He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little elevation, in the

vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the great salt plain stretched

before his eyes, and the distant belt of savage mountains, without a sign

anywhere of plant or tree, which might indicate the presence of moisture. In all

that broad landscape there was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and west he

looked with wild questioning eyes, and then he realised that his wanderings had

come to an end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was about to die. “Why

not here, as well as in a feather bed, twenty years hence,” he muttered, as he

seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.

 

Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his useless rifle, and

also a large bundle tied up in a grey shawl, which he had carried slung over his

right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too heavy for his strength, for in

lowering it, it came down on the ground with some little violence. Instantly

there broke from the grey parcel a little moaning cry, and from it there

protruded a small, scared face, with very bright brown eyes, and two little

speckled, dimpled fists.

 

“You’ve hurt me!” said a childish voice reproachfully.

 

“Have I though,” the man answered penitently, “I didn’t go for to do it.” As he

spoke he unwrapped the grey shawl and extricated a pretty little girl of about

five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart pink frock with its little linen

apron all bespoke a mother’s care. The child was pale and wan, but her healthy

arms and legs showed that she had suffered less than her companion.