"The Maxwells, mother," Patterson asked
—" is there any news of them?"

"None, my dear Robert, none," replied
his mother. " I hope and believe that
they are quite safe. They have long ago
adopted your own plan of a clearance ring,
and I doubt not are just now as much a
centre of refuge as we are."

"But I should like to be sure," said
Robert, seriously. "I must ride over and
see."

"Must you? I think you must not," said
Mrs. Patterson. "But if you cannot be satisfied,
let some one of the men go; there are
plenty at hand, and you are already worn
out with fatigue and excitement."

"No, I am quite well and fresh—I had
rather go myself," said Robert; "it is not
far." And he strode out, his mother saying—

"If you find all right, don't come back
to-night."

Robert Patterson was soon mounted on a
fresh and powerful horse, and cantered off
towards Mount Hesse. It was only seven
miles off. The hot north wind had ceased
to blow; the air was cooler, and the fires
in the forest were burning more tamely.
Yet he had to ride over a track which
showed him the ravages which the flames
had made in his pleasant woods. The
whole of the grass was annihilated; the
dead timber lying on the ground was still
burning; and huge hollow trees stood like
great chimneys, with flames issuing from
their tops as from a furnace, and a red
intense fire burning within their trunks below;
and from them burning earthy matter came
tumbling out smoking and rolling on the
ground. He was about crossing a small
creek, when he saw an Irishman—a shepherd
of the Maxwells— sitting on its banks; his
clothes were nearly all consumed from his
back, his hat was the merest remaining fragment,
scorched and shrivelled. The man
was rocking himself to and fro and groaning.

"Fehan! " exclaimed Patterson, "What
has happened to you?"

The man turned upon him a visage that
startled him with terror. It was, indeed, no
longer a human visage; but a scorched and
swollen mass of deformity. The beard and
hair were burnt away. Eyes were not visible;
the whole face being a confused heap of red
flesh and hanging blisters. The poor fellow
raised a pair of hands that displayed equally
the dreadful work of the fire.

The young squatter exclaimed, "How
dreadful! Let me help you, Fehan—let me
take you home."

The man groaned again; and, opening his
distorted mouth with difficulty, and with
agony, said:

"I have no home—it is burnt."

"And your family?"

"Dead—all dead!"

"But are you sure—are you quite sure?"
said Robert, excitedly.

"I saw one—my eldest boy: he was lying
burnt near the house. I lifted him, to carry
him away, but he said, 'Lay me down, father,
—lay me down; I cannot bear it.' I laid
him down, and asked, Where are the rest?
'All fled into the bush,' he said, and then
he died. They are all burnt."

Robert Patterson flung the wretched man
a linen handkerchief, bidding him dip it in
the creek and lay it on his face to keep the
air from it, and turned his horse, saying he
would look for the family. He soon found
the place where the hut had stood. It was
burnt to ashes. On the ground, not far from
it, lay the body of the dead little boy. Patterson
hastened along the track of the old road
to the Maxwells' station, tracing it as well as
he could in the fire and the fallen flaming
branches. He felt sure the flying family
would take that way. In a few minutes it
brought him again upon the creek by which
the poor man sate, but lower down.

There stood a hut in a damp swamp, which
had been used years ago for the sheep washing,
but had long been deserted. It was
surrounded by thick wattles, still burning.
The hut was on fire; but its rotten
timbers forcing out far more smoke than
flame. As he approached, he heard low
cries and lamentations. "The family is fled
thither," he said to himself, "and are perishing
of suffocation." He sprang to the ground,
and dashed forward through columns of
heavy smoke. It was hopeless to breathe in
it, for its pungent and stinging strength
seemed to close his lungs, and water rushed
from his eyes in torrents.

But pushing in, he seized the first living
thing that he laid his hands on, and bore
it away. It was a child. Again and again
he made the desperate essay, and succeeded
in bringing out no less than four children
and the mother, who was sunk on the
floor as dead, but who soon gave signs of life
as she came into the air.

The young man was now in the utmost
perplexity with his charge. It was a heart-
rending sight. The whole group were more
or less burnt; but, as it seemed to him, not
so much burnt as to affect their lives.
Their station, was three miles distant,
and he had no alternative but to leave
them here till he rode on and sent a cart
for them. With much labour, carrying the
children one after another in his arms,
he conveyed the woeful group to the
father.

As the young man stood bewildered by the
cries and lamentations of the family on meeting
the father, a horse ridden by a lady
approached at a gallop. This apparition
contrasted strangely with the lamentable group
of sufferers. The young lady was tall and of
a most beautiful figure, and was mounted on a
fine bay horse. A light skirt, and broad
felt hat were all the deviations from her
home costume that haste had led her