speak louder than words.

The still, bright, winter days flew by—days of clear sunshine and frosty nights. Rain came sometimes—as much as was wanted. The days lengthened out again, and the gorse hedges were a blaze of gold. Spring and summer were hurrying page 69upon the land, with all their toils,—shearing and haying, and harvest, and all the men to feed. Sallie's heart had been wont to sink a little when the leaves came on the trees, and she knew what a load of work and scolding would descend on her before they dropped off again. This year, she sang for joy to see them. One summer—only one—and John would be her master! Let it come—quick, quick; and let it go—and then!

She had never worked so fast in her life: she wanted to do well by her uncle this last year. Chuckers had no power to stop the wedding. He could have helped the young people very much if he had chosen, but he could not hinder them; they could do without him. The one reason for being very anxious to keep the peace with him was 'auntie.' Poor, dear auntie, she would fret for Sallie. And she would never get another girl to work as hard for her, for the money. Sallie knew that, and felt what an awful thing it was to be married to Timothy Chuckers.

The shearers came—not for long, happily, with Chuckers' little bit of shearing; but you never saw anything like their appetites! And one of them grumbled at his food all the time, and that would have taken the heart out of Sallie, if anything could. She did not mind slaving if they were content, and said the meals were good; but one page 70grumbler is like a sickly sheep, and 'infects the flock.' Many a cry had the poor girl had, in bygone years, on those driving days of work, when every nerve was strained to the utmost from early morning till the short night, and someone grumbled after all. This year she was vexed; she could not help that; but the men were not worth crying for.

Shearing would be over before Christmas, and Sallie was to sing in the chorus at an entertainment in the schoolroom on Christmas Eve. Those wonderfully energetic colonials find strength to do a sixteen-hour day's work, and hold entertainments besides. The show-piece was to be 'The Psalm of Life,' and Sallie sang snatches as she dressed in the morning—ran down to the well for water, and came up across the dewy grass, singing at the top of her voice—

'And our hearts, though Stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.'

She cooked the breakfast, and ran out to feed the fowls; came back to all that scene of break-fast things, which she washed up like magic. Then out she scampered again to cut cabbages for dinner, and came skipping back with her arms full, singing away—

'Funeral marches to the grave.'

She was in reality attending the funerals of all page 71her old bugbears: no wonder the 'Dead March' went merrily. Every hard pull accomplished was the last of its kind. 'De last one he come again, Hurrah! de last one,' as the coolies sing when they are unloading cargo, and the last bag of rice comes up.

She would probably have to work just as hard another year, but not on the same terms.

Only one shadow sometimes flitted over her sunny heart. Long ago, long before John came to be her sunshine, a glory had shone across her rigorous daily lot, with the thought that her faithful service to her hard uncle was rendered to a higher Taskmaster. But now that her heart was always throbbing and dancing to the music of that sweet burden,' John will be my master,' the other, higher thought seemed less needful; it slipped out of mind.

'And it's so mean,' she thought, 'just when He is giving us so much.'

At last, one evening, in the little break before harvest, Laura Wren, who used to be her teacher, came to see her. They walked across the 'paddocks,' as the great colonial meadows are called, to look at the site of the new house, and Sallie's fear found utterance.

'But would you like John to be your master if page 72you thought he would ever want you not to serve the great Master?' said Laura.

Such a state of things was quite beyond Sallie's imagination. She paused, trying to realise it.

'Would you ever have had him if he was likely to do that?' continued Laura.

Sallie was quite puzzled; the idea that she ever could have refused John was so utterly inconceivable. Suddenly her face brightened.

'There wouldn't have been him to have,' she said.

'Of course there wouldn't,' said Laura, amused. 'He wouldn't be John if he did not serve that Master; and when either of you wants to please the other, you have to think first what would please the Lord.'

That was perfectly true, though Sallie had never recognised the fact before. It made her very happy to do so now.

They had reached the brow of the little slope, with its fine view of the Port Hills on one side and the wide, broken plain on the other. The garden fence was up already, and some of the beds marked out.

There'll be a lot to do,' remarked Sallie, as she leaned on the fence, looking at the unmade garden. 'But you see,—I shan't mind anything; and sometimes that makes me quite afraid.'

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'Why, Sallie,' said Laura, 'one would think your God was a very cross Master, who grudged giving you anything pleasant to do.'

'No, I never thought that,' exclaimed Sallie eagerly. 'When uncle used to call,—he always did if I was stopping a minute to speak to John,—I used to run, and think of that verse you said to us, "How sweetly doth 'My Master' sound—My Master!" I never thought He was hard.'

'And now you have only one word to change,' said Laura gently.

'How sweetly doth our Master sound—our Master!
As ambergris yields a rich scent
      Unto the taster,
So do those words a sweet content,
  An Oriental fragrancy—our Master.'

A beautiful light came into Sallie's little rough face, glorifying it as the sunset flush was glorifying the dismal yellow-grey of those Port Hills. 'A sweet content' indeed was in her eyes.

'I shan't be afraid any more,' was all she said. Perhaps in her heart she recognised that John's way of being masterful was more agreeable to the Great Taskmaster than her uncle's.

Harvest was nearly over—quite over, on Chuckers' land. The extra hands had gone, and Sallie and her aunt could take breath at last, and page 74think about the wedding clothes. Sallie had done a little sewing for herself in the winter; but in a land where silverfish devour cotton goods as much as moths do woollen ones, it is discouraging to get very forward with one's trousseau.

The rough summer winds were dying down, leaving a foretaste of the glorious Canterbury autumn weather—warm, cloudless, windless days, with peaches hanging ripe on the trees, and 'red-hot pokers' blazing in the flower-beds. One day, Sallie went through her morning work with great despatch, and set off directly after dinner, leaving auntie to wash up, for a walk of nearly four miles and back, to see a dressmaker who lived in another part of Rakawahi. The 'Frisco' mail was just in, and was sure to have brought Miss Hill the newest fashions. Sallie had no intention of being made such a guy as the ladies in the fashion-plates, but your true colonial girl likes to be up to date all round. If she is going to have a new gown at all, it may as well be moderately in the fashion.

Sallie had a hot walk, past the chapel, and a mile and a half beyond, to where the road passed by Mr. Wren's farm. The house stood back a long way, but as she plodded on she thought she would treat herself to going up there on her way home.

A light cart came jingling towards her. A page 75well-known voice called 'Hi!' and there was John, pulling up his horse and jumping down to greet her.

Here was felicity—to meet by surprise, far out of sight and sound of anybody who could call them up to work! They sat on the grass at the roadside, and could hardly have torn themselves away, if the horse had not been so fidgety. He grew tired of standing, and there was no convenient place for tying him up. John had to start up and run after him at last, and jumped in while the cart was moving on.

How it happened, Sallie never understood. She only knew that one minute John was standing in the cart, looking back and waving his hand to her: the next, he lay full length on the ground, still, senseless, deathlike, and never moved nor spoke, nor even moaned.

'John, John!' she cried in her agony. The closed eyelids never stirred; there was not a quiver on the face. How strange he looked!

'John!'

Sallie had no experience of illness, but she had heard of feeling the pulse. She seized his wrist, and a throb of life came back to her own poor heart, for she found a flutter there. He lived!

But how much longer would he live, if no one helped him? And how leave him there alone to page 76look for help? The horse and cart were far down the road already. Not a soul had Sallie met along that lonely way. The only living creature to be seen was a pony putting his head through a gap in the gorse hedge, attracted there, probably, by the company of the horse now running away. Oh, if one human being—anyone!—would come in sight! The straight, level road stretched far on either side, white and empty. The only hope was that someone might meet the runaway horse, and follow up its track.

Suddenly the pony pricked up his ears—tossed his head and disappeared, his gallop dying away on the turf. Someone must have called him.

Quick as the thought, Sallie was scrambling up the steep bank under the hedge—not by the pony's gap,—that was too difficult of approach,—but near it. The hedge was higher than she thought: she could not look over it.

'Help! Coo-eh!' she called. She pushed herself under the prickly gorse, and looking between the stems, saw, at the farthest corner of the great paddock, a little old lady in black, holding out something to the pony over the slip-panels. Sallie's heart sank. That must be Mrs. Wren, and she was almost stone deaf.

But she might see. Oh, that thick gorse! The close-twined stems barred the way. With frantic page 77efforts, Sallie forced herself into the hedge, but through, she could not. She tore off her hat, pushed it through an opening, and shook it wildly, uttering involuntarily a long, piercing, agonized cry. The deaf ears heard it not, but the pony did. He turned from the tempting apple offered to him, and looked curiously across the field.

'Sirrah! Little Sirrah! What is it?' said Mrs. Wren, surprised. The creature came up to her again—turned, with an anxious whinny which she saw, though she could not hear, and moved off towards Sallie, looking on, and then looking back beseechingly at his mistress. Her eyes followed his, and she saw the signal.

She was an investigating little body at all times, and she at once divined that something serious must be happening now. In two moments she had come over the six panels like a schoolboy, and was hurrying across the paddock, the pony beside her, trying to put his nose into her can, now that his mind was relieved by seeing matters in proper train.

Sallie, wedged among the gorse stems, looked from the approaching figures to John's prostrate form, and back, wondering how she could make Mrs. Wren understand.

The little old lady made straight for the signal knelt down and pushed aside the boughs, grasping the outstretched wrist.

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'What, Sallie!' she said, peering through the stems. 'What is it?'

Sallie could not get near enough to answer, for Mrs. Wren could hear nothing that was not shouted close into her ear; but she managed to reach the old lady's head with her hand, and turn it towards the spot where John was lying.

'Ah!' sighed Mrs. Wren. Then, as the bearded, foreshortened face grew clearer to her, with a cry she uttered, 'John! Not John? Oh, my dear, is it?'

Sallie's clutch at her hand replied. She loosed it, starting back, and ran to the pony's gap.

'You can't! You can't get down there!' shouted Sallie, as though shouts were of any use. By a desperate struggle she freed herself from the hedge, and emerged, holding by the stem, just in time so see the little old lady tumble neatly over the low place, and land, somehow, safely upon her feet below. She hastened across the road to John's side. Sallie scrambled heavily down and followed her, a little relieved by this kind human presence, but in cruel fear of the verdict she might have to give.

Mrs. Wren bent over John, and felt his head, his hands, his pulse. She looked up, distressed, but not despairing.

'We must get him out of the sun,' she said.

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'We can't. We should hurt him,' shouted Sallie into her ear.

'Then break off some furze,' said Mrs. Wren. Sallie obeyed, and they twisted the boughs into a screen.

'Hold it, dear, while I fetch some water,' said Mrs. Wren. A brook flowed near, and she took the can which she had not failed to empty at Sirrah's feet, and filled it with cool, fresh water.

'Could you leave him with me, and go for the doctor?' she asked, returning. 'Dr. Grant is in the township this afternoon, at the Smallmans'. You might catch him. I'm afraid I couldn't'

Nimble though she was, she knew that her sixty-eight years would tell against her in such a rush. Sallie knew it too, though it was terrible to her to leave the spot.

'Yes, I will go,' she answered.

One moment yet she knelt by her lover's side.

'John,' she said pleadingly.

There was no answer—no glimmer of response in the strange, livid face. Sallie bent down and kissed his unconscious brow; then she rose, and girded her soul to leave him.

'I won't be long,' she said.

Mrs. Wren opened her arms, and drew the girl close to her for one loving kiss.

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'The Lord make your feet like hinds' feet,' she said. 'He will.'

Then Sallie speeded on her breathless chase, and the watcher and the watched were left together, with Death, a third, beside them. How near he might be the little old lady could not tell, but she knew he could not be far off; and she was going to fight him hand to hand.

She first loosened everything in her patient's clothing which could cause pressure. She made a wet compress of her handkerchief and a little woollen kerchief she wore, and wrapped it round his head; she tore grass from the tussocks, and made a pillow of it. Then she piled up her furzy screen till it stood alone, sheltering him from the sun. His feet were beyond the shadow—she took care of that; and sitting on the ground beside him, she took off his boots and chafed his feet and hands by turns—her eyes all the time intent upon his face—her heart borne up in one consuming prayer.

She was not asking for his life. She had seen the life-light fade out of her own son's eyes, and never asked to keep him; she said he was wanted 'up Above.' And now, if John was wanted up Above, there was not a word to say: Sallie and everyone else must give him up. But, with an agony that only the deaf can know, she cried, page 81'If he speaks—if his last word comes to me—let me know it by the moving of his lips.'

There was one word that she was quite certain she would know—it was 'Mother.' But would she know 'Sallie'? or the Name that is above every name? Again and again she framed those words, with her fingers at her own lips, trying to feel how they would look. Then she would bend forward and feel the pulse. It was just perceptible; so was the breathing. Once or twice a longer breath made her heart stand still, lest it should be the last. She had torn a scrap of thin paper from an English letter in her pocket, and fixed it so that it moved a little as he breathed. Each time, the slight, almost invisible motion went on again, and she thanked God.

It was very solemn, waiting there, with Death and the angels. If they would but be content with her instead of John! The glory had died out of life for her when sweet sound went; she longed to go, and have those deaf ears opened to the singing 'up Above.' She and her dear man had had their day together; it would be so natural for one of them to go! But oh, what an emptiness would be left if this dear laddie died! 'Would God I might die for thee! Would God! But He knows who He wants. I am not worth enough, maybe.'

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The breeze rustled through the gorse; cattle lowed in the pastures near. She sat there, in the great silence that her calamity had shed around her, and two scenes were before her eyes—Jesus weeping at the grave of Lazarus: Jesus sighing as He said, 'Ephphatha' to the deaf ears. There was nothing more to weep or sigh for, in the griefs before Him. From them, He brought complete deliverance. Surely He was burdened then, with the grief of other weepers beside young lives struck down—other sufferers, bearing the long, lone silence of the unhearing ear.

'Ephphatha!' 'Be opened to Me!' Once more His voice pierced the silence, and told that He watched with her. He would never have appointed her this task, if John was to perish for want of any help that she would not hear how to give.

She bent over her charge again, and dipped the handkerchief afresh, laying it on with soft caressing touches on his thick brown hair. How strong his frame! How good and trusty he always used to look! Ah, Sallie! And his mother. But she had other sons. John was all in all to Sallie.

'Lord, remember Sallie. Remember Sallie!' she pleaded, her tears trickling down on John's beard. She wiped them away, and sat down once more to her patient watch.

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She had had eyes only for John, and the road by which the doctor was likely to come; but looking round she saw her pony standing by the hedge, with his nose just above the prickles, intently watching her.

'Good Sirrah. Dear little fellow,' she said. It was quite a comfort to have one live thing near that could hear; and the company of dumb creatures is pleasant to the deaf. There is nothing to lose in a conversation with them.

Sirrah's name was Sir George Grey, but his coat being brown, he could not take his surname alone, and the whole name was too long for practical purposes—hence the contraction.

The sun moved round; the shadows lengthened and stole over the two figures at the roadside. Mrs. Wren began to think that Sallie must have missed the doctor at the Smallmans'.

She had. She rushed and panted across the fields, only to find that he had left ten minutes before she arrived. But he had mentioned that he was going on to the Lawsons' on the Christchurch road. The Smallmans had a sick house, and there was no one whom they could send on after him, but they saddled their pony and put Sallie on it, in hopes that she might overtake him.

She was as little used to riding as a colonial country girl ever can be, and in the hurry she page 84went off without a whip. The pony was not a bad beast, but he was accustomed to a touch of the whip as an intimation that he was to quicken his pace, and without it he subsided into a slow, deliberate walk, which put her in an agony. She clapped him, she implored him — in vain. In desperation, she struck him smartly with the ends of the reins. The pony, mortally affronted, set off at a gallop, merging into a rough, rapid trot Sallie, breathless and shaken to pieces, flying into the air, and continually astonished to find herself duly bumped down on the saddle again, yet saw with infinite relief that every object near was rushing past her: she was clearing the road.

The Lawsons' house came in sight, a gig standing at the gate. The road sloped up a little, and the pony slackened his pace. A man came out of the gate and jumped into the gig.

'Stop! Help! Dr. Gra-ah-ahnt!'shrieked Sallie, at her highest pitch. The wind blew the sound the wrong way. Once more she tore off her hat and waved it frantically, at all risks of being thrown from her steed in the act. The doctor did not see—he was driving rapidly off and round the corner—but someone else did. Sallie saw a figure start above the farther wall of the garden, gesticulating. The doctor's hat. just seen over the wall, page 85stopped, turned, and came swiftly round the corner again. She had him.

Then, for the first time, her strength gave way. She slipped off the pony at Mrs. Lawson's gate, in such a fit of sobbing that she could not speak.

'Now, now—this won't do,' said Dr. Grant sharply. 'Tell me who it is, and where, and never mind the rest. Get her some water,' he added in a quick parenthesis, to the Lawson boy who had brought him back. 'John—Harkiss. In the road — by Wren's,' gasped Sallie!

'Oh, doctor, it's her young man!' exclaimed Mrs. Lawson, holding up her hands. 'Oh, Sallie——dear Sallie!'

Dr. Grant waited only for the water. He dashed some of it in Sallie's face, and made her drink the rest. 'Now jump up, and don't try to speak a word unless I go the wrong way,' he said. 'Don't be frightened. I shouldn't wonder if you find him walking about by the time we get there.'

'Whose pony is it?' shouted the Lawson boy, as they drove off.

'Smallman's,' answered Sallie; and a voice called after her,' We'll take him back.'

The doctor's professional tone had quieted her already. She leaned back, trembling, indeed, but with the sudden, wonderful sense of rest and hope page 86that comes to the ignorant with the feeling that one who knows is taking their case in hand. She tried to put away that terrible vision of John lying helpless in the road. Naturally her thoughts went back to what had come before, and with that, tears—her first tears—began to flow, and the scorching horror in her brain was allayed. Only, as the dark spot became visible, far down the straight white road, her heart beat suffocatingly. There were more figures—men standing—oh, could it be John? No, a figure moved, and she saw still the prostrate form, and the little old lady by its side. The first sight of Mrs. Wren's face told that John lived still.

'Here we are,' said the doctor, leaping down. He made his examination, Mrs. Wren telling him all she knew, and Sallie, kneeling at John's side with his nerveless hand in hers, putting in a few words.

'It's a nasty business, but I don't see why he shouldn't pull through,' was Dr. Grant's verdict. He shouted it into Mrs. Wren's ear, and added, 'You couldn't have done better for him. Nobody could. I hope you have saved his life.' Then turning to the two men standing by, he added, 'How about getting him home?'

Mr. Wren and his son had come in to tea, and found none prepared—no fire, no kettle on. page 87Inquiring, they found that the mistress had been seen, hours before, going down the paddocks to feed her pony. In some alarm they went in search of her, and faithful Sirrah by the hedge had guided them to the right spot. They hastened back to fetch their buggy—a vehicle something like a magnified butcher's cart on springs, with a seat set in notches across the middle of it, and room, when the back was let down on its chain, for a man to lie almost full length in the bottom. The seat was lifted out while John's tall form was cautiously laid there, Sallie sitting beside him with his head on her lap. Then young Wren drove him gently home, the doctor pushing on to prepare Mrs. Harkiss. He spoke cheerfully, but he sorely feared that John would die upon the way.

They brought him home living, but still unconscious. Many hours passed. The doctor had been away and come back again, before John slowly opened his eyes and met his sweetheart's agonised look.

'Why, Sallie? What's the matter?' he asked. His eyes shut again before the answer came; but his hand closed firmly over hers, and Dr. Grant said,' He'll do.'

And so it proved. The wedding was delayed for a couple of months, but when it took place page 88John was as well as ever again. Uncle Chuckers let his wife buy a new gown for the occasion, and presented Sally with one of the nine cows.

'All along o' my broken head,' said John.

He had discovered during his convalescence that Mrs. Wren could hear his voice better than almost any other—much better than her husband's; and when he was able to go to chapel again, he used to sit next to her, and make her hear the hymns. She was at the wedding, of course, in a front place; and when the knot was tied and the ring put on, and a hymn was given out, John stepped from his place beside his bride—took the little old lady's book, and sang his wedding hymn into her ear.