travelling all day." Mr. A--- told us what the man had been saying,
before we all went to bed, adding, "He seems an odd, surly kind of
creature, for although he declares he is going away the first thing
to-morrow, if the rain be over, I noticed he never said a word
approaching to thanks."

The rain was indeed over next morning, and a flood of brilliant
sunshine awoke me "bright and early," as the country people say. It
seemed impossible to stop in bed, so I jumped up, thrust my feet
into slippers, and my arms into a warm dressing-gown, and sallied
forth, opening window after window, so as to let the sunshine into
rooms which not even a week's steady down-pour could render damp.
What a morning it was, and for mid-winter too! No haze, or fog, or
vapour on all the green hills, whose well-washed sides were
glistening in a bright glow of sunlight. For the first time, too,
since the bad weather had set in, was to be heard the incessant
bleat which is music to the ears of a New Zealand sheep-farmer.
White, moving, calling patches on the hillsides told that the sheep
were returning to their favourite pastures, and a mob of horses
could be descried quietly feeding on the sunny flat.

But I had no eyes for beauties of mountain or sky. I could do
nothing but gaze on the strange figure of the silent swagger, who
knelt yes, positively knelt, on the still wet and shining shingle
which formed an apology for a gravel path up to the back-door of the
little wooden homestead. His appearance was very different to what
it had been three days before. Now his clothes were dry and clean
and mended,--my Irish maids doing; bless their warm hearts! He had
cobbled up his boots himself, and his felt hat, which had quite
recovered from its drenching, lay at his side. The perfect rest and