rich find. A few of his provisions might be gone; the poor devil was welcome to that.

He was always cautious, for he was accustomed to face danger. There was no telling what sort of desperate, hunted character had found his way there, so he handled his revolver as he went in. Lying on his bunk he saw a bundle of clothes, or what looked like it. Quietly he stepped up, then started back in amazement. It was no sundowner, not even a man from Boonara, out on the jag, who had wandered in a half-frenzied condition so many miles. What he saw was a woman, a young, pretty woman, whose face was lined with sorrow, whose cheeks were sunken. The hands were hanging down, thin, almost emaciated, showing the veins, a dull blue. One leg drooped down the side. The boot was worn, and torn. The dress over it was ragged. Her whole appearance denoted the utmost distress, hardship, exhaustion. She hardly breathed, although he saw her bosom slightly heave and fall. She was in a pitiable plight indeed.

Glen Leigh was so wonder-struck at this strange sight that he stood staring at her for some time, until Ping roused him by poking his head in at the door, asking in his dumb way for food. Even the woman, lying so strangely there, did not cause him to delay. Ping was a good comrade; he must be attended to. He went round to the back of the hut, where there was a lean-to shed, and Ping followed him. There was a little precious hay still left, which he had secured for the horse at Boonara at a fabulous price, panning out, if reckoned up, at about a hundred pounds a ton. It had been brought down the river on one of the puffing, snorting, little steamers, and deposited at the small staging, to be left till called for, and fetched by Bill Bigs at his leisure. Ping sniffed this small portion of evil-smelling stuff with satisfaction. He had never known better fare, for he had been bred in the wilds, and brought up anyhow, on anything. His dam had very little milk for him; she had nothing to make it with. When his dam deserted him, or he left her to go on his own, he wandered about, living precariously until he was six years old. Then some master on two legs caught him, and Ping began to learn the effects of contact with humanity. Ping's life had not been a happy one until he passed into Glen Leigh's hands. With the wisdom of the horse he discovered the great change in ownership, and wondered at it. He followed Leigh about like a dog; there was no bucking, biting, squealing, kicking against the pricks. He settled down to a humdrum existence with a feeling of glorious content.

As Glen Leigh stood for a few moments eyeing Ping he compared him with the woman lying in his hut. There was a similarity between their lives. Both had been ill-used, and both came into his possession. Into his possession? What on earth was he to do with the woman? Ping was all right. He had bought him for a trifle. But the woman. It was quite a different thing. She was in his hut, and part of his household for the night. What must he do with her?

"Eat your supper, Ping. I'll go and see to the other one," he said, and went back to his "front door."

He entered softly. She was still sleeping. He sat down on a log and watched her.

How had she come there? She must have tramped miles. From Boonara of course, but he did not remember seeing her there. He smiled at the thought. He seldom gave more than a passing glance to people in the township. He was hardly likely to have noticed her sufficiently to recognise her now. If she came from Boonara, why had she left the place and wandered all these miles? Was it by chance she had struck his hut? Of course, it must have been. No doubt she saw the rainstorm coming, and seeing the hut at the same time hurried in for shelter.

She was not an ordinary working-woman, he saw that, and cudgelled his brains to find out how she came into the country at all.

She must belong to somebody, but to whom?

He knew of women who had lost their reason in solitudes, and had not wondered at it. The country was only fit for blacks, and even they shunned it, the few of them that were left after the white man's march. Had she come along with some squatter, when he had been making a visit to Bathurst, or Bourke, or even Sydney or Melbourne? That was a possible solution, but highly improbable. There was only one large station near enough to this place, from which she could have tramped. Its owner was Craig Bellshaw, of Mintaro Station, and he was not the sort of man to drive a woman away by ill-treatment, quite the contrary.

She stirred. He listened. She was muttering, but he could not catch the words. He got up and leaned over her.

CHAPTER III

A STRANGE SITUATION

He could make nothing of what she said. It was a jumble of incoherent sounds, with no meaning in them. He gathered no information as to how she came there.

"She's ill—delirious. What can I do for her?" he muttered.

He was a soft-hearted man, where women were concerned, and distress, although he had seen much of it, appealed to him. There were no doctors, not even in Boonara. When folks were ill in those parts they had to fight for life as best they could, with a few patent remedies to aid them.

"Fever," he said, "there's no doubt about it, and she has no strength to withstand it. I can't leave her alone. I wish to heaven Bigs, or someone, would come."

He sat by her all night; sometimes he had to hold her down, as she struggled like a bird in his strong grasp. He was very gentle with her. Not one man in a hundred would have credited him with such tenderness. When daylight sprang out suddenly, as it does in these climes, she became quieter. He put his hand on her breast, humming softly. The touch and the sound soothed her. With wonderful patience he remained in this position hour after hour, proving himself a great man, greater than he ever thought or reckoned himself to be. He was hungry, but he did not move. Ping came to the door and wondered why his wants were left unattended. It was unusual. He would have resented it had not the downpour brought up small shoots of green, with marvellous suddenness. He turned away and went nibbling the unaccustomed luxuries. Ping came to the door instinctively. Grass was a thing he had not seen for months. He didn't expect to find it, but as he sniffed its freshness he left the hut contentedly, and Leigh was glad.

"He smells the grass," he thought, "There's more chance of her pulling through now it's cooler." He mixed up the horse and the woman in his thoughts continually. How long he sat there he did not know, but a sound reached him which gave warning that something or someone was approaching. Ping neighed. He knew if it was a rider he would call at his hut. They always paid "ceremonial" visits; it was an event in their lives. A sound of hoofs reached him. It was very welcome; he gave a sigh of relief. He looked round, and saw a horse and rider pull up at his door. It was Jim Benny. At any other time Benny would have been cursed roundly for neglecting his work. Curses were the habitual mode of forcibly expressing disapproval by the men of the fence. But never was man more heartily welcome. Glen Leigh didn't even give a thought as to why Jim Benny came to his hut. It was an uncommon occurrence but he had no time to consider it.

Jim grinned as he put his head in at the door. He was about to speak when he grasped the situation, as far as it was possible for him to so