the force of it he tried
to rise, but could not although he strove manfully. At last, however,
he managed to raise himself on one elbow, and looked round with dark and
awfully large eyes, while he drew his left hand tremblingly across his
pale brow. He observed the trembling fingers and gazed at them
inquiringly.

"I--I must have been ill. So weak, too! Where am I? The forest--
everywhere! What can it all mean? There was a--a thought--what could
it--Ah! Betty--dear girl--that was it. But what of her? Danger--yes--
in danger. Ha! _now_ I have it!"

There came a slight flush on his pale cheeks, and, struggling again with
his weakness, he succeeded in getting on his feet, but staggered and
fell with a crash that rendered him insensible for a time.

On recovering, his mind was clearer and more capable of continuous
thought; but this power only served to show him that he was lost, and
that, even if he had known his way to Bevan's Gully, his strength was
utterly gone, so that he could not render aid to the friends who stood
in need of it so sorely.

In the midst of these depressing thoughts an intense desire for food
took possession of him, and he gazed around with a sort of wolfish
glare, but there was no food within his reach--not even a wild berry.

"I believe that I am dying," he said at last, with deep solemnity. "God
forgive me! Twice bought! Fred said that Jesus had bought my soul
before the miners bought my life."

For some time he lay motionless; then, rousing himself, again began to
speak in low, disjointed sentences, among which were words of prayer.

"It is terrible to die here--alone!" he murmured, recovering from one of
his silent fits. "Oh that mother were here now! dear, dishonoured, but
still beloved mother! Would that I had a pen to scratch a few words
before--stay, I have a pencil."

He searched his pockets and found the desired implement, but he could
not find paper. The lining of his cap occurred to him; it was soft and
unfit for his purpose. Looking sadly round, he observed that the tree
against which he leaned was a silver-stemmed birch, the inner bark of
which, he knew, would serve his purpose. With great difficulty he tore
off a small sheet of it and began to write, while a little smile of
contentment played on his lips.

From time to time weakness compelled him to pause, and more than once he
fell asleep in the midst of his labour. Heavy labour it was, too, for
the nerv