ve struggled and suffered
and failed, and who have fought and failed again till their tempers are
spoiled, until they grow bitter. They go in for self-pity, and self-pity
leads to moping and brooding and madness; self-pity is the most selfish
and useless thing on the face of God's earth. It is cruel, it is deadly,
both to the man and to those who love him, and whom he ought to love.
His load grows heavier daily in his imagination, and he sinks down until
it is in him to curse God and die. He ceases to care for or to think
of his children who are working to help him." (Ross's sons were good,
steady, hard-working boys.) "Or the brave wife who has been so true to
him for many hard years, who left home and friends and country for his
sake. Who bears up in the blackest of times, and persists in looking at
the bright side of things for his sake; who has suffered more than he
if he only knew it, and suffers now, through him and because of him, but
who is patient and bright and cheerful while her heart is breaking. He
thinks she does not suffer, that she cannot suffer as a man does. My
God! he doesn't know. He has forgotten in her the bright, fresh-faced,
loving lassie he loved and won long years agone--long years agone----"

There was a sob, like the sob of an over-ridden horse as it sinks down
broken-hearted, and Ross's arms went out on the desk in front of him,
and his head went down on them. He was beaten.

He was steered out gently with his wife on one side of him and his
eldest son on the other.

"Don't be alarmed, my friends," said Peter, standing by the water-bag
with one hand on the tap and the pannikin in the other. "Mr Ross has not
been well lately, and the heat has been too much for him." And he went
out after Ross. They took him round under the bush shed behind the hut,
where it was cooler.

When Peter came back to his place he seemed to have changed his whole
manner and tone. "Our friend, Mr Ross, is much better," he said. "We
will now sing"--he glanced at Clara Southwick at the harmonium--"we will
now sing `Shall We Gather at the River?'" We all knew that hymn; it
was an old favourite round there, and Clara Southwick played it well in
spite of the harmonium.

And Peter sang--the first and last time I ever heard him sing. I never
had an ear for music; but I never before nor since heard a man's voice
that stirred me as Peter M'Laughlan's. We stood like emus, listening to
him all through one verse, then we pull