UNWILLING WITNESS.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 7065, 10 February 1893, Page 4

UNWILLING WITNESS.

LITERATURE-

r CONTINUED.) * Can you get enough powder in a;' hole of tbi* size for such hard rockP’ *-Bh p*: % ; The man who was striking the drill stopped, and the big sunburnt Irishman who held it replied; * That’s what Pin. tillin’ him,* indicating' -bis partner* *lt's losin' our labour we are! Te’ll blaw and blew and ya’ll not get tbe fill o’ yer hat! Thim drill* ia ;too short. Wbat’r be ' afthar P’ he asked, leaping upon his drill, and nodding his bead with a con-; fidental smile lowatds Mr_ Hillbury. * Prospecting for-., fossils,' Bodewin replied. . 4 lt i* one o'tbim stawoe botnists -iimrP w ' ■ " ~ ' ,T~ Bodewin nodded. ‘ Something like that.’ mL , * Sure, this is tbe place 'im. There s plenty of it here.' . He csme down the ledge towards; them, ueiog hi* tool ae a staff, and ringing it on therock, with each deary, \ limping step. His partner reipaintd above silting on iihe hiiel* of hip boots, hie elbows on his knees. He was a slenderly built youth of about twenty, bearWs, with thin,Esther handsome features, and a dull, passionate expression. He watched Josepbine and Bodewin with listl-ss at ennveness. - ‘What baye yoa got bereP’ Bodrwin inquired of the roan with the drill, picking up some pieees of rook as he spoke. , 4 Wellde, there's galeny m it, and there's carbunnets,’ he replied, turning orer the fragments of stone. His manner lacked the enthusiasm of the typical miner, hot be spoke with a degree ol respect for bis own prospects. 4 Where are your ?’ Bodewin asked. ‘And what d'ye call tbiro P’ exhibiting a piece of rook of the colour ot an overburnt brick. ‘There are no carbonates here.' Bodewin spoke with reckless candour. ‘That reddish stuff ia the oxide of iron.’ ‘Totbedivyle widyer ox-ides! I’ll lay me onld hat thai's the colour we’re lookin’ lor. Is it’a assayer ye are ?’ * T'ake it over to the stone botanist and see what he makes ol it,’ said Bodewin lazily. ‘ No, but it is an a*say * Take it to tbe botanist! He’ll assay it lor yon.’ 4 He is lame! ’ Josephine said, looking after him as be linnped away over tbe rocks with his specimen, n one hand and his drill in the other. * Oh, no, be i*n’t; it’s lbs national walk. Don’t you see be is lame in both feet ? ’ ‘ Weren’t you rather cruel to bun about bis * ‘ Not half as cruel as I am to HillburyV Bodewin reclied, laughing. ‘ Hillbnry would heap ns. here till night if something were not sent to irritate him.* ' Seeing that' she still looked sorrowfully after tbe unlucky prqspector. be added, 4 Would it be! cruel to tell the earn'd he couldn’t get through the nesd'e’s eye ?’ *ls it as hopeless as that? Poor fellow ! be will lose bis labour, as be

* He will do well if he looses oo more than hie labour. They are a queer pair. What fata do you suppose sent a goodnatured Irish bricklayer up he f o nearly to the top of Sheridan, silver hunting, with a Canadian half-breed, I should think by the looks of him glancing upward toward the slim dark figure on the rocks abo»e, ‘ for a partner ? ’ 1 Where dp you suppose they live ? ’ 1 They ba»e a bough shanty, {.robably, in the nearest timber. Micky, I dare gay, has a wile down in the cemp, taking in washing to fc«d the kide, while he plays it alone op here f«.r

higher stakes.’ Bodewin lay stretched out upon the rock io one of bis camp-fire altitudes. Dizzily and dreamily Josephine looked about her. She felt rather than saw how far they were exalted into that ▼ait doom of light, what a little ledge of the world they rested on. ' Miss Hewbold, I think after all you must let roe answer that que s tion.’ Josephine waited ’a moment before replying. She felt it would be partly to ask what question. She merely ■aid : < * Please let it be as if I bad not asked it.’ „ . * How is that to be done ? ’ Bode win asked. * May not one repent of a hasty speech and withdraw it ? ’ ‘lt would noth® worth remembering. But I bare remembered it, you see, in spite of myself, I may say. I holier® I agreed with you when you said you had no right to ask it. That was a hasty admission on my part.’ ‘Hot at all! You could not help seeing It was a blunder. I hoped you would tare seen bow sorry I was, and hare bad the grace to forget it,* ' Grant that it was a blunder, I think yon do not often blunder in that way. There must hare been some force of feeling behind the speech that you so deprecate. It could hardly bare come from your lips merely.’ He looked at her and smiled. ‘We are in for it now, you see,* / She did not return the smile. ‘ 1 don’t know what you mean by ‘in for it.’ There is no question. I have withdrawn it. It doesn’t exist. ‘ You have a very lofty little way of annihilating tbe past ; unfortunately, it doesn’t affect my past. The question, ■till exists for me. It has been existing steadily and waxing troublesome ever since! saw you. *^)h!’ sail Josephine, with a sigh of impatience. s ; ; ' 4 Well,mthen, why did you ask it, Hiss Nawhold ? You charged me with being a renegade to justice, Is it not for

Josephine opened her lips to protest, but saw the hopelessness of sufferance. Bodewin smiled again quietly: *lt ii not often a woman is called to plead, for justice in oppostion to sentiment—for my answer to your question mast he io the name of something Tshsll hays to call sentiment for the want of a better word. You see ■what an nttusual opportunity you are 'giving me. It should be made a precedent—if only I were worthy of my role.’ Ho ; looked with a half-fascin-ated, smile into the girl's troubled face; 4 When will you hear my poor defence? There is not time to offer it now ; besides, I should like to get up my case a little before presenting it.’ Josephine would not speak. She felt bow hot and flnsbed her cheeks ware, and bow her lips trembled io spite of herself, ‘You will not be cruel enough to go “away*ahcTleave the ghost of that unanswered question to haunt me. 1 shall hear you all the way from Kansas City, saying, *lf you care tor justice, why won’t you ’ * Will you please not repeat my words ?’ she interrupted haughtily. The?e was not a trace of mockery in bis voice when he spoke again. * They are hot your words. You have parted with them; they have a life of their own now. Not if you live a thousand years will you get them back again.’ She turned her full face towards him with a speechless, startled movement. ‘You cannot separate a vital question from its answer,’ he continued. * You know that every now and then in the life of a nation or of a man the time comes for somebody to ask a question. The person who asks it may not wish to ba the one chosen j but once the word is out it cannot rest until it gets itself answerel. if it is a real quesaion, if it takes the nation’s life, or tbe man’e to answer it. 1 have not deliberately thought about your question, Miss Newboid, but it is no exaggeration to say that since I saw you last I have thought of but little else. If I cannot answer it to your satisfaction, you may summon me to the trial as your witness/

(To he continued.)