GRIT.

Poverty Bay Standard, Volume X, Issue 1109, 29 July 1882, Page 1 (Supplement)

GRIT.

A story of the post and present; of Ordi nary men and Ordinary things, in Ordinary language. BY DONALD CAMERON. AUTHOR OF “ U» THE FOLDS OF THE SERPENT,’’ 44 SILVERWATEB BEND, ETC.” “ Be sure thy sin will find thee out.” It is a beautiful belief : That ever round our head Are hovering on angel wings, The spirits of the dead. CHAPTER Ll.—(Continued.) The next day as he sat in the armchair, there was a ring at the gate, and he saw his daughter come up the path. In a few moments she was in his arms. “ Dear father, I’ve ruined you,” she said, kneeling at his feet. No, no, child,” was the dreamy reply; “ things are all right; the reef s been struck. They thought tlie old man had lost all, but it's nonsense; I’ve just struck the golden stone.” Bertha looked wonderingly at her father. “What reef, father?” she asked, inspired with a certain degree of hope, “ I thought you had sold out all your shares.” “ No, no,” was the meaningless reply, “ the been struck, but they don't know it, so they think I'm ruined. Go and herd the sheep, Bertha. It's all right.” Ami he laughed a feeble, fatuous laugh. Bertha put her hands over her eyes. A light now dawned on her mind. The w had been 100 heavy. Her father’s reason was gone. Her supposition was too true. Mr. White had in one day become a helpless imbecile, possessed of the idea that a golden reef had l»een struck in his claim I There was little left of the wreck of his fortune. Bertlia moved into a humble cottage in Fitzroy, and for a time stemmed the tide of evil fortune. Hector had called upon her. and endeavored to make lie* fulfil her promise; but she refused to ever see him again. She told him plainly that it was dishonorable to attempt to gain her hand by premising to assist her father out of his difficulties when he could not. There was an evil light in Hector’s face, as lie turned to go; but Bertha liad never known a happier moment. True, she had a trrible fight with the world before her, but then she was young an<l brave, and free. Was that not enough ? But Bertha found out that Melbourne was as stony-hearted as any great city she liad ever read about. Everyone was too much taken up with his own concerns to care about his neighbors' sorrows, and employment <*f any kind was scarce, especially for those who knew no tra<le. Perhaps this is not correct; there was plenty of employment, but there was a vast number of people looking after it. Her pride would not allow her to seek help from those stir hail known in I letter times; the manner in which they neglected her showed that application would have lajen fruitless; and, after a vain struggle to get fitter employment, Bertlia liad to go t<» tin- factory. To obtain work even there was difficult. But the bad fortune which had fallen upon the girl only brought to light the full strength of her character. She did not pine and lament; she put her hand to the plough, and worked on in the hope that she would in time be able to lay something by, and perhaps rise in the warehouse and become a saleswoman. She took every opportunity to learn, and got on very well, although the hard work and constant confinement told severely upon her frame*. Still, the life was not without its pleasures. It was delightful to get out of the factory when six o’clock struck, and to go home and prepare supper for herself and the old man, and then sit and sew and talk with liim in the evening. He had completely changed now; he was mild and childlike, his babble being continually about reefs and gold, and shepherding the flock. He appeared to be always under the idea that Bertha had been herding the sheep all day, and now and then he wondered what had become of Lassy. For a time Bertha was puzzled how to secure his being occupied and amused during the long hours when she was at work; but at last she hit upon the idea of taking him to the Public Library, and after that he found his way there regularly every day, taking his lunch with him. Many frequenters of tire Library will remember him, an old, grey-headed man, bent and withered, with a childish look of innocent enjoyment in his face. His favorite bay wa» that where works on geology are to be found, and here he would stay all day, studying mines and mineralogy, and occasionally copying passages. He seemed thoroughly to enjoy this life. CHAPTER LH. Bertha was a never-failing source of surprise to her companions in the work-room. tVhen they came out the girls would get together and gossip about their sweethearts, and the gentlemen they knew. Nay, they would hardly have left the warehouse when they would be met by young fellows who would them within the sight of home, and make appointments for the future. To

be without a sweetheart, was to bo out of the world ; and to the work-girl’s imagination no term conveyed so much opprobrium as “ She’s got no chap.” That was the Alpha and Omega of reproach; the most withering satire. If, therefore, a girl was unfortunate enough to lose her sweetheart, either througn a quarrel, his having taken up with another girl, or his leaving the country, she at once made haste to lay in a new stock, to escape the reproach of being sweetheartless. It pained Bertha deeply to see much of what went on, the folly and heedlessness of her companions, who could be lured to their destruction by shallow but designing fools; and she kept herself apart. Yet she could sympathise with the poor creatures. She could comprehend how eagerly these poor overworked girls would accept any prospect to be relieved from their monotonous wearying toil. Almost anything better to them than this slavery—and how delighted they would be at the chance of a home for themselves. Bertha saw the dangers of a great factory. A number of girls, good and bad, were massed together, and the bad had a baneful and powerful influence. It was almost impossible to escape, especially when the finger of scorn was pointed at any girl who held out, and was spiritless enough not to enter into the “ fun.” Besides, a girl who had only a beau in her own station of life was not thought much of—she would pass in a crowd ; but the girl who could claim to be regarded by a gentleman—why, she was quite a queen. At first, the girls were disposed to chalf Bertha because she had no beau, but somehow her sweet nature so wrought on them that they ceased to tease. One or two of the girls, however, took it into their heads that Bertha had a prior attachment ; and under this impression they tried to argue with her that, even if she loved someone who was absent, that shouldn’t interfere with a little flirtation, “ just to keep her heart up,” the girls said. But Bertha only smiled, and after a while she was let alone, at least, by the girls. But let it not be supposed that the youths of Melbourne, who are ever on the lookout for something fresh, and study the factory girls with a fervor, which if directed to books, would make them the greatest scholars of the age, could allow so beautiful a creature to escape their notice. Ineeed Bertha was perfectly pestered with them. They hung about the door in the little lane at which the sewing girls went in and out, and at six o’clock there was sure to be a young fellow waiting to pay court to the “beautiful millin'r.' But in vain would he try ever/’mean.'- of catching her attention; in vain he would . the other girls to introduce him—Bertha - UUiiUg-xiwte* so ment. ™ Although Bertha never heard *■ ■- no at, his image never left her Mund ; hi< name was engraven in her heart in letters too deep to >e ever ’erased. His face haunted her dreams, and rose up before her when she was at her work. How often she wept for him in the solitude of her little room! How often the photograph he had given her when they had plighted their troth, was kissed and kissed in passionate rapture! How she longed for a sight of his dear face, if only for a moment. But days passed and time went on, and she never heard of him, although she went occasionally to Gordon '& Gotch’s, to readjthe Grit newspapers, in the hope of seeing him mentioned. She wondered how it had fared with him in the great convulsion. Sometimes her yearning became so great that she felt almost compelled to write to Jack—but her womanly modesty stayed her pen. How deeply, truly, she loved him, although .indignant at the errors she thought he had committed.

Bertha might have struggled on and surmounted difficulties had not her father fallen ill. This was a great trial, as she had to hire someone to attend him and also to invest in little delicacies which soon macFe the slender purse run short; and at the sime we meet her she had hardly a sixpence in the world, ajd, worse than all, this was her last day in the factory. She had been discharged, why, no one knew. Deep was the sympathy of the other girls, and many the conjectures. Bertha’s tears flowed plentifully over her machine when she heard the cruel mandate, and her heart failed her when she looked into the future—especially when she considered that the factories were overstocked at that time, it being the slack season. She did not know what to do.

If no one can guess why Bertha was discharged, we can. The second partner, Mr. Clack, was a fine, handsome man, of about thirty, who had worked his way up to be the real head of the firm. He had worked very hard in his time, and now thought he might indulge in a little of this world’s pleasures. He thought he would make amends for his sterile youth, and after a few years of what he called pleasure, marry and forget it all. However, the result was one that often occurs. “ Pleasure” mastered him, and he became the slave of his own passions, the hardest master men can have.

Mr. Clack, who seldom saw any employes except the principals, chanced to get a glimpse of Bertha one evening as she was coming out of the workroom, and immediately the inflammable tinder of his heart took fire. He became impressed with the idea that he had never seen a beautiful girl until Bertha had come under his survey. Of course he made love to her at once, and was perfectly nonplussed to find her impervious to all his soft speeches and flattery. She passed on without giving him an answer. To think that one of his sewing girls would do this ! Why, he had never spoken to one of them before, who had not gone almost into hysterics of joy if he had deigned to show her the smallest attention. Mr. Clack made a very poor dinner that evening. Next day he charged the enemy again, but was coldly repulsed. He didn’t know what was the matter. He knew he was dreadfully in love, but how to obtain a more’ favorable result he failed so see. \

Weeks passed, and still he was in the same position, not one step more forward. He took counsel with his friends, and they advised him to try different means; but failure marked them all. He even sent a splendid present to Bertha, with a beautiful letter, composed by a young pressman, with whom he associated at Olliver’s Chfe—that resort of the fourth estate—but it fell flat, and the present was sent back. Driven to his wit’s end, Mr. Clack now took into his confidence a gentleman who was noted in affairs of the heart. His friend was ready with a remedy at once. Let the girl be discharged, he advised, and slanders circulated to prevent her getting employment elsewhere. Mr. Clack was almost completely demoralised by the life he had led, and the companions with whom he had associated; but this was rather too bad for him, so he hung about Bertha for another week, and went even so far ?.s to visit her; but he was very rudely repulsed. Then Mr. Clack, after absolutely crying with vexation,- resolved to use the harshest measures, and, listening to the tempter, he procured the discharge of the innocent girl, not, however, without suffering sundry pangs of remorse, which not even a round of champagne could remove. CHAPTER LHI. When six o’clock came, Bertha walked out of the warehouse with her companions, heavy at heart. The thoughts of her poor old father brought tears to her eyes. She found many sympathisers; and some of the girls suggested that they would give her as much of the work they used to take home with them, as they could. Her heart overflowed with gratitude

to these poor gills, and she parted with them affectionately. As it was winter, the night had come, and it was quite dark when Bertha walked through the Parliament Reserve. She was sighing wearily, when someone touched her on the arm. Turning round, she saw with alarm that Mr. Clack was by her side. His face wore a singular expression, half shame, half determination. Bertha drew her faded shawl around her, and endeavoured to pass on. “Bertha,” said Mr. Clack in a hurried uncertain manner, “ why don’t you listen to me ? I love you madly. I could kill myself for you. Love me, Bertha, and you shall have whatever you desire.” * “ Why don’t I listen to you ?’’ said Bertha, turning her face full upon him, “Ask that horrible corpse that was laid on the slabs of the morgue last week. Once it was called Bessy Ransom. A few months ago she was the merriest girl in your workshop; now she lies in the grave, and who sent her there?” She looked into his eyes until he quailed, and shrank back.

“ Mr. Clack,” said Bertha, “ you arc a young man; and there is a great future before you if you choose. There are nobler aims in this world than those that lead you captive now.” And she walked on, leaving the young man gazing after her stupidly. She had opened up to his mental vision a vista of crime so terrible that it staggered him. He remembered poor Bessy too well, and for the moment he was stricken with shame and remorse, and his better feelings, nearly lost by his course of life, began to return.

But his passions were roused to the utmost; and when a man allows his passions to govern him, they drive him unrelentingly. In a few minutes he recovered himself, and resolved to stifle all the warnings of conscience. As he walked away, he began to develope a plot that would, he thought, enable him to obtain a favorable opportunity to urge his suit with Bertha. He could not then tell what he would do, but he felt that he must have Bertha, whether she would be his or not.

The scene that had taken place had not been without a witness. A gentleman, looking prosperous and comfortable, had just come out of thp Parliament House, which was lit up—the legislature being in session. He uttered an exclamation of surprise, and appeared intensely pleased. His destination had evidently been Bourke-street, but now he altered his course and walked after Bertha. This gentleman was none other but Hector Macinnis. He had lost sight of Bertha for a long time, and had given her up as lost to him for ever. But now that he met her once more, his love revived, and he followed her. Things had prospered with Hector since we saw him last. He had cautiously sheered his bark, refusing to listen to the siren pipings of those who sought to lead him to his destruction. Steering a safe middle course, it seemed likely enough that ere long the utmost extent of his ambition would be gratified. It was with a sort of terror, however, that he thought Jack might now be married tv Bertha, and that if he followed her he might meet his old enemy. Still, the passion that was devouring him led him on, and he was soon alongside the poor girl. Bertha was terrified when he accosted her; but regaining her composure, she soon let him understand that she did not desire his company. She did not even deign to speak to him. Hector saw it was no use, and stayed behind. “ Well,” said he, as he turned on his heel, “ Those who will not do a thing must be made to do it. I’ll humble that proud girl before many days are over my head.” And he joined the crowd in Bourke-street with a singular smile on his face. He feared nothing now. He thought he was free as the air. CHAPTER LIV. Bertha found her father sitting in the arm chair, supported by cushions, lie was very weak, and the pallid appearance of his face inspired her with alarm. The nurse, a great awkward girl, was dozing at the scant)' fire, dreaming of the baker, of whom she had become enamored. The old man’s eyes lit •up with pleasure when his daughter entered. “ You’re late to-night,” said he; “ have the sheep been hard to hurdle? Sheep are curious animals, and stubborn as mules. Never mind, girl, the crushing will soon be finished, and then you won’t have to herd the sheep any more!” Bertha almost burst into tears, but desiring to keep from her father any evidence of care, she woke up the girl and prepared tea. It was a simple task. She put a few tea leaves into the pot, and after letting it draw, poured out a cup for her father, for, like all old Australians, he was extremely fond of the beverage; and then she filled the pot up with water, at which the nurse innately rebelled, although Bertha shared alike with her. A small loaf was then produced, and a Lilliputian pat of butter. The nurse soon made the loaf look still smaller, and shame alone prevented her from taking all the butter ;*but she might have done so, for poor Bertha hardly ate anything. While partaking of this meagre repast, two very different sounds disturbed the air. A gay operatic melody, in which the voices of women and men were joined, now and then swelled upon the air. At intervals low moans were heard, and once* or twice the shriek of a man as if in anguish. Bertha shuddered. After a pause, the notes of the piano broke the silence, and a practised hand poured out “ Stride la Vampa,” What agonising memories those strains brought back to Bertha’s memories. In happier days the piano had been her great solace, and how often had she played that beautiful air. Strange effect of music! It seems to play upon the unseen chords of the brain, and to create a harmony unheard but felt. Its magic touches releases from the cells .oblivion the thousand memories that have

'slumbered as if dead ; it wakes up the phantoms of the past that lie in the deepest recesses of the heart, until the spectral procession fills the eyes with sympathetic tears. But hark ! the grand, thfilling air, by which Azucena recalls the upward roll of the flames that destroyed her parent ceases, and after a few chords, the piano evolves the glorious brindisi, “ Il segreto per esser jelici” suggestive only of the glowing goblet, the festive dance, the joyous caress of love; and a voice, a fine, manly voice, rings again as it follows the symphony : — *• Il segreto per esser felici, Si provae I’in signo agli amici.” Bertha’s tears had been stealing down her cheek prior to this, but now a pale flush came into her face, and alarm was depicted on her countenance. She recognised the voice—it was that of Mr. Clack. He knew where she lived, and had followed her. It may be as well here to give some idea of the street in which Bertha, for the sake of economy, lived. It was in one of the leading suburbs, and was called Willow-street, because a solitary specimen of that tree had been successfully cultivated by one of the first settlers. He often boasted he had planted it when the spot, now so thickly peopled, was a wilderness.

Bertha dwelt in a little brick oven, which had been erected when Fitzroy was first inhabited. On one side of the house was a large building, which was a boarding establishment much affected by the theatrical profession; indeed there were operatic stars living there now, which accounted for the music. The youngsters of the neighborhood looked upon it as an earthly paradise.

On the other side of Bertha’s house was a wretched little weatherboard box, with the windows boarded up, the general aspect being one of desolation. Few had ever seen the inmates, who generally mdved about in the night; but ihose who had been lucky enough to catch a glimpse of them, avowed the place was tenanted by a haggard man and a pale, bedraggled woman. The latter was well-known to the barmaid at the Corner Hotel, who declared that she could not tell what was done with the beer she purchased. Indeed, she was a valuable customer. It was from this hovel that the groans were now proceeding. What a contrast! Gaiety, laughter, music, on one side ! moans and misery on the other. Bertha put her father to bed, and after receiving his customary kiss, she returned to the little parlor, and sat gazing at the fire, pondering over the situation, and trying to think of some means of meeting her difficulty. Her discharge was so unexpected, that she had been' utterly unable to lay up something to keep herself and her father while she was out of work. No course that she could think of was feasible. Soon she followed the example of the servant girl, who had gone off to sleep, and dozed fitfully. In one of those dozes she saw Jack once more. He was standing with her on the hill above Grit, and their flocks were feeding quietly in the distance, while Spot and Lassie were playing together amongst the bushes. Suddenly Jack pointed to the ground, which began to open, and beneath their feet appeared a wall of snowy stone in which specks of rich yellow gold appeared. Soft music trembled through theair; and looking up, Bertha beheld a beautiful being, attired as if in a veil of gold J gazing upon them with pleasure in her eyes. But the vision faded quickly, and Bertha woke to find that some one was knocking at the door.

At first Bertlia was terribly afraid, but when she heard a women’s voice say, “Is anyone in?” she went to the doorand opened it. A servant girl stood without. Bertha at once recognised her as one of those employed at the boarding house. “I believe you do sewing?” said the girl.

“ Yes,” replied. Bertha. “ So they thought next door,” said the domestic. “ One of the ladies wants a dress made up quick and she told me* if you liked . r cumd go down to this address to-morrow an I in making .it. It’s quite a grand affiiiW; she wears it in the next play.” Bertha hardly knewhow to reply. Certainly W3IL glad at of some work; but T ’ embered that Mr. Clack was next might be a mere attempt to i; WP jin interview witbAer, and

) poor, and the wage the girl sufficient to keep the house for somu weeks, and- by that time, perhaps, she wouil have other employment; so she accepted theJlt’er. ‘KerJha was revolving the matter in her mind when there was another knock, and a mry sweet voice said, “Can I come in?” Bertha went again to the door and opened it. A beautiful woman, handsomely dressed, stood there. Bertha thought her lovely, but there was a strange look in her face, and she seemed to survey her with a deep and searching interest. At last she seemed to have satisfied her curiosity, and turning her eyes away, Bertha heard her sigh. “Miss White,” said the lady, “I want to talk to you, if only for a few minutes, upon a matter that does not admit of delay.” Bertha now recognised her. She had often seen her looking out of the windows of the boarding-house, when she was passing. She showed her in, pondering in her own mind what this eventful night would bring forth. “Miss White,” said the girl, “you do not recognise me, yet I know you well, ’and have known you for many years. Then, however, you were in a vastly different position to what you are now, but,” she added, “ that has not altered you.” Bertha Jooked at her in an astonished way. The woman gazed earnestly at Bertha, and then burst into tears. “You are beautiful,” she said, “in spite of all; beautiful, beautiful. Ah! I don’t wonder now that he loved you!” Bertha began to wonder whether her visitor was deranged, and began to feel alarmed. “ You may well look astonished,” said the girl; “ but when I tell you who I am, you will wonder no more. lam Maggie!” A crimson flush suffused Bertha’s cheek. Then this was the woman who had brought division between her and Jack, and who had made her cast him off. “Don’t be angry with me,” said Maggie; “it’s all over now. He never loved me. 1 believe he hated me at last. I was to blame throughout. I thought I could steal his hive; but I only succeeded in giving to myself a life without the slightest hope of the love that alone could brighten it.” Bertha’s noble soul was roused when she saw this poor girl aroused to such emotion. How well she could understand her—she who loved Jack so passionately and hopelessly herself. “Oh, yes!” said Maggie, “how madly I loved Jack, and he never returned it. See here,” she continued, putting her hand into her bosom and drawing thence a miniature; “this is all I have left; it never quits my breast.” Bertha looked at it. There was the noble, handsome face of- the boy they loved. Maggie kissed it with feverish ardor, and returned it to her breast. At this, Bertha’s face flushed again, for she could not keep down a jealous feeling. But, remembering the disastrous effects of her jealousy, she strove to triumph over it. “ What a happy,thoughtless life I lived,” said Maggie, “ until I met him. Then my whole soul concentrated into that hopeless love.” * Bertha did not know what to say. She would like to comfort Maggie, but knew not how to proceed. t' - ’ “ But it was not for the purpose of crying over my lost love that I came here to-night,” said Maggie. “ I came to warn you of what seems to me to mean you some peril.” “How?” asked Bertha. “'When I left Grit,” said Maggie—“then Jack was lost to me—l was so wearied of being a barmaid, that I turned my attention to the stage, being|a good singer—you remember I was a member of the Grit Dramatic Club, and I have taken a fair position here. I live in the next house, which is a great resort of the profession. It is of course a very fine place, and admirers of the stage come there, among whom is a Mr. Clack, a warehoscman, whom I have noticed behind the scenes. He is at our place now, and I noticed him in grave conversation with Miss Demby, a bouffe actress, whose principles I doubt. They sent the servant out to your place, and I surmised Mr. Clack had some end to attain. The girl was here ?” “Yes,” said Bertha, her face becoming ashy white. “ Have nothing to do with them,” said Maggie. “I am so very poor,” moaned Bertha, “ and the offer of work was most tempting. I have been dismissed from the warehouse — Mr. Clack’s.” “I will be your friend,said Maggie. “I owe you reparation. I have inflicted suffering and sorrow upon you, and ere I die I must pay it back with interest.” “ No, no, Maggie,” said Bertha. “ It was my fault as well as yours. I was too exacting—too jealous of a noble man.”

And these two women, each bound together by the love of one man, clasped hands. It was easy to see, however, that poor Maggie suffered deeply. She knew she could have no share in his love. Yet, strange to say, at this moment the idea that she could do something for him by succoring the woman he loved, seemed to give her comfort and strength. w CHAPTER LV. While the two girls stood clasping each other’s hand, and thinking of the absent dear one, steps were heard outside. Both girls listened. “This- is the house,” they heard a voice say. Then all was silent. “ Miss White,” said Maggie, “ I feel happier than I have felt for many a day at being of service to one poor Jack, so dearly loves. My advice is to leave the neighborhood as quickly and quietly as you can. I know you- require money, but whatever you want I’ll lend. Let me do that as some reparation. Don’t deny me the privilege of doing something for one I have so injured.” “ I thank you from my heart,” replied Bertha. “I might have been even more jealous had I known you were so noble a girl. I have done you an injustice.” “ Bless you for these words,” said Maggie, a bright look coming into her face. “ Oh! no wonder he loved you, for you arc, indeed, an angel.” Another knock came to the door. Both girls started. < “ Is Miss White in ?” asked a female voice. Bertha went to the door. A woman with a haggard face, and dressed in rags, stood without. Both Bertha and Maggie gazed at her as if they recognised her. “ Ay, you may stare,” said the woman with a shiver. “ You ought to know me. Don’t you know Mrs. Macinnis?” The girls gave a start as if a had appeared to them. “Don’t think I’m a ghost,” said the creature ; rt I wish I was.” “ Impossible,” said Maggie; “ Mrs. Macinnis died some time ago in the Lunatic Asylum.” “ No, she did not,” replied Prudence; for this was she; “ it’s along story, but I haven’t time to tell you all about it now. There’s a man dying next door, whom both of you know I” “Who?” asked both in bewilderment. “ Bunakum,” was the reply. Both stared. Reminiscences of the past, in which this man and woman had played such important parts, came thronging through Maccinnis. She now saw that man in such a repulsive light that felt greater terror at the recollection of the look he had given her that evening than at Clack’s persecution.. What would be the end ? ‘‘-You wouldn’t have a shilling about you, sweet ladies ?” said the woman; “ I just want to fetch a drop to comfort the poor old man before he dies. Maggie pulled out her purse, and gave the crone half-a-crown. How her eyes glittered, and what a look of satisfaction came into her face. “ I’ll be back in a moment, and bring you to him,” said she and she darted to the hotel. “ There she goes,” said Maggie, “ seeking more of the poison that has ruined her and that wretched man.” “ How strange all this is, said Bertha.” “ Nothing is strange in this world,” was the reply. “Look how soundly that girl sleeps. She knows nothing of trouble. Happy, happy girl!” By this time the' bundle of rags, whom we suppose we must call a woman, returned, carrying a black bottle, out of which, however, she had herself ‘partaken freely, for she stepped lighter, and her eyes beamed. “ Come this way, Miss White,” she said; Oh, won’t Bunakum be glad when he sees the drink. It’ll put life into him, and perhaps after all he will get over it this timei although I doubt if he’ll last the week out.” She opened the door, and the two girls entered the miserable 4iovel. What a sight was presented to them. - On a stretcher lay a wild looking old man. His features were pinched with famine, his eyes were red and bloodshot, and his grey matted hair fell around his shoulders in elflocks. His thin bony fingers clawed the air now and then, as he moaned in agony. He recognised the two women at once, and appeared to feel some relief at their presence. “ Jack, Jack,” said Bunakum feebly; “is he with you?” Bertha gazed upon the man with pity. She could hardly realise the extraordinary events that had transpired since she had first seen Bunakuni. Heaven : what a whirl of wonderful changes and transitions there had been. To think that it had all come to this. “He is not here,” said Bertha. “ Ah,” said Bunakum, sinking back as if his last hope were gone. “Where is he? where is he? I must see my boy before I die. I must see him and tell him all.” * Bertha now remembered the dark mystery that hung about this man—the mystery which Jack had often told her it was his only desire to fathom. Oh ! that he were here. “ Can’t you send for him?” said Bunakum, fretfully: “He must-some, for my time is short.” “All right old ’man,” said Prudence; “we’ll send for him ’ soon,- for these kind ladies have money. But just to keep your heart up take a drop.” How his face brightened when he saw Prudence pour into a tumbler the dark brandy. Eagerly he seized it, his hand trembling : fike an aspen. How his teeth chattered! But once he had swallowed the draught he seemed inspired with new life. “ More, mQre,” he-asked. - . “No, no,”-said Prudence; “ I’ll give you some by-and-bye ?” * He was not satisfied, and his eye followed the black bottle wistfully. Both Bertha and Maggie shuddered as they saw this. “This is the end of the drunkard,” said Maggie to Bertha. “ Yes,” replied Bertha; “it should be a warning to all.” “ How unavailing 1” said Maggie, with a sigh. “ The demon is remorseless. What can we do with this man ?” Bertha could not tell. Her heart yearned to do something for her lover’s father, fallen as he was. “He is dying,” continued Maggie. “ The best thing to do would be to send for his son.” “How could we send for him?” asked Bertha. “ I will despatch a messenger,” said Maggie. Bunakum was looking at them in a restless, troubled way. “Ah !” said he at last, “ no one cares for the old man now; his voice falls flatly on the ears of all. But why? Because the ears that once listened to me 'are dust and ashes years ago. Yes! the miners of Grit are dead, and it is time the old man was dead, too. But, send for Jack. He want's vengeance on Hector Macinnis; he shall have it—he shall have it. He wants vengeance on Obadiah Sweetcomfort; he shall have it—he shall have it. Send for him ! They come round me, the spirits of the dead and damned —and cry out for my company. Let him come before I join the army that is marching on to perdition. Old mates are round me; but they are now in torment. O, God ! why am I not dead? Death!-hell! any-

tiling, rather than this 1” And he shrieked in agony, and covered his face with his hands. Vain effort; how can we shut out that which is within ourselves 1 “ This man has some terrible secret on his mind,” said Maggie, “ and he must see Jack. Come Bertha, let us leave him. Here, Mrs. Macinnis; take this, it will assist you for a while.” Anft handing Prudence a sovereign Maggie drew Bertha out of the house. They did not notice the chuckle that worthy gave. As for Bunakum, he shrieked when the girls left; but Bertha soothed him with the assurance that he would see Jack soon. Bertha found her father up, in a very excited state. “What do you think?” said he in sharp tones, so very different from his usual utterances ; “ I dreamed that I saw that wretch Bunakum come up to my bedside when I was asleep, and I heard his voice plainly. When I' woke I thought I heard him again. Can he be hereabouts, Bertha ?” She soothed him, and and waking up the nursegirl, sent her to bed. Maggie now bade her good-night. “Keep up your heart, Miss White,” she said ; “ I will send a message for Jack by the first train. All will be well.” “ Well,” repeated Maggie as she went home. “ Well! No, no, not with me. They will at least be happy, while I—I—” And her companions for the first time, agreed that Maggie was in very bad spirits. Bertha hardly slept that night. She knew that her position was one of great difficulty—almost alone and helpless in a great city with only one friend, and that friend her former rival, Maggie. CHAPTER LVI. Ah mo I his eyes once more Are gazing into mine ; But ah ! not as of yore, No hopes for me there shine; Like some poor blasted tree When winter’s storms have fled, . All verdant round I see, While I am bare and dead. The breezes come and go O’er fields where flowers bloom ; No change my soul can know, Fixed is my dreary doom. Of hope no tender leaf My withered branch can show ; - No flower save that of grief, No whisper but of woe ! ’ < The fogs and mists of early morning were hanging over the city, when a lady dressed in pltffri garments stepped on the railway platform at Spencer-Street, where the early train for Grit was waiting. A heavy veil hid her features; but the general appearance was tl. i what surprised the other passengers wS were crowding round the little pigeon hoie, whmce a cursing the system of eany trains in his inmost heart, was handing out tickets. Just as she has purchased the magical bit of paper, a gentleman gave her a push, and thrust a five-pound note into the clerk’s hand. The lady turned round and looked at the rude man. Her face flushed, and she quietly moved away, without, however, losing sight of him. The woman was Maggie, and the domineering gentleman Obadiah Sweetcomfort. He had filled out, and looked very comfortable, very wealthy. There was an assumption in his gait, a generally independent swagger, that told all he was a wealthy man, one who felt he should obtain the homage of his fellow men, if he did not. have their respect. Maggie kept a keen eye on him, and noted the carriage he chose. She entered the next, which was unoccupied, and in a few moments the train sped away into the swamps with its rather small load of halfawake travellers, who were maligning the destiny that took them out of a warm bed at so early Van hour, to be jolted a hundred miles. Maggie was not one of these ; she had been awake all the night, and the burning fever in her veins kept sleep at a distance. In a few hours she would meet the man who was to her dearer than life; the man for whom she entertained passionate but hopeless love, which must remain, however, unsatisfied. She was going to him, not to plead her own cause, not to try and obtain his love, but to place him in a position to renew his love for another—to bridge the ocean that had separated them so long. And yet, did she regret this ? No ! She knew that so far as she was concerned the bloom of life had passed away for ever, leaving the dull, dead flower to fade into dust. But if she made him happy, if she contributed to the peace and joy of one who deserved his love, she felt that she would be doing what was her duty, and laying t|ie foundation of the peace and rest that ever come from doing our duty. Bertha had , wakened withjn her better and nobler feelings. After a night of distracting reflection, of tears, passion, she had been enabled to see life in a better and less selfish aspect. There was to her a kind of sublime pleasure in making happy the man she loved, even at the expense of her own heart. She was denying herself, and self-denial gives greater happiness than any other virtue. She knew that she must be prepared that day to suffer unutterable anguish, to trample upon all the feelings of her deep passionate nature, and td bear her cross through the thornsand briars of selfabnegation. Yet never for one moment did she falter in her purpose; no, not even while tears like rain fell from her eyes; not when the demon stood before her and placed temptation after temptation in her way. She was struggling with her-Tcelings when she chanced to hear Obadiah Sweetcomfort’s voice. He had raised it, and the words could be heard in the next carriage. “ The ground’s not much account,” said he ; “ that’s right perhaps, but then it is on the line of the Hesperus reef, and it may turn out good some time. But then you know, Snickers,'that is not my aim. I always have a purpose. Jack Meldon is making a living out of it, and I mean to stop him. You can’t tell, Snickers, how I hate that fellow. He has always been the black spot in my life. When I was a boy I, as boys do, fell in love with old White’s daughter, and ’so did he. What do you think ? He struck me once, and I ran away. I’m a physical coward, and can’t fight, although I wish I could, and fell in a puddle. They laughed at me, laughed at me. It rings in my hears to this day. Then when we grew up he disputed my sway amongst the miners, and foiled many of my schemes. But I could forgive everything except his taking Bertha from me.” “ You don’t mean to say,” said another person, whom Maggie identified as Sniggle Snickers, “ that you go in for the melodramatic business, re-v-e-nge ?” “ Paugh!” said Obadiah, “ I don’t think of that, I hate him. It pleases me to see him down in the dust, and I am one of those who believe |in having my way, no matter what others suffer.” Sniggle Snickers laughed in a short, dry way. “ Yes,” continued Obadiah, “ I believe in gratifying my feelings; and next to a good dividend, the abasement of those I hate pleases me best; and Ido hate him ! and in making him suffer he has afforded me greater pleasure than my best friends. Fancy ! I absolutely saw him without shoes to his feet, and with hardly a stitch to his back, and offered him money. Fancy that! The man who lorded it in Grit one time. Why, it was such a treat, that I never think of it without rubbing my hands.”

Another short laugh.

“ When 1 was up in Grit last time,” continued Obadiah, “ I saw him working in a shaft on Scarecrow Hill, and at once took note that the conditions hadn’t been complied with, for there ought to have been two men at w *>rk, where there was only one; so I’m determined to jump the claim, and that’s why I go up to Grit to-day. More than that, I found out that he was living with his old friend, the man you supplanted, William Brown. I knew Brown was mining manager for the Western Reef Company, and I went straight to the bank and told the manager to come down upon the claim* Old Keenman was a little stubborn at first, but when I told him Jack was kept at work through Brown being employed at the Western Reef mine, he agreed to do it at once. He hates Jack, too.” “Yes,” said Snickers, very drily, “Jack made his fortune.” “ And he made mine, too,” said Obadiah with a chuckle; “ only it was in ignorance. But lot’s speak of business. I’ve bought up all the Hesperus Extended shares now they are so low, and I want to stars a crosscut to the west. I know there’s a reef in that direction. At all events, I’ll manipulate the market with your assistance, and raise the shares sufficiently high to make a profit out of them.” “How many have you got?” asked Snickers. “ Ten thousand and odd,” was the reply ; I have them* all here in my pocket-book, and I mean to have them transferred into my name.” “ Then you’ve none in your name now.” “ Not one of these is in my name,* was the reply; “ I’ve only that .500 I always held to qualify me as a director, in my name. I’ll step into the manager’s office when we get up, and handk them over. No ; by-the-bye, we must firstmake straight for Jack’s claim, and peg it out.” “ We must go after that to the Hesperus Extended,” said his companion ; “ for I don’t know what change may have taken place. The underground manager spoke of water coming in plentifully, in his letter. That’s a sign the reef is near.” There was a pause. Maggie had listened intently to the conversation, and her face, made up as she knew so well how to render it impossible for Jack to recognise her, flushed. If anything gave her the horror of the evil passions of the world, it was this conversation. It seemed to open up to her depths of vindictiveness and ntt&nness she had never thought possible. One thought engaged her mind, to save J ack. She thought and thought how she could effect this, but no scheme appeared feasible. > ‘ —^CHAPTER-LVTT , 1 . HlH7* An St was not far from the railway station she was soon at William’s hut. What a crowd of tumultuous feelings filled her breast as she gazed upon the scene. Grit lay before her, hill and valley, streets and buildings; all apparently unchanged, just as she had seen them in happy years gone by. In the dim distance she saw the house where she had lived with her mother on the proceeds of her scrip speculations, and where Jack had so often visited, with its graceful cypresses clearly defined. She stood still for a little while, and let her feelings have full play. Ah 1 what a thing it is to return to the home of our youth, and to be confronted with the thousand memories that rise dn every side, and move us to tears. The happy hours of careless girlhood, the joys of womanhood, the joys and agonies of her hopeless love, were at once present with her. Hundreds of scenes in which she had ttiken part rose before her mental vision. And now she was even worse than a stranger here. Tears, bitter, bitter tears, rained . down Maggie’s cheeks, and she clasped her hands in speechless agony. This was the first stage in the drear journey of self-abnegation. Mastering her emotion, thrusting back into the depths of her heart her utter woe and misery, the heroic girl walked towards the hut. A tidjj matronly woman was kneading dough, and singing cheerfully at her work. This gave poor Maggie another pang, she remembered when she, too, years ago r; prepared her brother’s dinner in just such-a little hut, happy as a lark. “Is Mr. Meldon at home?” Maggie inquired, in a voice suited to her apparent age. “No ma’am,” was the reply; “he and my husband are at work in the claim up there, but if you’ll sit down a bit I’ll go and call him. You look tired, take a scat.” And she carefully brushed a three-legged stool, the uncouth workmanship of Jack. “ No thank you,” replied Maggie, “ I’ll go up myself.” “ Well, if you’ll wait till I wash the dough off my hands,” said Easily, “ I’ll show you the way.” This was done quickly, and the two walked up the hill. It was very trying to Maggie to hear Emily talk so cheerfully. She seemed to be so thoroughly happy, so free from care, that it was absolute torture for her troubled companion to listen. When readied the claim, William was hauling up a bucket of stone. He soon shouted for Jack to come up, and in a few minutes he appeared. Again Maggie looked at his dear face; again she saw the form that to her was all the world. ' He had altered indeed, but he was, if anything, .handsomer, stronger, more of a man. There was the dignity of labor in his hearing, the impress of thorough manhood, which even his clay-stained dress n6t hide; For several minutes Maggie tfas unable to speak. Her lieart boat convulsively ; her face grew pallid, her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, and her lips trembled. She felt as if she could have flung herself into his arms, and died in his last embrace. But she knew that if her resolution was be acted upon, she must not fail in the hodtr 5 of trial, and after, a while she mastered - herself. “ I trust you will excuse a stranger,” said she in tremulous tones, very different indeed from the round full voice that Jack had been accustomed to hear; “"but I cMne from a friend of yours, who wants to see you and at once. Miss Bertha White has sent me.” It was now Jack’s turn to tremble and grow pallid. Bertha White! It was like the sound of the last trumpet calling the dead and buried into life again. Bertha White! His head swam, his knees knocked his fingers cluched nervously. She was alive, and wanted to see him. Then a great rush of joy careered through his heart; visions of the woman he loved so intently, through his brain. Only for one minute. Soon he remembered where he was, and the airy castles tottered into the dust, bearing with them his broken, ruined heart. She watched him keenly; she saw the varying shadows of emotion cross face like clouds over a sky, and she knew that his love for Bertha was strong as ever. And she—poor Maggie—she was forgotten. It was wonderful how she stood the fiery ordeal. If there is anything more trying than another to a woman, it is to see herself neglected, while every thought is given to a rival. But her purpose never faltered. She trampled upon her love with an almost savage feeling of pleasure; with a wild hope that the pain she now suffered would bring a reward of peace. And wonderful to say, after a while, this brought to her a strange peace and rest, such as she had hardly ever hoped to feel in this world.

(To be continued.)