ed hisself
digging for the gold, and he never got none, and he says 'he'll
dig till he dies.'"

"Dig till he dies." Fit motto of many a disappointed gold-seeker, the
finale of many a broken up, desolated home, the last dying words of
many a husband, far away from wife or kindred, with no loved ones near
to soothe his departing moments--no better burial--place than the very
hole, perchance, in which his last earthly labours were spent. These
were some of the thoughts that rapidly chased one another in my mind as
the sad words and still sadder tone fell upon my ear.

I was roused by hearing Frank's voice in inquiry as to how she made her
candles, and she answered all our questions with a child-like NAIVETE,
peculiarly her own. She told us how she boiled down the fat--how once it
had caught fire and burnt her severely, and there was the scar still
showing on her brown little arm--then how she poured the hot fat into,
the tin mould, first fastening in the wicks, then shut up the mould and
left it to grow cold as quickly as it would; all this, and many other
particulars which I have long since forgotten, she told us; and
little by little we learnt too her own history.

Father, mother, grandfather, and herself had all come to the diggings
the summer before. Her father met with a severe accident in digging,
and returned to Melbourne. He returned only to die, and his wife soon
followed him to the grave. Having no other friend or relative in the
colonies, the child had been left with her aged grandfather, who
appeared as infatuated with the gold-fields as a more hale and younger
man. His strength and health were rapidly failing, yet he still dug on.
"We shall be rich, and Jessie a fine lady before I die," was ever his
promise to her, and that at times when they were almost wanting food.

It was with no idle curiosity that we listened to her; none could help
feeling deeply interested in the energetic, unselfish, orphan girl. She
was not beautiful, nor was she fair--she had none of those childish
graces which usually attract so much attention to children of her age;
her eyes were heavy and bloodshot (with work, weeping, cold, and
hunger) except when she spoke of her sick grandfather, and then they
disclosed a world of tenderness; her hair hung matted round her
head; her cheek was wan and sallow; her dress was ill-made and
threadbare; yet even thus, few that had once looked at her but would
wish to look again. There was an inde