the goodness and pleasantness of his friend,—
never to have valued him aright. That
cheerful, hopeful soul,—that generous, unselfish
nature,—that mind so full of knowledge
and sunny thoughts, and cordial, genial
humour. From the sight of the future he
shrunk back; from that dark solitary road
that he must travel amongst rude strangers
alone.

But time stops for neither the happy nor
the miserable. Morning came, and with
it the doctor and the flies. In a kindly but
energetic tone, he told George that he must
rouse himself; that the funeral must take
place that very day, and covering over the body
with a sheet, he bade George go and attend
to the horse while he went and gave the
necessary orders. When he returned, he
forced George away with him to his own
tent, and kept him there.

We must not dwell on this melancholy
part of our story. In a few days the remains
of Adam Swinburne slept in the already
populous cemetery of Forest Creek. George,
exerting himself under the kindly influence
of the doctor, had sold the tent and effects,
the doctor wishing to purchase the horse, and
for which, spite of George's remonstrances,
he paid a very handsome price, though his
medical attendance had, of course, been
gratuitous to his brother practitioner. The money
George had transferred to the Bank of
Australasia, in Melbourne, with the exception of
a small reserve for his own necessities, and as
a loan, and sent an order to pay it over to
their bank in London, for Adam's mother, to
whom he wrote the melancholy news of her
son's decease.

For himself, the prospect of a sedentary
life in Melbourne, even with the hope of
achieving a brilliant fortune, had at present
no charms. At his heart there lay a heavy,
cheerless weight. He seemed to need action,
constant, restless action,—the air of the hills,
the free freshness of the forest, hard travel,
hard labour, to drive the deadly torpor from
his spirit, to give him sleep at night. There
was a fever in his blood that seemed to urge
him on and on. So, in the rude phrase of
the digger, he once more humped his swag,
that is, threw the rolled-up blanket on his
back, with pick, shovel, and tin dish, and set
out for fresh scenes.

We need not follow him too minutely. He
travelled from one gold field to another, and
dug laboriously, and with varied success.
But he was always a solitary digger; he never
felt as if he could take a stranger into the
place of Adam the inimitable. Autumn
found him at the Ovens, much improved in
his funds, but still restless and melancholy.
Besides the death of Adam Swinburne, he
had other griefs which lay heavy upon him.
Since he set foot on Australian ground he
had never received a single line from any one
at home, nor could he learn from any new
arrival that his letters homeward had been
more fortunate. Every one attributed the
fact, which was by no means a solitary one,—
there were thousands of like cases,—to the
inefficient condition of the Melbourne
post-office, which, from a false economy of the
colonial government, was not half manned,
and was become an unfathomable limbo of
letters and newspapers.

But this theory did not remove the fact
that George had had no communication with
his home friends, and a thousand uneasy and
gloomily shaping fancies haunted his mind.
Had he not acted a foolish part? Thrown
recklessly away the brightest prospects for a
mere ignis fatuus? Might not Ellen Mowbray
have gradually come to consider him in
the long period for serious reflection, as a
fickle, impetuous, and not very sagacious
character? The only person who could give
him any news from home was a sailor, who
had originally been a Warkworth fisherman,
then had sailed in a Hull merchantman, and
run off to the diggings. From him George
heard that his own family was well: but that
Mr. Mowbray was dead. When the man
spoke of Miss Mowbray, he seemed to give
George a look, as if he said, "Ay, and did
not you miss it there, Master Widdrington?
What a beautiful lady Miss Mowbray was
grown! How she was admired! There was
not a woman in Northumberland fit to carry
her shoes after her; and now so rich as she
was, he reckoned she would marry a lord or a
duke at least."

That was the only news George had
received since he landed; and poor and
mere hearsay as the information of such a
man was, it did not fail to disturb him. He
resolved to return home, not as the prodigal
son, unless he found open doors to receive
him, but with the little capital he now
possessed, to commence practice in Newcastle.
Wonderful rumours were at this moment
flying to and fro of a new goldfield at Lake
Omeo, on the Gippsland side of the snowy
mountains. It was an expedition that seized
powerfully on his feverish, restless mind.
New scenes in the wildest mountain regions,
a stout walk by swift rivers, and through
mountain forests, over snow-crowned peaks,
and amid the vigorous winds of autumn,—
his heart felt cooled and lightened at the
thought of it. From Omeo to Alburton was
but a few days' journey, and then he would
take ship for Melbourne and home.

The distance to Omeo from the Ovens was
a hundred and seventy miles. In three long
days, he had rounded the spurs of the
mountains near Reid's hill, and traced a good long
track along the banks of the Mitta-Mitta.
The river had ceased to pursue its quiet
course in the lowlands, and came gaily and
with a crystal clearness and vivacity through
the steeper valley. Our hero, in his scarlet
blouse, belted at the waist, and displaying
there his trusty revolver, and with his rug
rolled neatly on his back, his shovel slung