labouring man's face. Instead of a hot crowded room, these bushmen
were going to sleep in their log hut, where the fresh pure air could
circulate through every nook and cranny. They had each their pair
of red blankets, one to spread over a heap of freshly cut tussocks,
which formed a delicious elastic mattrass, and the other to serve as
a coverlet. During the day these blankets were always hung outside
on a tree, out of the reach of the most investigating weka. You may
be sure I had not come empty-handed in the way of books and papers,
and my last glance as I rode away rested on Trew opening a number of
_Good Words_ [Note: _Evening Hours_ was not in existence at that
time, or else its pages are just what those simple God-fearing men
would have appreciated and enjoyed. _Good Words_ and the _Leisure
Hour_ used to be their favourite periodicals, and the kindness of
English friends kept me also well supplied with copies of Miss
Marsh's little books, which were read with the deepest and most
eager interest.] with the pleased-expression of a child examining a
packet of toys.

And so we rode slowly home through the delicious gloaming, with the
evening air cooled to freshness so soon as the sun had sunk below
the great mountains to the west, from behind which he shot up
glorious rays of gold and crimson against the blue ethereal sky,
causing the snowy peaks to look more exquisitely pure from the
background of gorgeous colour. During the flood of sunlight all
day, we had not perceived a single fleck of cloud; but now lovely
pink wreaths, floating in mid-air, betrayed that here and there a
"nursling of the sky" lingered behind the cloud-masses which we
thought had all been blown away yesterday.

The short twilight hour was over, and the stars were filtering their