re moderately successful; indeed, wherever they dug
they found "colour," and once or twice stumbled upon pockets of
nuggets. Their hopes ran high, but presently one of the four--Askew by
name--sickened and died of fever. They buried him and persevered with
varying luck. Then a second member of their party, Johnston, was taken
ill. He lingered for a month and died also.

After this Leonard was for abandoning the enterprise, but, as fate would
have it, on the day following Johnston's death they found gold in very
promising quantities, and his brother, whose desire to win the wealth
necessary was only increased by many disappointments, would not listen
to such advice.

So they rebuilt the hut on a higher and healthier spot and stayed. But
on one unfortunate day Thomas Outram went out shooting, and losing his
path in the bush was forced to spend a night in the fever-fog. A
week afterwards he complained of sickness and pains in the back and
head--three weeks later he died as we have seen.

All these events and many others antecedent passed through Leonard's
mind as he wore out the long hours seated by the side of his dead
brother. Never before had he felt so lonely, so utterly desolate, so
bankrupt of all love and hope. It was a fact that at this moment he had
no friend in the wide world, unless he could call the knob-nosed native
Otter a friend. He had been many years away from England, his few
distant relations there troubled themselves no more about him or his
brother, outcasts, wanderers in strange lands, and his school and
college companions in all probability had forgotten his existence.

There was one indeed, Jane Beach. But since that night of parting, seven
years ago, he had heard nothing of her. Twice he had written, but no
answer came to his letters. Then he gave up writing, for Leonard was a
proud man; moreover he guessed that she did not reply because she could
not. As he had said to his brother, Jane might be dead by now, or more
probably married to Mr. Cohen. And yet once they had loved each other,
and to this hour he still loved her, or thought that he did. At least,
through all the weary years of exile, labour, and unceasing search after
the unattainable, her image and memory had been with him, a distant
dream of sweetness, peace, and beauty, and they were with him yet,
though nothing of her remained to him except the parting gift of her
prayer-book and the lock of hair within it. The wilderness is not
a