er evil nature, tamed by anguish,
returned also! Day by day she became shyer of even the hand which had
fed and succoured her; and, as this is a true chronicle, it must be
stated that the very first use Mrs. Star made of her convalescence
was, to kick her nurse on the leg, break her halter into fragments,
and gallop off to the hills with a loud neigh of defiance. Whenever the
topic of feminine ingratitude came on the carpet at that station, this,
which Star had done, used always to be told as an instance in point.

Two years later, exactly the same thing happened again. The dreaded hour
of suffering found the wayward beauty once more under the roof which had
sheltered her in her former time of trial, and once more she rested her
head in penitence and appeal against her owner's shoulder. Who could
bear malice in the presence of such dreadful pain? Not Star's owner,
certainly. Besides the home resources, a man on horseback was sent off
to fetch a famous veterinary who chanced to be staying at a neighbouring
station, and they both returned before Star's worst sufferings began.
All that skill and experience could do was done that night; but the
morning light found the poor little grey mare dying from exhaustion,
with another dead foal lying by her side. She only lived a few hours
later, in spite of stimulants and the utmost care, and died gently
and peacefully, with those human hands whose lightest touch she had
so flouted, ministering tenderly to her great needs. The stockman had
become so fond of the wayward beauty, in spite of her ingratitude, that
the only solace he could find for his regret at her early death, lay in
digging a deep grave for her, and carving the emblem of her pretty name
on the rude stake which still marks the spot.

No account of station pets would be complete without a brief allusion to
my numerous and unsuccessful attempts to rear merino lambs in the house.
It never was of any use advising me to leave the poor little creatures
out on the bleak hill-side, if, in the course of my rambles after ferns
or creepers, I came upon a dead ewe with her half-starved baby running
round and round her. How could I turn my back on the little orphan, who,
instead of bounding off up the steep hill, used to run confidingly up to
me, and poke its black muzzle into my hand, as if it would say, "Here is
a friend at last"? And then merino lambs are so much prettier than any I
have seen in England. Their snow-white wool is