"He smells water!" cried Hans, clasping
his hands, with a weak tremulous joy. "O,
let him lead us to it!"

With renewed energy the animals sped on
for a time, followed by the now hopeful
travellers, until they paused at the brow of
a deep ravine. But, no water was to be seen;
we only looked down on a carpet of the
richest verdure. The animals at once stooped
their heads to meet it, and with a tempered
expression of joy, the Hottentots threw
themselves upon it, and began to pluck and eat
the juicy though flavourless fruit of the
Hottentot-fig. The next moment we were eating
them too, and poor and despised though they
are, they were the means of saving our lives.

An unlimited supply was spread out before
us, and most heartily both we and the
oxen ate of them—we even plucked and
chewed, without injury, the cool succulent
leaves, which, growing among sand, are yet
filled with such abundant moisture as to
render then a true traveller's joy in the
desert. With the necessity for exertion the
last remnant of our strength deserted us, and,
seeking no shelter, we sank down on the
ground and slept soundly until morning.

Hottentot-figs continued to grow in patches
along our path; then, ground cherries, with
their tart amber fruit, were added to our
fare; lastly we came to water. Though the first
draughts we obtained were green and stagnant,
we drank eagerly.

After this, our journey lay through a more
fertile country, and we recurred to the old
order of march. But, it was strange to observe
how the sufferings of those few terrible days had
altered us, and, though we no longer wanted
food or water, we did not improve in appearance.
Above all, it was fearful to look on
little Birdie, with her small face withered
and wrinkled like that of old age. Many
times as I looked at her I thought that,
after all her hardships, our Birdie's hours
were numbered, and the tears that stole down
her mother's sunburnt cheeks told that these
were her thoughts also.

At length, Birdie's weakness could no
longer bear the motion of the oxen, or even
to be carried in our arms, and sorrowfully
we laid her down to die, without one comfort
to assuage the sufferings, or smooth the
graveward passage of the beloved child.
That very day as we watched by her, an
unusual sound broke through the stillness
which had now become habitual to us—it,
was the report of a gun, and we sent out our
Hottentots to discover who had fired.

Then came aid, and hope, and joy. We
were nearer Natal than we had believed, and
that shot was fired by the husband and
father, whose wife and child were at so
disastrous a pass. He was out on a
shooting excursion with friends, little guessing
the straits to which those dearest to his
heart were reduced; and thus his wagon
was at hand to receive them, and its many
comforts aided in staying the flight of Birdie's
gentle spirit.

I remained at Natal only long enough to
see Birdie restored to health and to her
former childish beauty; then, availing myself
of a cutter returning to the colony, I took a
passage in her. And though all the
prophecies respecting heavy winds, and heavier
seas, among which she would toss like a cork,
came true, I infinitely preferred encountering
them, to again risking the chances of a
journey overland.

THE CLERGYMAN'S WIFE.

LIFE IN LIGHTLANDS.

Life in Lightlands! Life in a stupid country
parish, with probably not more than a
dozen well educated people in it, why there
can't be any life there at all,—worth mentioning.
The notion of life in Russia may be crushing;
of life in India, just now, exciting; of life
at the North Pole full of freezing interest;
but life in Lightlands must be simply a bore.

Really and truly, however, it is no such
thing to earnest-hearted Englishmen and
Englishwomen. Will any one tell me that
there is no life in Lightlands, when morning
after morning scores and scores of labouring
people are abroad there, in all seasons, and
in all weathers, harnessing horses to the team,
speeding the plough across the upland, driving
the harrow in the valley, cutting the corn
in harvest fields, labouring with the scythe
among the hay, sowing the seed of our daily
bread, before one of the lazy dwellers in
towns has opened a shutter?

And is there nothing interesting about
these our toiling home-born brothers, beyond
the mere general knowledge that they are
labouring-people doing what they are set to
do, living and dying at their posts, and
being succeeded by others who pass away, as
they do, almost imperceptibly, leaving behind
them only a dim unread record of a name
and a date in a rusty parish register?  Does
no one care to know how they lived and how
they died?  Is the manner of eating rice in
China, or beefsteaks among the Galla tribe,
of greater importance?

The mention of beefsteaks suggests to my
mind that it might be curious to consider
how it comes about that beef, in any shape,
or animal food generally, is not eaten among
English labourers except on rare occasions,
such as Christmas-time, or harvest-time.
Only I am afraid the speculation, however
curious, might turn out a troublesome one,
too long and too deep for the purpose of a
short paper like this; so I will leave it alone.

But I have not done with my questions
yet, and I want to know whether it may not
be considered that there is a little life in
Lightlands on a Saturday afternoon, when
dozens and dozens of women and children may
be seen making their way up and down the
village street with baskets empty and baskets