Suddenly Edwin looked up, exclaiming, "This is Sunday morning!"

"And a strange Sunday it is," answered Ottley, somewhat dreamily, as his

thoughts went back to Sundays long ago, bringing with them an echo of

the church-going bells, to which his ear had so long been a stranger.

"Sunday up country in New Zealand," he went on, "is little beside a

name, except to those who can hear the sermon of the stones and read the

books--"

"In the running brooks," added Edwin; "and good in everything. But is

it so?"

"Nature's voices have been speaking in tones to which all must listen,"

continued Ottley. "Yet the Lord was not in the earthquake and the

storm, but in the still small voice."

His words were slow and grave, so unlike his usual tones Edwin listened

in silence, and in silence they approached the ford. Even Beauty's

footsteps were inaudible, for the mud by the river had not dried as fast

as elsewhere.

The boy's heart was heavy with apprehension as he looked up, expecting

to see the familiar gate; but not one trace of post or gate remained.

The acacia tree in which the lamp used to hang was riven asunder. The

grassy mound and the gorse hedge were gone. The road had been raised by

the mud and dust to the level of the farm-yard wall. Almost without

knowing they did so, they went straight over it, and found themselves

even with the window of the hay-loft. The roof of the house was crushed

in, and its doors and windows banked up with mud. As they looked round

at it, Edwin pointed to the hole his father must have made when he

extricated his friend's family. A man was getting out of it at the

moment. They stood quite still and watched him draw up a full sack

after him.

"There is some one before us on the same errand," said Edwin; but Ottley

hushed him without replying.

The man looked round as Edwin's voice broke the profound stillness.

Ottley shouted to him, "Wait where you are, mate, and I will come to

your help."

The coachman knew if the man were on honest work intent he would gladly

accept his offer, for the sack was so full he could hardly move it. But

he thought, if the fellow is a thief, he will try to get rid of me.

Ottley turned to Edwin, saying carelessly, with the air of one at home

in the place, "You will find some hay for your horse inside that window.

Give him a good feed, whilst I look round and see if all is safe."

He was speaking loud enough for the man to hear him. He was trying to

make the fellow understand that he was there to protect Mr. Hirpington's

property. He left Edwin to feed his horse, and walked quickly across the

heaps of mud Mr. Lee had shovelled away from the window nearest to the

water.

The man had let the sack drop, and now stood idly on the main beam,

which had not been displaced, as if he too were surveying the extent of

the mischief. Ottley leaped across and stood beside him, observing, "The

colonists are everywhere returning to their homes. The general opinion

seems to be that the danger is over. Hirpington may be expected any

minute. I came over to help him."

The men stood looking at each other, and Edwin recognized the fellow on

the roof. It was the rabbiter who had spoken to him in the dark when he

thought no one could hear him but his father.

"O Mr. Ottley," he called out, "it is one of the rabbiters who came to

our help."

"And are you the farmer's son?" asked the man, descending from the roof

to speak to him.

Edwin was feeling very grateful to the rabbiters. Hal was nursing his

father, and he looked on them as friends. So when the man approached

and asked him what he had come to the ford for he answered him freely,

explaining all that had happened since they parted. Edwin ended his

account with the dismaying intelligence, "Mr. Ottley says there is no

food to be had--nothing to give the poor Maoris to eat--so we have come

to look if we can find any food among these ruins."

"No harm in that," returned the man quickly. "We are all on the same

errand."

These were Edwin's own words, and he smiled, not knowing anything of

Ottley's suspicion that the man was bent on plunder. The rabbiter

walked off, and they saw no more of him.

Ottley continued his examination of the premises. The house to the

river-side was not greatly damaged. If the roof were repaired, Mr.

Hirpington could inhabit it again, and clear away the mud from the

garden side at his leisure. But Ottley had no idea where his friend had

taken refuge. He could send him no warning to return and see after his

property. The window of the store-room looked to the river. As he went

round to examine it, he found the old ford-horse wading about in the

water, cropping at the weeds which grew on its margin. When Dunter let

him loose--for no power on earth could make him travel on land--he swam

down stream, and returned to his beloved ford, which he had crossed and

recrossed several times, for his own gratification. Ottley called him

out of the water, and led him round to share the hay with Beauty. He

was anxious about his own coach-horses, for whose benefit the store of

hay had been provided. They were gone. Probably Mr. Hirpington had

opened the stable-doors at the first shock of earthquake. The hay was

his own, and he told Edwin to tie up a bundle and take it away with him

for Beauty. He was glad to see the man had gone off quietly, and said

no more about him. He saw no occasion to put Edwin on his guard, as he

was going to take him back to his father directly. He had not much

faith in any boy's discretion, and he thought he might talk about the

man to Hal.

Ottley knew well, when there were so many abandoned homes and so many

homeless wanderers, what was sure to follow. "But," he said to himself,

"this state of things will not last many days; yet a lot of mischief may

be done, and how is the property to be protected? Life must stand

first. A good dog would guard the ruins, but Hirpington's must all have

followed their master."

He crawled into the hay-loft and pulled out a tarpaulin, which, with

Edwin's assistance, he spread over the broken roof, and fastened as

securely as he could, to keep out the weather and other depredators.

Then he cut away the lattice of the store-room window with his

pocket-knife, until he had cleared a space big enough for Edwin to slip

through.

"This feels like house-breaking," said the boy with a laugh, as his feet

found a resting-place on Mrs. Hirpington's chopping-block, and he drew

in his head and stood upright.

"Ah! but it is not," returned Ottley gravely. "All this is accommodation

provided for my 'coach,' and paid for. It will be all right between me

and Hirpington. If anybody talks of following in our steps, tell them

what I say. Now hand me up that cheese, and the ham on the opposite

shelf, and look if there is a round of beef in salt. There should be

bovril and tea and sugar somewhere. We may want those for your father.

Now for the flour!"

Edwin undid the window from the inside, but he could not lift a sack of

flour. He handed up a biscuit-tin, and pound after pound of coffee,

until Ottley began to think they had as much as they could carry away.

Like a careful housekeeper, Mrs. Hirpington kept the door of her

store-room locked, so they could not get through to the kitchen to find

the bacon. Where Mrs. Hirpington kept her bread was a puzzle. Then

Ottley remembered there was another pantry; but they could not get at

it. He discovered two great baskets in the loft, used in the

fruit-gathering. He slung them over Beauty's back, and filled them full.

Edwin got out of the window again, and shut it after him. Mrs.

Hirpington's pastry-board was converted into a temporary shutter. But

as all Ottley's fastenings had to be done on the outside, they could

also be undone if any one were so minded. Yet this consideration could

not weigh against the starving people by the lake. Ottley pulled the

hay still in the loft close up to the window, which they left open, so

that the old forder could help himself. Then they attempted once again

to cross the bush. Poor Beauty was terribly annoyed by his panniers. He

conceived the wild idea of rolling over on the ground, to get rid of

them. But Ottley promptly circumvented all such attempts. As for the

load of hay on his back, Beauty was decidedly of opinion the best way to

free himself from that was to eat it up. Edwin contented him with an

occasional handful, and much patting and coaxing to soothe his ruffled

temper.

It was the middle of the day before they reached Nga-Hepe's whare, which

the kindly band of excavators had so expeditiously unroofed. When their

work was over in that direction, they had dug into the mud heaps which

marked the site of the Rota Pah, and many a poor Maori had been lifted

into light and air.

Some of the inhabitants of the village had rushed out at the first

alarm, and had escaped in their canoes; others had taken refuge in

Nga-Hepe's strongly-built whare; but many had perished beneath their

falling roofs.

The captain and his mates had bent all their energies to the task. They

had shovelled away the mud from the council-hall, which was also,

according to Maori custom, the sleeping-room of the tribe. Here they

found men, women, and children huddled together, for the stronger beam

of its roof had not yet given way under the weight of the mud. They had

carried the survivors to the fire on the bank of the lake, and left them

in Whero's care, to await Ottley's return with the food. There was

nothing more that the captain and his companions could do here. But

other lives might yet be saved elsewhere; and they hurried back to the

help of the comrades they had abandoned when Ottley's message reached

them.

The natives, swathed in their mats and blankets, were lying in groups on

the frozen mud, still gasping and groaning, suffering as much from

terror as from physical exhaustion. But the rich men of the tribe, who

may always be known by some additional bit of European clothing, were

not among them.

The aged patriarch Kakiki, who had been among the first to rally, had

raised himself on his elbow, and was asking eager questions about them.

"Where is Pepepe? Hopo-Hopo where? Are there none to answer?" he

demanded, gazing at the dazed faces around him. "Then will I tell you.

They are struck by the gods in their anger. Who are the gods we

worship? who but the mighty ones of the tribe--men whose anger made the

brave tremble even here on earth. Who then can hope to stand against

their anger in the dwelling of the gods? Is not Hepe the terrible one

foremost among them? Did ye at all appease him when ye sent the tana to

a son of his race? See his vengeance on Pepepe! He lies dead in the

pah, he who proposed it. Who shall carry up his bones to the sacred

mountain, that he may sleep with his fathers? The gods will have none

of him, for has he not eaten up their child? Ye who brought hunger to

this whare, in this place has hunger found you. Ye left Nga-Hepe naught

but a roof to shelter him; he has naught but that shelter to give you

now. As the lightning shrivels up the fern, so shame shall shrivel up

the tongue which asks of him the food of which ye have robbed him."

He ceased speaking as Ottley came in sight. Whero was hidden among the

reeds, filling a pail he had exhumed with the muddy water from the lake.

Four or five of the other Maoris staggered to their feet and intercepted

the horse, clamouring and snatching at the food in its panniers. They

had eaten nothing since the night of the eruption. The supply Ottley

had brought looked meagre and poor amongst so many, and whilst he

promised every man a share, he steadily resisted all their attempts to

help themselves until he came up with the little cluster of women and

children cowering between the heaps of thatch, when a dozen hands were

quickly tearing out the contents of the baskets.

Old Konga seized a stick and tried to beat them off, while Marileha

stood behind her imploring her old friends to remember her famishing

babes.

Edwin was pushed down, but he scrambled up and ran to meet Whero, as

Kakiki Mahane rose slowly from the ground and laid a detaining hand upon

the horse's mane. "Who fights with starving men?" he exclaimed, and the

stick fell from Ronga's hand in mute obedience.

"What is the matter?" asked Whero, as the boys stood face to face.

"There is trouble in your eyes, my brother--a trouble I do not share."

"Ottley has promised to take me on to father; the time is flying, and he

cannot get away," said Edwin.

Whero's cheek was rubbed softly against his, a word was whispered

between them, and Whero went round to where his own father lay groaning

on the ground, leaving his pail behind him. "Father, father, rouse

yourself," he entreated, "or the men of the pah will tear the kind

coachman to pieces!"

Edwin caught up the pail and threw away the muddy water which Whero had

taken such pains to reach, but no vexation at the sight brought the

slightest cloud to his dusky face.

"Throw me that tin of coffee," shouted Edwin to the resolute Ottley, who

was dividing the food so that every one should have a share, according

to his promise.

The desired tin came flying through the air. Edwin emptied its contents

into his pail. "Whoever wants coffee," he cried, "must fill this at the

geyser."

Nga-Hepe lifted his head from the ground where he had been lying,

apparently taking no notice, and said something to his wife. She moved

slowly amidst the group until she reached her old friend the coachman.

"Go," she whispered. "The boiling spring is choked by the mud. The men

are scattering to find another. Go before they return. In their hearts

they love you not as we do. Go!"

He put the remainder of his stores into her hands, sprang upon Beauty,

and caught up Edwin behind him. They looked back to the old man and the

children, and waved their hands in farewell, taking nothing away with

them but the bovril and the tea in Edwin's pocket.

They rode on in silence until they felt themselves beyond the reach of

the excited crowd. Both were looking very grave when at last they

reached the tent where Mr. Lee was lying. The lowering skies betokened

a change of weather.

"Rain," said Ottley, looking upwards; "but rain may free us from this

plague of dust."

Hal, who had heard their steps approaching, came out to meet them.

Whilst he was speaking to Ottley, Edwin slipped off the horse and ran

into the tent. He found his father lying on the ground, apparently

asleep. He knelt down beside him and listened to his heavy breathing.

The dreamy eyes soon opened and fastened on his face.

"Don't you know me, father?" asked Edwin, taking the hand which hung

down nervelessly in both of his.

"Where are the little ones?" asked Mr. Lee.

"Safe by this time with Mr. Bowen's grandson, father," answered Edwin.

But the reply was hardly spoken when the dreamy eyelids closed, and Mr.

Lee was fast asleep again.

Edwin looked out of the door of the tent, where the men were still

talking.

"If it had not been for those surveying fellows," Hal was saying, "who

hurried up from the south with their camp, what should I have done?

They lent me this tent and gave me some bread."

"Where are they?" asked Edwin, glancing round. "I want to thank them

all."

"Why, lad," exclaimed Hal, "they are miles away from here now. They say

the mud has fallen from Taheka to Wairoa. Not your little bit of a

place, but a big village. We've lots of Wairoas; it is a regular Maori

name."

"Yes," added Ottley, "they have gone on; for the mud has fallen heavy

for ten miles round the mountain--some declare it is a hundred feet deep

at Te Ariki--and there may be other lives to save even now."

"Ah, but you have done a bad day's work, I fear," persisted the old

rabbiter. "You have brought back to life a dangerous neighbour; which

may make it hardly safe for us to stay where we are. His people will

follow the horse's tracks, and come and eat up all my little hoard; and

how can an old man like me defend himself? They would soon knock me

over, and what would become of poor Lee? He will sleep himself right if

we can let him lie still where he is; but if these Maoris come

clamouring round us, it will be all over with him."

Edwin grew so white as he overheard this, Ottley urged him to go back to

his father and rest whilst they lit a fire and prepared the tea.

He gave Beauty his feed of hay, and gathering up the remainder he took

it in with him, to try to make his father a better bed than the old rug

on which he was lying.

It would be a bad day's work indeed if it were to end as Hal predicted.

He trembled as he slipped the hay beneath his father's head, wondering

to find him sleeping undisturbed in the midst of such calamities as

these. "If he could only speak to me!" he groaned.

He had found at last one quiet Sunday hour, but how could he have knelt

down to pray that night if he had refused to help Whero? His fears were

for his father, but he laid them down. Had he to live this day over

again to-morrow he would do the same. His heart was at rest once more,

and he fell asleep.

He was wakened by Hal and Ottley coming inside the tent. It was raining

steadily. There was no such thing as keeping a fire alight in the open.

The tea had been hastily brewed. It was none the better for that; but

such as it was, they were thankful for it. They roused up Edwin to have

his share. It was so dark now he could scarcely see the hand which held

the cup. Hal spread the one or two remaining wraps he had, and prepared

for the night. They all lay down for a few hours' sleep. Edwin was the

nearest to his father.

The two men were soon snoring, but Edwin was broad awake. Mr. Lee moved

uneasily, and threw aside the blanket which covered him. Edwin bent

over him in a moment.

"Is there anything I can do for you, father?" he said.

Mr. Lee was feeling about in the blanket. "Where is my belt?" he asked.

Edwin did not say a word to rouse the other sleepers; but although it

was perfectly dark, he soon satisfied himself the belt was gone.

It was a wash-leather belt, in which Mr. Lee had quilted his money for

safety. Edwin knew it well. He realized in a moment what a loss it

would be to his father if this were missing. Hal had set Mr. Lee's leg

with splints of bark; whilst he was doing this he might have taken off

the belt. Perhaps it would be found in a corner of the tent when it was

light. Edwin felt he must mind what he said about it to Hal, who was

taking such care of his father. He saw that more clearly than anything

else.

No; he would only tell Ottley, and with this decision he too fell

asleep.

He was so tired out, so worn, so weary, that he slept long and heavily.

When he roused it was broad daylight, and Ottley, whose time was up, had

departed. Hal had made a fire, and was preparing a breakfast of tea. He

agreed to save the bovril Edwin had brought for his father alone.

They made a hole in the floor of the tent, not deep enough to break the

crust of the mud, and lined it with bark. Here they kept the little

jar, for fear any of the Maoris should see it, if they came across to

beg for food.

Whilst the two were drinking their tea and watching the lowering clouds,

which betokened more rain, the other rabbiter whom Ottley had surprised

in the ford-house strolled out from among the leafless trees and invited

himself to a share. Edwin and Hal, who knew he needed it as much as

they did, felt it would indeed be selfish to refuse him a breakfast.

As they sat round the fire Hal took counsel with his mate, and talked

over the difficulties of their position.

Ottley had promised to try to send them help to remove Mr. Lee to a

safer place. But Hal, who was expecting one of those torrents of rain

which mark a New Zealand winter, feared they might be washed away before

that help arrived.

Lawford--as he called his mate--was of the same opinion, and offered, if

Edwin would accompany him, to go across to the ford-house and see if the

Hirpingtons had returned.

This seemed the most hopeful thought of all, and Edwin brightened as he

ran off to catch Beauty.

He had left his father comfortably pillowed in the hay, which he had

made to serve a double purpose, but he was now obliged to pull a bit

away for the horse's breakfast.

As he started with Lawford, Hal called after them to be sure to wrench

off a shutter or a loose bit of board. They must bring back something

on which poor Mr. Lee could be laid, to move him.

Beauty trotted off briskly. After a while Lawford looked over his

shoulder at Edwin, who was riding behind him, and said shortly, "Now we

are safe, I have something to tell you."

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*RAIN AND FLOOD.*

Edwin felt a cold shiver run over him as Lawford made this announcement.

"Something to tell me!" he exclaimed. "Oh, please speak out!"

"Do you see those spades?" replied Lawford, halting beside a tree,

against which two spades were leaning. "Whero has sent them to you. He

wants you to show me where he buried that bag of treasure. I am to dig

it up and take it to Nga-Hepe. He means to use it now to buy food for

the people about him. You know the place: it is between the two white

pines by the roadside. As soon as Nga-Hepe has got his money, he will

row down the river in his canoe and bring it back with a load of bacon

and flour, and whatever he can get in the nearest township."

This seemed so natural to Edwin he never doubted it was true. There

were the spades, just like the two he had seen in the whare.

"Oh yes," he answered, "I can find the place. I saw the trees only

yesterday."

"Nga-Hepe sent you a charge," added Lawford, "to mind and keep a still

tongue; for if it gets air whilst he's gone for the food, there will be

such a crowd waiting for the return of the canoe, it would be eaten up

at a single meal, and his own children would be starving again."

"I shall not speak," retorted Edwin. "Nga-Hepe may safely trust me."

They reached the road at last, and made their way along it as before,

until they came to the two tall tapering trunks--not quite so easily

identified now they had lost their foliage.

"This is the spot!" cried Edwin, slipping off the horse, and receiving a

descent of mud upon his shoulders as he struck the dirt-laden tree.

Lawford gave him the spades he was carrying, and got down. They tied

Beauty at a safe distance, and set to work. It was comparatively easy

digging through the crust, but when they reached the soft mud beneath

it, as soon as they cleared a hole it filled again.

Their task seemed endless. "I don't believe we can get at the money,"

said Edwin, in despair. "I must go on and see if Mr. Hirpington has

returned, for I want to get back to father."

"All right," answered Lawford. "Leave me at the work. A boy like you

soon tires. Take your horse and ride down to the ford; but mind you do

not say anything about me."

"You need not fear that," repeated Edwin, as he extricated himself from

the slime-pit they had opened, and mounted Beauty. It was not very far

to the ford, but he found it as he had left it--desolate and deserted.

No one had been near it since yesterday, when he visited it with Ottley.

The good old forder neighed a welcome, and came trotting up from the

river-bank to greet him. He pulled out more hay to feed both horses,

and whilst they were eating he examined the house.

The river was swollen with last night's rain. It had risen to the top

of the boating-stairs. Once more the house was standing in a muddy

swamp, from which the tall fuchsia trees looked down disconsolate on the

buried garden. It was past anybody's power to get at the store-room

window. In short, the river had taken possession, and would effectually

keep out all other intruders.

Edwin chose himself a seat among the ruins, and turned out his pockets

in quest of a little bit of pipe-clay which once found a lodging amongst

their heterogeneous contents. He wrote with the remaining corner, which

he was happy enough to find had not yet crumbled to dust, "Lee, senior,

waiting by lake, badly hurt, wants food and help."

He had fixed upon the shutter of the hay-loft window for his tablet, and

made his letters bold and big enough to strike the eye at a considerable

distance. He tried to make them look as if some man had written them,

thinking they would command more attention. Then he hunted about for

the piece of loose board Hal had charged them to bring back.

Edwin wrenched it off from the front of the hayloft, and discovered a

heap of mangel-wurzel in the corner. He snatched up one and began to

eat it, as if he were a sheep, and then wondered if he had done right.

But he felt sure Ottley would say yes.

He balanced the board on his head, but found it impossible to mount

Beauty, and equally difficult to make him follow a master with head-gear

of such an extraordinary size. So he had to drive Beauty on before him,

and when he reached the white pines Lawford was gone.

"He ought to have waited for me," thought Edwin, indignantly. "How can

I get across the bush with this board? The men care nothing about me;

they drive me along or they leave me behind to follow as I can, just as

it happens. It is too bad, a great deal too bad!"

Beauty heard the despairing tone, and turning softly round, tilted the

board backwards in spite of Edwin's efforts to stop him.

There was no such thing as getting it into position again. All Edwin

could do was to mark the spot and leave it lying on the ground. Then he

jumped on Beauty and trotted off to the tent, for the rain which Hal had

predicted was beginning fast. The sodden canvas flapped heavily in the

storm-wind. The tent-poles were loosened in the softened mud, and

seemed ready to fall with every gust, as Edwin rode up disheartened and

weary, expecting to find Lawford had arrived before him. No such thing.

Hal was worn out with waiting, and was very cross.

It is only the few who can stand through such days of repeated disaster

with patience and temper unexhausted. There has been some schooling in

adversity before men attain to that. Edwin was taking his lesson early

in life, but he had not learned it yet.

Hal would have it Edwin had lost himself, and called him a young fool

for not sticking close to his companion, who was no doubt looking for

him.

He started off in high dudgeon to "coo" for Lawford, and bring on the

board Edwin had left by the way.

Father and son were alone. The rain pouring through the tent seemed to

rouse Mr. Lee to consciousness.

"I am hurt, Edwin," he said; "yet not so much as they think. But is

there not any place of shelter near we can crawl into? This rain will

do me more harm than the fall of the tree. If this state of things

continues, we shall be washed away into the mud."

Edwin's heart was aching sorely when Hal returned with the board. Mr.

Lee looked up with eyes which told them plainly the clouded

understanding was regaining its power.

The old man saw it with pleasure, He knew even better than Mr. Lee that

the steady rain was changing the mud to swamp. They must lose no time

in getting away, at least to firmer ground.

He was looking about him for the nearest hill. He had made his plan; but

he wanted Lawford's help to carry it out.

"He will come back soon," said Edwin confidently, feeling pretty sure

Lawford had gone across to the lake to give Nga-Hepe his bag.

Hal was more puzzled than ever at his mate's disappearance, and again he

wanted to know why the two had parted company. Edwin was so downhearted

about his father, and so badgered by Hal's questionings and upbraidings,

he knew not what to say or do.

Hal wrapped Mr. Lee in the blanket, and with Edwin's assistance laid him

on the board. It was a little less wet than the sodden ground. He

bound him to it with the cord which had tied up Beauty's hay.

"There," he said, as he pulled the last knot tight, "we can lift you now

without upsetting my splints. They are but a bungling affair, master;

but bad is the best with us."

Try as Edwin would he was not strong enough to lift the board from the

ground. The old man saw it too, and pushed him aside impatiently.

"See what you have brought on us all," he said, or rather muttered.

"I could not help it," repeated Edwin bitterly; "but I don't mind

anything you say to me, Hal, for you have stuck by father and cared for

him, when he would have died but for you. Don't despair; I'll go and

look for Lawford."

"You!" returned Hal contemptuously; "you'll lose yourself."

But Edwin, who thought he could guess where Lawford was to be found,

could not be turned from his purpose.

"Can't I cross the bush once more, for father's sake," he asked, "whilst

I have got my horse?" He called up Beauty and told him to go home. Edwin

found the whare by the lake deserted. After his abrupt departure with

Ottley, Nga-Hepe had roused himself to assist his father-in-law in

making an equal distribution of the food; and then they gathered the men

around the fire and held a council.

With two such leaders as Nga-Hepe and Kakiki, they reached the wise

decision to seek a safer place beyond the anger of the gods, and build a

temporary kainga, or unwalled village, where food was to be obtained,

where the fern still curled above the ground, and the water gushed pure

from the spring. The men of the pah yielded as they listened to the

eloquent words of the aged chief; and though they passed the night in

speechifying until the malcontents were overawed, the morning found them

hard at work digging out their canoes.

As Edwin approached the lake he saw the little fleet cautiously steering

its way through the mud-shoals and boulders towards the river.

The wind was moaning through the trees, and the unroofed whare was

filling with the rains.

While Edwin surveyed the desolate scene, he perceived a small canoe

coming swiftly towards his side of the lake. He watched it run aground

amongst the bent and broken reeds, swaying hither and thither in the

stormy wind. Suddenly he observed a small, slight figure wading

knee-deep through the sticky slime. It was coming towards him.

A bird flew off from its shoulder, and the never-to-be-forgotten sound

of "Hoke" rang through the air.

"Whero, Whero!" shouted Edwin joyfully; and turning Beauty's head he

went to meet him.

But Whero waved him back imperiously; for he knew the horse could find

no foothold in the quagmire he was crossing. He was leaping now like a

frog, as Edwin averred; but there are no frogs in New Zealand, so Whero

could not understand the allusion as Edwin held out his hand to help him

on. Then the kaka, shaking the water from his dripping wings, flew

towards Edwin and settled on his wrist with a joyous cry of recognition.

"Take him," gasped Whero; "keep him as you have kept my Beauty. The

ungrateful pigs were to kill him--to kill and eat my precious redbreast;

but he soared into the air at my call, and they could not catch him."

Edwin's boyish sympathies were all ablaze for his outraged friend. "Is

that their Maori gratitude," he exclaimed, "when it was your kaka which

guided me to the spot?"

"When I told them so," sobbed Whero, "they laughed, and said, 'We will

stick his feathers in our hair by way of remembrance.' They shall not

have him or his feathers. They shall eat me first. I will take him

back to the hill which no man cares to climb. I will live with dead

men's bones and despise their tapu; but no man shall eat my kaka."

During the outpouring of Whero's wrath, Edwin had small chance of

getting an answer to his anxious question. "Are not those your people

rowing across the lake? Is Lawford with them? Did he bring the bag to

your father all right?"

Whero looked at him incredulously. Edwin waved his hand, and the Maori

boy leaped up for once behind him. He took the kaka from Edwin's wrist

and hugged it fondly whilst he listened to his explanations about

Lawford.

"It was I," interposed Whero, "who was staying behind to dig up the bag

by the white pines. Did my father think I would not go when I ran off

to call away my kaka? Where could he meet this pakeha and I not know,

that he should trust him to look for his hoard? as if any one beside me

or my mother could find it. Kito!" (lies.)

But the pelting rain cut short his wonder, as Edwin urged everything

else must give way to the pressing necessity of finding some better

shelter for Mr. Lee. It was useless to look for Lawford any longer.

"You will help me, Whero?" entreated Edwin earnestly, as they turned the

horse's head towards the small brown tent. It was lying flat, blown

down by the wind in their absence. Hal had folded up the canvas, and

was pacing up and down in a very dismal fashion.

"Father," said Edwin, springing to the ground, "I can't find Lawford;

but this Maori boy was going to a sheltered place high up in the hills.

Will you let us carry you there?"

"Anywhere, anywhere, out of this pond," replied Mr. Lee.

"Have at it then!" cried Whero, seizing hold of the board; but Hal

called out to them to stay a bit. By his direction they lifted Mr. Lee

on his board and laid it along the stout canvas. Hal tied up the ends

with the tent ropes, so that they could carry Mr. Lee between them,

slung, as it were, in a hammock. Hal supported his head, and the two

boys his feet.

It was a slow progression. Whero led them round to another part of the

hill, where an ancient fissure in its rugged side offered a more gradual

ascent. It was a stairway of nature's making, between two walls of

rock. Stones were lying about the foot, looking as if they might have

been hurled from above on the head of some reckless invader in the old

days of tribal violence.

Edwin had well named it an ogre's castle. It was a mountain fastness in

every sense, abandoned and decayed. As they gained the summit, Edwin

could see how the hand of man had added to its natural strength. Piles

of stones still guarded the stairway from above, narrowing it until two

could scarcely walk abreast, and they lay there still, a ready heap of

ammunition, piled by the warrior hands sleeping in Tarawera.

Whero sent his kaka on before him. "See," he exclaimed to Edwin, "the

bird flies fearless over the blighted ground, and you came back to me

unharmed. I will conquer terror by your side, and take possession of my

own. Who should live upon the hill of Hepe but his heir! Am I not lord

and first-born? Count off the moons quickly when I shall carry the

greenstone club, and make the name of Hepe famous among the tribes, as

my mother said. This shall be my home, and my kaka shall live in it."

They were trampling through the dry brown fern on the hill-top, and here

Whero would willingly have bivouacked. But Hal, who knew nothing of the

traditionary horrors which clung to the spot, pushed on to the shelter

within the colonnade. No tent was needed here. They laid their

helpless burden on the ground and stretched their cramped arms. Whero's

tall talk brought an odd twinkle of amusement into the corner of Hal's

gray eye as he glanced around him humorously. "It is my lord baron, as

we say in England, then," he answered, with a nod to Whero: "but it

looks like my barren lord up here." Whero did not understand the old

man's little joke, and Edwin busied himself with his father.

Whero descended the hill again and fetched up Beauty, who was as expert

a climber as his former owner, and neighed with delight when he found

himself once more amid the rustling fern. Dry and withered as Edwin had

thought it, to Beauty it was associated with all the joys of early days,

when he trotted a graceful foal by his mother's side. Like Whero, he

was in his native element.

The proud boy rolled a big stone across the end of the path by which

they had climbed up, and then feeling himself secure, began to execute a

kind of war-dance.

"Stop your antics," said Hal, cowering against the gigantic trunk which

was sheltering Mr. Lee from the keen winds, "and tell us what that

means." He pointed to a huge white thing towering high above his head,

with open beak and outstretched claw--a giant, wingless bird, its dry

bones rattling with every gust.

"It is a skeleton," said Edwin, walking nearer to it to take off the

creepy feeling it awakened.

"It is a moa," said Whero, continuing his dance--"the big old bird which

used to build among these hills until my forefathers ate him up. They

had little to eat but the fern, the shark, and the moa, until the pakeha

came with his pigs and his sheep. There may be one alive in the heights

of Mount Cook, but we often find their skeletons in desolate places."

Then Whero went up close to the quivering bones, and cried out with

exultation when he discovered the hole in its breast through which the

spear of the Hepe had transfixed this ancient denizen of his fortress.

"It is an unked place," muttered Hal, "but dry to the feet."

He lit his pipe, and settled himself on the roots of the tree for a

smoke and a sleep. He had been existing for so many days in the midst

of the stifling clouds of volcanic dust and the choking vapours from the

ground, through which chloride of iron gas was constantly escaping for a

space of fifty-six miles, that the purer air to which they had ascended

seemed like life, and robbed the place of its habitual gloom.

Even Whero, with the Maori's reverential horror of a dead man's bones,

coiled himself to sleep in the rustling fern by Beauty's side, his dream

of future greatness undisturbed by the rattling bones of the moa, and

the still more startling debris which whitened amidst the gnarled and

twisted roots.

But it was not so with Edwin. He sat beside his father, feeding him

with the undiluted bovril--for water failed them on the rocky

height--and wondering how long the slender store would last. He refused

himself the smallest taste, and bore his hunger without complaint,

hiding the little jar with scrupulous care, for fear Whero should find

it and be tempted to eat up the remainder of its contents. So he kept

his silent vigil. The storm-clouds cleared, and the grandeur of the

view upon which he gazed banished every other thought. He could look

down upon the veil of mist which had hidden the sacred mountains, and

Tarawera rose before him in all its grandeur. He saw the awful rent

which had opened in the side of the central peak, and from which huge

columns of smoke and steam were fitfully ascending. He watched the

leaping tongues of flame dart up like rockets to the midnight sky, once

more ablaze with starshine, and a feeling to which he could give no

expression seemed to lift him beyond the present,--"Man does not live by

bread alone."

*CHAPTER XV.*

*WHO HAS BEEN HERE?*

"Edwin," said Mr. Lee, when he saw his son shivering beside him in the

gray of the wintry morning, "what is the matter with you? Have you had

enough to eat?"

"Not quite. Well, you see, father, we have to do as we can," smiled

Edwin, in reply.

"Certainly; but where on earth have we got to?" resumed the sick man, as

he glanced upwards at the interlacing boughs.

"We are high up in the hills, father, in one of the old Maori

fastnesses, where the mud and the flood cannot reach us," answered

Edwin.

"And the children?" asked Mr. Lee.

"Are all safe by the sea," was the quick reply.

Mr. Lee's ejaculations of thankfulness were an unspeakable comfort to

Edwin.

"Did not I hear the splash of oars last night?" asked his father.

"You might when Whero came. He guided us here," said Edwin.

"Then," resumed his father, "try to persuade this Maori to row you in

his canoe down the river until you come to an English farm. The

colonists are all so neighbourly and kind, they will sell or lend or

give you what we want most. Make the Maori bring you back. You must

pay him well; these Maoris will do nothing without good pay. Remember

that; but there is plenty in the belt." Mr. Lee ceased speaking. He was

almost lost again, and Edwin dare not remind him that the belt was gone.

But Edwin knew if Whero would do it at all, he would not want to be

paid.

"With this leg," sighed Mr. Lee slowly and dreamily,

"I--am--a--fixture."

Sleep was stealing over him, and Edwin did not venture to reply.

A sympathetic drowsiness was visiting him also, but he was roused out of

it by seeing Hal busily engaged in trying to capture the kaka.

"It is a good, fat bird," whispered the old man; "they are first-rate

eating in a pie. We can cook him as we did the duck I found; put him in

the boiling mud as the natives do!"

Up sprang Edwin to the rescue. "No, Hal, no; you must not touch that

bird!"

He caught the old man's arm, and scared the kaka off. The frightened

bird soared upwards, and concealed itself in the overarching boughs.

Whero was awakened by its screams, and got up, shaking the dry moss from

his tangled shock of hair, and laughing.

Edwin called off attention from the kaka by detailing his father's plan.

The breakfastless trio were of one mind. It must be tried, as it

offered the surest hope of relief. The river was so much safer than the

road. Ottley might never have it in his power to send the promised

help. Some danger might have overwhelmed him also. What was the use of

waiting for the growing of the grass, if a readier way presented itself?

Hal spread out the canvas of the tent to dry, and talked of putting it

up in the new location. Legs and arms were wonderfully stiff from

keeping on wet clothes. But the most pressing want was water. Dry

ground and pure air were essential, but thirst was intolerable. They

took the cup by turns and went down to a spring which Whero pointed out.

Beauty had found for himself a little pond, which nature had scooped

out, and the recent rains had filled with greenish water which he did

not despise.

Whilst Hal was away, Edwin intimated to Whero that it was not very safe

to leave his kaka with him; for he feared the bird would be killed and

eaten as soon as they were gone, although he did not say so to his Maori

friend.

Whero's eyes were ablaze with rage in a moment. "Let him touch it!" he

snorted rather than hissed. "I'll meet him. If it's here on the hill,

I'll hurl him over that precipice. If--if--" Edwin's eye was fastened

on the boy with a steady gaze. Whero raised his clinched hand, as if to

strike. "Tell him," he went on--"tell him in our country here the mud

is ever boiling to destroy the Maori's foes. I'll push him down the

first jet we pass." He looked around him proudly, and kicked away the

skull beneath his foot, as if to remind his listener how in that very

spot the threats in which he had been indulging found plenty of

precedent.

Edwin exerted all his self-command. He would not suffer one angry or

one fearful word to pass his lips, although both anger and fear were

rising in his heart. But the effort to keep himself as cool and quiet

as he could was rewarded. Whero saw that he was not afraid; and the

uncontrollable passion of the young savage expended itself in vain

denunciations.

Edwin knew how the Maoris among themselves despise an outburst of

passion, and he tried to shame Whero, saying, "Is that the way your

warriors talk at their councils? Ours are grave, and reason with each

other, until they find out the wisest course to take. That is what I

want to do as soon as we have caught the kaka."

The catching of the macaw proved a safety-valve; and Whero went down to

the lake to get the canoe ready, with the bird on his wrist.

Edwin ran back to beg Hal to return to his father, as he and Whero were

hurrying off to the lake. He had saved a dangerous quarrel, but it left

him very grave. He was more and more afraid of what Whero might do in a

moment of rage. "Oh, I am excessively glad, I am thankful," he thought,

"that I was not forced to leave him alone with Effie and Cuthbert!" It

was well that Whero was rowing, for the exertion seemed to calm him.

Edwin escaped from the difficulty of renewing their conversation by

beginning to sing, and Whero, with all the Maori love of music, was

easily lured to listen as "Merry may the keel row" echoed from bank to

bank, and the splash of his paddle timed itself to the words of the

song.

Edwin assured him he was singing to keep the kaka quiet, which had

nestled on his folded arms, and was looking up in his face with evident

enjoyment. As they paddled on the old ford-horse stepped out into the

water to hear him, so they stopped the canoe and went ashore to pull him

out his hay. He followed them for nearly half-a-mile, and they lost

sight of him at last as they rounded the bend in the river. He was

fording his way across the huge bed of shingle, over which the yellow,

rattling, foaming torrent wandered at will. The tiny canoe shot

forward, borne along without an effort by the force of the stream. With

difficulty they turned its head to zigzag round a mighty boulder, hurled

from its mountain home by the recent convulsions.

Even now as the river came tearing down from the heights above, it was

bringing with it tons upon tons of silt and shingle and gravel. The

roar of these stones, as they rolled over each other and crashed and

dashed in the bed of the flood, was louder than the angry surges on the

tempestuous shore when Edwin saw the coaster going down. The swift

eddies and undertows thus created made rowing doubly dangerous, and

called forth Whero's utmost skill.

But the signs of desolation on the river-banks were growing fainter.

Between the blackened tracts where the lightning had fired the fern

broken and storm-bent trees still lifted their leafless boughs, and

shook the blue dust which weighed them down into the eyes of the

travellers.

Here and there a few wild mountain sheep, which had strayed through the

broken fences of the run, were feeding up-wind to keep scent of danger.

But other sign of life there was none, until they sighted an

English-built boat painfully toiling along against the force of the

current. They hailed it with a shout, and Edwin's heart leaped with joy

as he distinguished Mr. Hirpington's well-known tones in the heartiness

of the reply. "Well met, boys. Come with us."

They were soon alongside, comparing notes and answering inquiries.

Dunter, who plied the other oar, nodded significantly to Edwin. He had

encountered Ottley, and received his warning as to the depredations

likely to ensue if the ford-house were left to itself much longer. He

had started off to find the governor.

The good old forder was still scraping amongst the shingle, and when he

saw his master in the boat, he came plunging through the water to meet

him with such vehemence he almost caused an upset. But the stairs were

close at hand, and as Mr. Hirpington often declared, he and his old

horse had long ago turned amphibious. They came out of the water side

by side, shaking themselves like Newfoundland dogs. It was marvellous

to Mr. Hirpington to discover that his old favourite had taken no harm.

"He is a knowing old brute," said Dunter. But when they saw the writing

on the shutter, they knew where he had found a friend. The pipe-clay

was smeared by the rain, but the little that was legible "gave me a

prick," said Mr. Hirpington, "I cannot well stand."

A great deal of the mud had been washed on to Ottley's tarpaulin, which

had been pushed aside by the fury of the storm, as Mr. Hirpington was

inclined to think. But there were footprints on the bank of mud jamming

up doors and windows--recent footprints, impressed upon it since the

storm. Dunter could trace them over the broken roof. They were not

Edwin's. Dunter pointed to the impression just left by his boot as the

boy climbed up to them. That was conclusive.

"If it were any poor fellow in search of food under circumstances like

these, I would not say a word," remarked Mr. Hirpington.

Dunter found a firmer footing for himself, and getting hold of the edge

of the sheet of iron, he forced it up, and with his master's help

dislodged a half-ton weight of mud, which went down into the river with

a mighty splash. To escape from the shower-bath, which deluged both

them and the roof, the three jumped down into the great farm kitchen.

There all was slime, and a sulphurous stench vitiated the atmosphere.

"We can't breathe here," said Mr. Hirpington, seizing Edwin's arm and

mounting him on the dining-table.

The muddy slush into which they had plunged was almost level with its

top. The door into the bedroom was wrenched off, and lodged against it,

forming a kind of bridge over the mud. But there was one thing which

the earthquake, the mud, and the storm could never have effected. They

could not have filled the sacks lying on the other end of the long

tables. That could only have been done by human hands.

They were all three on the table now. Mr. Hirpington untied the nearest

sack, and pushed his arm inside.

"Some of our good Christchurch blankets and my best coat," he muttered.

"I have no need to make them in a worse state with my muddy hands.

Leave them where they are for the present," he continued, turning to

Dunter, who began to empty out the contents of the other sacks.

Mr. Hirpington looked about for his gun. It was in its old place, lying

across the boar's tusks, fixed like pegs against the opposite wall. It

was double-barrelled, and he knew he had left it loaded for the night as

usual.

"You must get that down, Dunter," he said, "and mount guard here, whilst

I take young Lee back to his father. That must be the first concern.

When I return we must set to work in earnest--bail out this slush, mend

the roof over the bedroom to the river, where it is least damaged, and

live in it whilst we clear the rest. Light and air are to be had there

still, for the windows on that side are clear. More's the pity we did

not stay there. But when that awful explosion came, my wife and I

rushed into the kitchen, and so did most of the men. I was tugging at

the outer door, which would not open, and 'cooing' with all my might,

when the crash came, and I knew no more until I found myself in the

boat."

"I was a prisoner in my little den," put in Dunter; "and I kept up the

'coo' till Mr. Lee came, for I could not open door or window though I

heard your groans."

"Yes, Lee must be our first care. We owe our lives to him alone;

understand that, all of you. He had us out before anybody else

arrived," Mr. Hirpington went on, as he heaved up the fallen door and

made a bridge with it from the table to the back of the substantial

sofa, over which his gun was lying. From such a mount he could reach it

easily. Was there anything else they required? He looked around him.

Dunter had got possession of a boat-hook, and was fishing among the

kettles and saucepans under the dresser. The bacon, which had been

drying on the rack laid across the beams of the unceiled roof, had all

gone down into the mud; but the solid beams themselves had not given

way, only the ties were dislodged and broken, with the iron covering.

All the crockery on the shelves of course was smashed. A flying dish

had struck Mrs. Hirpington on the head and laid her senseless before the

rain of mud began. But her husband had more to do now than to recount

the how and the why of their disaster.

He was hastily gathering together such things within reach as might be

most needed by the sufferer on the hills. A kettle and a pan and a big

cooking-spoon, which Dunter had fished out, were tied up in the

Christchurch blanket dislodged from the sack, and slung across Mr.

Hirpington's shoulder. Dunter made his way into the bedroom, and pulled

out a couple of pillows. Here, he asserted, some one must have been

before him; for muddy footsteps had left their mark on the top of the

chest of drawers and across the bed-quilt, and no mud had entered there

ere the Hirpingtons fled. Yet muddy fingers had left their impress high

up on wardrobe-doors and on window-curtains, which had been drawn back

to admit the light. Over this room the roof had not given way. The

inference was clear--some one had entered it.

Mr. Hirpington glanced up from the bundle he was tying, and spoke aside

to Edwin: "You knew the man Ottley surprised in the house?"

"Yes," answered Edwin; "he was one of the rabbiters. I thought he was

looking for food, as we were. Mr. Ottley did not say anything to me

about his suspicions. Somebody else may have got in since then, Mr.

Hirpington."

"Certainly, certainly," was the answer, and the three emerged again into

daylight.

As they stood upon the roof shaking and scraping the mud from each

other, Edwin looked round for Whero.

"Whoever filled these sacks," observed Mr. Hirpington, when he was alone

with Dunter, "means to come back and fetch them. Be on the watch, for I

must leave you here alone."

Dunter was no stranger to the Maori boy, and invited him to share in the

good things he was unloading from the boat, thinking to secure himself a

companion. Whilst he was talking of pork-pies and cheese, Edwin

suggested the loan of a spade and a pail.

"A' right!" exclaimed Whero, with a nod of intelligence; "I'll have

both."

"Ay, take all," laughed Edwin, as he ran down the boating-stairs after

Mr. Hirpington, who was impatient to be off. Whero followed his friend

to the water's edge to rub noses ere they parted. The grimaces with

which Edwin received this final token of affection left Dunter shaking

with laughter.

"I go to dig by the white pines," said Whero.

"But you will come back to the hill of Hepe. We shall have food enough

for us all," returned Edwin, pointing to the boat in which Mr.

Hirpington was already seated.

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*LOSS AND SUSPICION.*

The great hole which Lawford had made in the mud was not yet filled up.

He had walled the sides with broken branches, damming up the mud behind

him as he dug his way to the roots of the white pines.

Of course the mud was slowly oozing through these defences, and might

soon swallow them up. But Whero felt he was just in time. He dipped

out a pail or two from the bottom, and felt about for the original hole

in which he had hidden the bag. His foot went into the hole unawares.

He was not long in satisfying himself that the treasure was gone. It

was too heavy to float away. However great the depth of mud might be

above, it should still be in the hole where he had hidden it. He had

covered it over with bark. The bark was there, but the bag was gone.

He went back to the ford. Dunter was at work dipping out the slime from

the farm-house kitchen. The boy did not wait to speak to him, but pushed

off his canoe and paddled away down the river to find his mother.

Dunter had promised to take care of his kaka during his absence. Well,

if that were prolonged, he would take care of it all the same, so Whero

reasoned, as he was carried along by the rapid current.

He was watching for the first sign of the Maori encampment, which he

knew he should find beyond the vast tract which had been desolated by

the rain of mud. The canoe shot onward, until the first leaf became

visible on the evergreens, and the fish were once more leaping in the

water. The terraced banks of the river were broken here and there with

deep gulches and sunken canyons. It was in one of these retreats that

he was expecting to find the Maori tents.

The river was rushing deep and swift as before, but its margin was now

studded with reeds and ti trees. The crimson heads of the great

water-hens were poking out of their midst to stare at him, and flocks of

ducks rose noisily from their reedy beds.

Whero began to sing one of the wild and plaintive native melodies. But

his voice was almost drowned by the roar of the whirling stones, and his

passage was continually impeded by the masses of drift-wood--great arms

of trees, and uprooted trunks--striking against the boulders and

threatening him with an upset.

Yet he still sang on, until a low, sweet echo answered him from the

bank, and he saw his mother gathering fern by the water's edge.

The canoe was quickly run aground, and he leaped ashore to join her.

Then he saw that his grandfather Kakiki Mahane was sitting on a stone

not far off. Whero walked up a little ashamed of his behaviour; but for

him Marileha had no reproaches, for he was the bitter-sweet which

changed her joy to pain and her pain to joy continually.

She hailed his return, for her heart was aching for her baby, which

could not survive their terrible entombment. She pointed to the bend in

the ravine, where one or two small whares had been hastily built. Two

uprights in the ground, with a pole across, had been walled with mats,

roughly and quickly woven from flax-leaf and bulrush. Every Maori had

been hard at work, and work could get them all they wanted here, except

the hot stone and the geyser-bath.

With her own hands Marileha had cooked them what she called a good

square dinner.

But the ideal life of the Maori is one of perfect laziness, and as a

Maori lady Marileha had enjoyed this from her birth. Her old father was

trying to comfort her. She should go back with him to her own people.

She should not stay where the fish had to be caught, and the wild duck

snared, and the wild pig hunted, and then brought to her to kindle a

fire to cook them, when he was a rich man, who could live like his

kinsmen at Hawke's Bay, hire a grand house of the pakeha, and pay white

servants to do everything for them.

The prospect was an alluring one, but Marileha did not believe anything

would induce Nga-Hepe to abandon his native hills even for a season.

"Have I not sat in the councils of the pakeha?" argued Kakiki. "Do I

not see our people giving place to theirs? The very rat they have

brought over seas drives away our kiore [the native rat], and we see him

no more. Have I not ever said, Let your young lord and first-born go

amongst them, that he may learn their secret and hold his own in manhood

against them?"

"I have learned it," put in Whero: "it is 'work.' Was it for this,

mother, you sent a pakeha to dig up the bag we buried by the white

pines?"

Marileha hushed her son as she glanced nervously around, for none of her

Maori companions must know of the existence of that bag.

"Foolish boy," she said softly, "what pakeha had we to send? The bag is

safe where we hid it; no one but you or I could find it."

"Then it is stolen," exclaimed Whero, "for the bag is gone."

They questioned him closely. How had he discovered that the bag was

gone? As they walked away to find Nga-Hepe, the old patriarch laid his

hand on his daughter's arm, remarking in a low aside. which was not

intended for Whero's ear, as he did not wish to excite his

indignation,--

"It is the farmer's son who has had it; no one else knew of it. Our own

people cannot help in this matter; we must go to the pakeha chiefs."

In the meantime, whilst Whero was disclosing the loss of the buried

treasure, Edwin was marching over the waste by Mr. Hirpington's side.

The heavy load they had to carry when they left the boat made them very

slow; but on they toiled to the foot of the hill, when Mr. Hirpington's

ready "coo" brought Hal to their assistance.

He looked very white and trembling--a mere ghost of his former self.

Mr. Hirpington could hardly recognize him. He was down in heart as

well, for his pipe, his sole remaining solace, had burned out just

half-an-hour before he heard the welcome "coo" at the foot of the hill.

For a moment the two men stood regarding each other as men regard the

survivals of a dread catastrophe.

"Lord bless you, sir," said Hal. "I never thought to see you again,

looking so hale and hearty."

"Don't talk about looks, Hal. Why, you are but a walking skeleton!"

exclaimed Mr. Hirpington. "But cheer up," he added,--"the worst is over;

we shall pull ourselves together now. Lend a hand with this basket up

the steep."

The climb before them was something formidable to the genial speaker.

Edwin was already lost to view beneath the overhanging wall of rock

which shadowed the cleft. They had trodden down a pathway through the

fern; but the ascent was blocked by Beauty, who seemed resolute to upset

the load on Edwin's head, as he had upset the board in the bush. In

vain did Edwin apostrophize him, and thunder out a succession of "whoas"

and "backs," and "Stand you still, you stupid, or you will roll me

over." It was all of no use. He was obliged to shunt his burden on to

the heap of stones; and Beauty, with a neigh of delight, came a little

closer, so that he too might rub his nose against Edwin's cheek.

"Don't you mean to let me pass, you silly old fellow? Well, then, I

won't turn baker's boy any more; and what I want to carry I'll carry on

my back, as you do. There!"

But Edwin at last seized Beauty by the forelock, and forcing him to one

side, squeezed by.

"Edwin!" called his father, and a feeble hand was lifted to beckon him

nearer, "what are you bringing?"

"Pillows, father, pillows," he cried, as he stumbled over the twisted

roots, half blinded by the sombre gloom beneath those giant trees where

his father was lying. Edwin slipped out of his sandwich with exceeding

celerity. A pillow was under the poor aching head in another minute,

and a second propping the bruised shoulders, and Edwin stood by his

father, smiling with the over-brimming joy of a grand success.

Then he denuded himself of the blanket, which he had been wearing like a

Highlander's plaid, and wrapped it over the poor unfortunate, cramping

in the bleak mountain air with cold and hunger.

"Father," he went on cheerily, "the worst is over. Mr. Hirpington is

here. He has come to see after you."

"Too late, too late," moaned Mr. Lee. "I fear I am done for. The

activity of my days is over, Edwin; and what remains to us?"

"We don't know yet, father," answered the boy, gravely. "I'm young and

ever so strong, and if I've only got you to tell me what to do, I can do

a lot."

"But, Edwin, have you seen anything of my belt?" asked Mr. Lee,

collecting his wandering thoughts.

Edwin shook his head.

"What has become of it?" repeated the sick man nervously, as Mr.

Hirpington appeared above the stones. Edwin went to meet him, and to

gather together the remainder of his load, which he had left for Beauty

to inspect at will.

"A horse up here!" exclaimed Mr. Hirpington. "He must have the feet and

knees of a goat."

"I think he has," answered Edwin, backing his favourite to a respectful

distance as Mr. Hirpington stepped on to the top of the hill, panting

and puffing from the toilsomeness of the long ascent.

He looked around him bewildered, and followed Edwin into the dim

recesses beyond the gloomy colonnade of trees, whose hoary age was

beyond their reckoning.

"I am the most miserable of men!" he exclaimed, as he stooped over his

prostrate friend, and clasped the hand which had saved him at such a

cost. "How do I find you?"

"Alive," answered Mr. Lee, "and likely to live, a burden--"

"No, no, father," interposed Edwin.

"Don't say that!" exclaimed Mr. Hirpington, winking hard to get rid of a

certain moisture about the eyelids very unusual to him. "To think how I

have been living in clover all these days whilst you were lying here, it

unmans me. But where on earth are you bivouacking? in a charnel-house?"

He ceased abruptly with a shudder, as he discovered it was a human skull

he was crushing beneath the heel of his boot.

Hal was busy with the basket, and Edwin ran off to his assistance.

"Sit down, Hal, and begin to eat," urged Edwin. "Now I have come back

let me see after father."

But the sight of the longed-for food was too much for the old man. He

began to cry like a child.

If the first glance into the full basket had been more than poor Hal

could bear, the first taste was a sight from which Mr. Hirpington had to

turn away. The one great object before him and Edwin was to get the two

to eat, for the starving men seemed at first to refuse the food they

were craving for; in fact they could hardly bear it. Mr. Lee put back

the cold meat and bread, unable to swallow more; so Edwin at once turned

stoker, and lit up a jolly fire of sticks and drying roots.

"We must get them something hot," said Mr. Hirpington, opening one of

the many tins of soup which he had brought with him. Soon the savoury

contents of the steaming kettle brought back a shadow of English

comfort.

Mr. Hirpington had passed many a night of camping out before he settled

down at the ford, and he set to work like an old hand. The canvas of

the tent was stretched from tree to tree and well pegged down, so as to

form a screen on the windward side. The dry moss and still drier fern

that could be collected about the brow of the hill where Beauty was

ranging, were brought in and strewed over the gnarled and twisted roots,

until they gained a warm and comparatively level floor, with an

excrescence here and there which served them for a seat. The basket was

hung up to preserve its remaining contents from the inspection of

centipedes and crawling things, for which Edwin as yet had no

nomenclature.

Then the men pulled up their collars to their ears, set their backs

against the wind, lit a well-filled pipe, and laid their plans. The

transfer of Mr. Hirpington's tobacco-pouch to Hal's pocket had brought

back a gleam of sunshine--wintry sunshine, it must be confessed; but who

could look for more? Mr. Lee, too, was undeniably better. The shake

his brains had received was going over. He was once more able to listen

and understand.

"I have telegraphed to Auckland," explained Mr. Hirpington. "I shall

have my store of corrugated iron by the next coaster, and Middleton's

barge will bring it up to the ford. Thank God for our waterways, there

is no stoppage there! I have always kept to the river. But, old

friend, before we mend up my own house we must get a roof over your

head. There is not a man under me who will not be eager to help us at

that; and we cannot do much to the road until the mud hardens

thoroughly, so for once there will be help to be had. We are booked for

the night up here; but to-morrow I propose to take your boy with me, and

go over to your place and see the state it is in. A wooden house stands

a deal of earthquaking. Edwin thinks it was the chimney came down. We

must put you up an iron one. You have plenty of timber ready felled to

mend the roof, and rushes are growing to hand. It is only the work that

has to be done, and we all know how to work in New Zealand."

"Oh ay," chimed in old Hal; "most on us sartinly do, and this little

chap ain't no foreigner there."

He was already nodding. The comforting influences of the soup and the

pipe were inviting the return of "tired nature's sweet restorer."

By-and-by he slipped from his seat upon the soft moss, and was lost to

every trouble in balmy sleep. Edwin covered him up, feeling rich in the

possession of a blanket for every one of the party.

The wintry twilight was gathering round them, cold and chill. The

skeleton of the bird monster rattled and shook, and gleamed in spectral

whiteness between the blackness of the shadows flung by the interlacing

boughs. A kiore working amongst the dry bones seemed to impart a

semblance of life to them which effectually banished sleep from Mr.

Hirpington, who persuaded Edwin to come closer to him, declaring the boy

looked frightened; and well he might, for who but a clod could lay his

head on such a floor?

Assured at last that Hal was lost to all outward perception, Mr. Lee

whispered the story of his loss. The belt was gone--taken from him

whilst he was unconscious. No doubt about that. Mr. Hirpington

described the state in which he found his house--the three sackfuls

ready to be carried off. Edwin thought he had better tell his father

now of the digging up of Whero's treasure.

"There is a thief amongst us," said Mr. Hirpington, "and suspicion

points to the gang of rabbiters."

"No, not to Hal," interposed Mr. Lee; "not to all. We may yet find the

belt."

He was growing excited and restless. He had talked too much.

"I must have this matter over with Dunter," was Mr. Hirpington's

conclusion, when he saw how unable poor Mr. Lee was to bear any

lengthened conversation. Before they settled to sleep he charged Edwin

to be very careful, and not let any alteration in his manner put the old

man on his guard.

The three arose in the gray of the morning with renewed energy. To take

Beauty to water, to light a fire and prepare a breakfast in the solitary

fastness, left scant time for any further discussion. But second

thoughts told Mr. Lee that in such strange circumstances loss was almost

inevitable. If his belt had been taken off when his leg was set, it

might have been dropped in the all-surrounding mud and never missed.

"True, true," answered Mr. Hirpington, and leaving Mr. Lee to his son's

care, he strolled across to the fire, where Hal was brewing the morning

coffee, and began to question him about the accident--how and where the

tree fell. But no new light was thrown upon the loss. It was hopeless

to dig about in the mud, supposing Mr. Lee's last surmise to be correct.

He determined to ride Beauty to the ford and look round the scene of the

disaster with Edwin.

The day was well up when he stepped across the sunken fence which used

to guard his own domain, and found Dunter fixing a pail at the end of

the boat-hook to facilitate the bailing out of the mud.

The Maori boy had deserted him, he said, and a fellow single-handed

could do little good at work like his. No one else had been near the

place. He had kept his watch-fire blazing all night as the best scare

to depredators. In Dunter's opinion prevention was the only cure. With

so many men wandering homeless about the hills, and with so many

relief-parties marching up in every direction, there was sure to be

plenty of pilfering, but who could track it home?

The hope of discovering the belt appeared to grow less and less.

"What shall we do without the money?" lamented Edwin, as he continued

his journey with his father's friend. "Trouble seems to follow

trouble."

"It does," said Mr. Hirpington; "for one grows out of another. But you

have not got it all, my boy; for my land, which would have sold for a

pound an acre last Saturday week, is not worth a penny with all this

depth of volcanic mud upon it. Nothing can grow. But when we get to

your father's, where the deposit is only a few inches deep, we shall

find the land immensely improved. It will have doubled its value."

As they drew nearer to the little valley the road grew better. The mud

had dried, and the fern beneath it was already forcing its way through

the crust. The once sparkling rivulet was reduced to a muddy ditch,

choked with fallen trees and stones, which the constant earthquaking had

shaken down from the sides of the valley.

Beauty took his way to the familiar gate, and neighed. Edwin jumped

down and opened it. All was hopeful here, as Mr. Hirpington had

predicted. The ground might have been raised a foot, but the house had

not been changed into a cellar. The daylight shone through the windows,

broken as they were. The place was deluged, not entombed.

"You might return to-morrow," said Mr. Hirpington. "This end of the

house is uninjured."

The chimney was down, it was true, the sleeping-rooms were demolished,

but the workshop and storeroom were habitable. Whilst Mr. Hirpington

considered the roof, Edwin ran round and peeped in at the broken

windows. Dirt and confusion reigned everywhere, but no trace as yet of

unwelcome visitors. A feeble mew attracted his attention, and Effie's

kitten popped up its little head from the fallen cupboard in which it

had evidently been exploring. It was fat and well. An unroofed pantry

had been its hunting-ground; not the little room at the other end of the

veranda, but a small latticed place which Mr. Lee had made to keep the

uncooked meat in. The leg of a wild pig and a brace of kukas or wild

pigeons, about twice the size of their English namesake, were still

hanging on the hooks where Audrey had left them.

The leg of pork had been nibbled all round, and the heads were torn from

the pigeons.

"Lucky Miss Kitty," said Edwin. "We thought you had got the freedom of

the bush, and here you've been living in luxury whilst the rest of the

world was starving. Come; you must go shares, you darling!"

It clawed up the wall, and almost leaped into his arms, to be covered

with kisses and deafened with promises which were shouted out in the joy

of his heart, until Mr. Hirpington began to wonder what had happened.

"My boy, have you gone quite crazy?" he exclaimed. "Why don't you look

after your horse? you will lose him!"

Edwin looked round, and saw Beauty careering up the side of the valley.

He shut the kitten carefully into the workshop. Mr. Hirpington had just

got the other door open, and came out to assist in recalling Beauty to

his duty.

Edwin started off after his horse; but he had not gone far when he was

aware of another call, to which his Beauty paid more heed than he seemed

disposed to show to Edwin's reiterated commands to come back.

The call was in Maori, and in a few minutes Nga-Hepe himself emerged

from the bush and seized the horse by the forelock.

*CHAPTER XVII.*

*EDWIN IN DANGER.*

When Mr. Hirpington came up he found his little English friend in

earnest argument with the Maori warrior.

Nga-Hepe's looks were excited and wild. He was carrying the famous

greenstone club, which he brandished every now and then in the heat of

the conversation.

"Come with me," he was saying peremptorily--"come with me and find the

man."

"I cannot," answered Edwin, toughly. "I cannot leave my father. Take

the horse, if you will, and follow the tracks in the mud. I will show

you which is Lawford's footprint."

"Show me the man, and I will believe you," retorted Nga-Hepe, swinging

himself lightly upon Beauty's back as he spoke.

Edwin glanced round at Mr. Hirpington. It was a look which said, "Stand

by me." The appeal was mute, and he answered it neither by word nor

sign. Edwin thought despairingly he had not understood him, but a hand

was laid on his shoulder. He almost fancied he was pushed aside, as Mr.

Hirpington spoke to Nga-Hepe in his cheeriest tones:--

"Well met, old neighbour. Both of us above ground once again, thank God

in his mercy. As for me and mine, we were fairly buried alive, and

should have died under the mud but for this lad's father. We left

everything and fled for our lives, and so it was with most of us. But

now the danger is over, I have come back to look after my property, and

find a thief has been there before me. According to this boy's account,

I am afraid the same fellow has walked off with something of yours. But

I have a plan to catch him, and you are the one to help me."

"A' right," answered the Maori. "You catch your man, I catch my boy.

Man and boy go hand in hand."

"No," said Edwin stoutly; "I have nothing to do with Lawford."

Nga-Hepe raised his club. "You, who but you," he asked, "watched my

wife dig hole? Who but you set foot on the spot? Who but you say, 'Man

dig here'? I'll make you say a little more. Which had the bag?"

"I have never seen or touched the bag since I gave it back to your wife

Marileha on the night of the tana's visit," answered Edwin.

"A' right," repeated Nga-Hepe. "No, you are not a' right, or you would

go with me to find the man; for who but you knows who he is? If you

won't, you are a' wrong, and I have come here to kill you."

An exasperated savage on horseback, with a club in his hand, was no mean

foe. Edwin thought of old Hal's words. Was it a bad day's work which

restored Nga-Hepe to life? But he answered himself still with an

unwavering "No."

"You are returning me evil for good," said Edwin quietly. "Whero would

not have dared to follow the kaka over the mud if I had not gone with

him; but for me you would have been a dead man. Ask Whero--ask your own

son."

"I take no counsel with boys," answered the Maori loftily.

"Neither do I think overmuch of boys," interposed Mr. Hirpington; "but

we will keep young Lee with us, and all go together and find the man if

possible. Yet with you on his back that horse will go like the wind.

How are we to keep up with you?"

"You have ridden behind me before," said Nga-Hepe, turning to Edwin;

"you can do it again."

"Only I won't," thought Edwin; but aloud he said, "So I could, but then

there is Mr. Hirpington. What is he to do?"

"Ah!" put in the latter, taking out his pipe and lighting it

deliberately, "the question is not how we shall go, but which way. The

relief-parties are beginning to disperse. Now, Nga-Hepe, I am as

earnestly desiring to help you as I am to defend myself. Only I see

plainly if we try to follow the fellow among these wild hills we shall

miss him. He belongs to a gang of rabbiters. I know their leader. Let

him call his chums together. I'll provide the lure--a reward and a

jolly good dinner for every one of the poor fellows who came so

gallantly to our help at the risk of their own lives. We must bear in

mind that after Mr. Lee these rabbiters were the first in the field. If

there is a black sheep among them, we shall have him. But I must get my

own men about me, and then we will confront him with Edwin Lee, in the

presence of them all."

"Your plan is good," answered the Maori. "Try it and I try mine; then

one or other of us will catch him."

"That will be me," remarked Mr. Hirpington, in a knock-down tone.

"Jump up!" cried Nga-Hepe, turning to Edwin.

"No, no," interposed Mr. Hirpington; "it is I who must have young Lee.

I have left a watchman at the ford ready to pounce on the thief if he

should return there for his booty. I may want this boy any minute.

Ride fast from camp to camp. Ask for any of my roadmen among them, and

give my message to them. Ask if there are any rabbiters, and give the

other in Hal's name. I'll make it right with the old man. We shall

throw our net so wide this Lawford can't escape our meshes. He must

have got your bag about him, and the other money I suspect he has taken.

We'll make him give it all up."

No one was noticing Edwin. He made a slight sound, which set Beauty off

trotting, as he knew it would.

The delight of feeling his own good horse beneath him once again induced

Nga-Hepe to quicken the trot to a gallop. He did not turn back to

prolong the discussion, but only waved his arm in reply.

Edwin thought to increase the distance between them by running off in

the opposite direction.

"No, no," said Mr. Hirpington; "just stand still by me. If he saw you

begin to run, he would be after you in a minute. If the ape and the

tiger lie dormant in some of us, the wild animal is rampant in him.

Face him to the last."

Edwin looked up with admiring gratitude at the friend who had so

skilfully delivered him.

They watched the vanishing figure as Edwin had watched him on the day of

his first acquaintance with the Maori warrior.

"He will never give back my Beauty," he sighed, as horse and rider were

lost to view in the darkling bush.

"Your horse may prove your ransom," said Mr. Hirpington, as they

retraced their steps. He knew that the boy's life was no longer safe

within the reach of the angry savage. What was he to do? Send him off

to a friend at a distance until the affair had blown over? Yes; row him

down the river and put him on board one of the Union steamers.

He began to question Edwin. "Had they any other friends in New

Zealand?"

"None," answered the boy.

"More's the pity," said Mr. Hirpington; "for it will not do for you and

your father to remain alone with Hal on that hill any longer. We must

separate you from the rabbiters, for the gang will be sure to draw

together soon. It is nearly a week since the eruption. I hope and

trust some of my men may get my message, and come to us before Nga-Hepe

returns."

"If any of the surveying party are about still, they would help us,"

said Edwin. "Mr. Ottley told me how to signal to them, and they

answered at once. They said we were to signal again if we wanted them.

The captain of the coaster is with them. He would be sure to come."

Mr. Hirpington knew nothing about the captain, but he assented. "Signal

by all means. If we have Englishmen enough about us, we shall carry

this through. We must get your father home. One or two men will soon

mend the roof. I'll spare you Dunter; he would keep a sharp look-out.

As the relief-parties disperse, we shall see who comes our way. Chance

may favour us."

Then the two started again for the ford, leaving pussy once more in

possession of the valley farm. Mr. Hirpington was struck when he saw the

difference a single day's hard work had effected.

"I want to be by your side, Dunter, putting my own shoulder to the

wheel, and we should soon fetch the mistress home. But we are in for an

awful deal of trouble with these poor Lees, and we can't fail them.

Somehow they do not square it with their Maori neighbours," he sighed.

"Not quite up to managing 'em yet, I guess," replied Dunter, as he

showed his master a kitchen clear of mud, although a stranger still to

the scrubbing-brush. A few loose boards were laid down as pathways to

the bedroom doors, which all stood wide, letting in the clear river

breeze from the windows beyond. Dunter was washing his hands to have a

spell at the bedmaking, as he said.

"We are all relegated to the cellar," sighed his master, "and we cannot

stay to enjoy even that. We shall have a row with Nga-Hepe's people if

we are not on the alert. I want to get this young Lee out of their way.

Where will he be safest for to-night?"

"Here with me, abed and asleep," answered the man unhesitatingly.

Mr. Hirpington glanced into the range of bedrooms, still left as at the

moment when their occupants rushed out in the first alarm. "That will

do," he assented. "Trust a boy to go to sleep. He will tumble in just

as the beds are. Anything for his supper?"

"Plenty, but it is all poisoned with the horrid sulphurous stench.

Something out of the tins is best," groaned Dunter.

"Give him one or two to open for himself, and shut him in. Drive that

meal-barrel against the door, and don't you let him out till I come

back," was Mr. Hirpington's parting charge, as he pushed off in his boat

for the lake, to light the beacon-fires on the hills around it, to

summon the help he so much needed.

Edwin, who had been hunting up the kaka, was disappointed to find

himself left behind.

"All the better for you," retorted Dunter. "Take the bird in with you,

and get a sound sleep, now you have the chance."

"Oh, you are good!" exclaimed Edwin, when he saw a jug of river-water, a

tin of sardines, and another of brawn, backed by a hunch of mouldy

bread, provided for his supper.

The door was shut, and he lay down without a suspicion of the

kindly-meant imprisonment on which he was entering. Both men were sure

he would never have consented to it had he known of their intentions

beforehand. They did not want to make the boy too much afraid of his

dusky neighbours; "for he has got to live in the midst of them," they

said. "He will let them alone after this," thought Dunter. "He has had

his scare for the present; let him sleep and forget it."

The deep and regular breathing of a sleeper soon told Dunter his wish

was realized.

It was a weary vigil for Mr. Hirpington. He kept his watch-fire blazing

from dusk till dawn.

It was a wakeful, anxious night for Hal and Mr. Lee, who saw the

beacon-lights afar, and wondered more and more over the unlooked-for

sight.

"It is some one signalling for help," groaned Mr. Lee, feeling most

painfully his inability to give it. It might be Edwin, it might be some

stranger. He wanted his companion to leave him and go to see. But the

old man only shook his head, and muttered, "There is no go left in me,

I'm so nearly done."

Mr. Hirpington had given up hope. He had coiled himself in his blanket,

laid his head on the hard ground, and yielded to the overwhelming desire

for sleep.

The returning party of surveyors, who started on their march with the

first peep of the dawn, caught the red glow through the misty gray.

They turned their steps aside, and found, as they supposed, a sleeping

traveller. It was the only face they had seen on the hills which was

not haggard and pale. In the eyes of those toilworn men, fresh from the

perils of the rescue, it seemed scarcely possible that any one there

could look so ruddy and well unless he had been selfishly shirking his

duty to his neighbour, and the greeting they gave him was biting with

its caustic.

"There is no help for me out of such a set of churls," thought Mr.

Hirpington bitterly, as he tried to tell his story, without making much

impression, until he mentioned the name of Edwin Lee, and then they

turned again to listen, for the captain was amongst them.

But as for this stranger, had he not food and friends of his own? what

did he want of them? they asked.

"Help for a neighbour who has saved more lives than can be counted, and

is now lying on the hills with a broken leg; help to convey him to his

home," Mr. Hirpington returned, with increasing warmth, as he showed

them there was but one way of doing that. They must carry the poor

fellow through the bush on a stretcher. "When did colonists turn their

back on a chum in distress?" he asked reproachfully.

"Shut up," said the captain, "and show us where he lies."

They would have set to work on the broken boughs and twisted them into a

stretcher; but there was nothing small enough for the purpose left above

ground. They must turn the tent into a palanquin once again, and manage

as Hal had done before them.

One and all agreed if the Maoris had been using threatening language to

the suffering man's boy, they could not go their ways and leave him

behind in the Maoris' country. "No, no," was passed from lip to lip,

and they took their way to the hill.

Mr. Hirpington was himself again, and his geniality soon melted the

frost amongst his new friends.

"So you have carried him blankets and food?" they said; and the

heartiness of the "yes" with which he responded made them think a little

better of him.

The steep was climbed. Mr. Lee heard the steady tramp approaching, and

waked up Hal.

"Humph!" remarked the foremost man, as he caught sight of Hal. "I

thought you said you brought them food."

"Are you sure you did not eat it all by the way?" asked another of Mr.

Hirpington.

"Look at that poor scarecrow!" cried a third, as they scaled the hill

and drew together as if loath to enter the gloom of the shadow flung by

those tremendous trees. They gazed upwards at the giant branches, and

closed ranks. More than one hand was pointing to the whitened skeleton.

"Do you see that?" and a general movement showed the inclination to draw

back, one man slowly edging his way behind another. It left the captain

in the forefront. Mr. Lee lifted a feeble hand.

"Oh, it is all right; there he is!" exclaimed the man of the sea, less

easily daunted by the eerie qualms which seemed to rob his comrades of

their manhood.

"We've come to fetch you home, old boy," he added, bending over Mr. Lee

and asking for his sons. "Have you not two?"

"Yes, I've a brace of them," said the injured man, "Edwin, where is

Edwin?"

"Edwin and Cuthbert," repeated the captain. "I have something to tell

you about them. They are just two of the boldest and bravest little

chaps I ever met with. If my mates were here they would tell you the

same. But they have followed the fall of mud, and gone across the hills

by Taupo. I was too footsore for the march, and so kept company with

these surveying fellows."

The said fellows had rallied, and were grouped round Mr. Hirpington, who

was pointing out the route they must take to reach the valley farm.

Two of the men started to carry their baggage to Mr. Hirpington's boat,

intending to row to the ford and wait there for their companions. The

canvas was taken down from the trees. Mr. Lee was bound to his board

once more and laid within the ample folds, and slid rather than carried

gently down the steep descent. The puzzle remained how one old man and

two boys ever got him to the top alive. The party was large enough to

divide and take turns at the carrying, and the walk was long enough and

slow enough to give the captain plenty of opportunity to learn from Mr.

Hirpington all he wanted to know about Mr. Lee and his boys. He gave

him in return a picture of the deserted coast. "Every man," he said,

"was off to the hills when my little craft went down beneath the

earthquake wave. It was these young lads' forethought kept the beacon

alight when the night overran the day. They saw us battling with the

waves, and backed their cart into the sea to pick us up. Mere boys,

they had to tie themselves to the cart, sir. Think of that."

Mr. Hirpington was thinking, and it made him look very grave. What had

he been doing in the midst of the widespread calamity? Not once had he

asked himself poor Audrey's question, but he asked it now as the captain

went on: "A shipwrecked sailor, begging his way to the nearest port, has

not much in his power to help another. But I will find out a man who

both can and will. I mean old Bowen. He is one of our wealthiest

sheep-owners, and he stands indebted to these two lads on the same count

as I do, for his grandson was with me."

"His run is miles away from here," said Mr. Hirpington. "You cannot

walk so far. Look out for some of Feltham's shepherds riding home; they

would give you a lift behind them."

The party halted at the ford, where Mr. Hirpington found several of his

own roadmen waiting for him. Nga-Hepe had faithfully delivered his

message.

"Ah!" said Mr. Hirpington, "I knew he would, and I am going to keep my

part of the bargain too. We are always friendly." He turned to Hal, and

explained how he had sent to his mates to meet him at the ford. "Until

they come," he added, "rest and eat, and recover yourself."

Since the arrival of the boat, Dunter had been getting ready, for he

foresaw an increasing demand for breakfast, and his resources were very

restricted. But he got out the portable oven, lit his fires, not so

much in the yard, correctly speaking, as over it. "Breakfasting the

coach" had given every one at the ford good practice in the art of

providing. When the walking-party arrived they found hot rolls and

steaming coffee awaiting them without stint. It brought the sunshine

into many a rugged face as they voted him the best fellow in the world.

They circled round the fire to enjoy them. Nobody went down into the

house but Hal, who resigned the care of Mr. Lee somewhat loathly. "I

should have liked to have seen you in your own house before we parted,"

he muttered.

"No, no," said Mr. Lee; "you have done too much already. You will never

be the man again that you have been, I fear."

The hearty hand-clasp, the look into each other's faces, was not quickly

forgotten by the bystanders.

The air was full of meetings and partings. Mr. Hirpington was in the

midst of his men. He was bound by his post under government to make the

state of the roads his first care.

"When will the coach be able to run again?" was the question they were

all debating, as a government inspector was on his way to report on the

state of the hills; for few as yet could understand the nature of the

unparalleled and unprecedented disaster which had overwhelmed them.

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*WHERO TO THE RESCUE.*

The busy sounds of trampling feet, the many voices breaking the silence

of the past days, roused Edwin effectually, and then he discovered that

the door of the room in which he had slept resisted his most strenuous

efforts to open it.

He called to Dunter to release him. No reply. A louder shout,

accompanied by a sturdy kick at the immovable door, gave notice of his

growing impatience. The kaka, which had been watching his determined

efforts with exceeding interest, set up its cry of "Hoke, hoke!"

"We are caged, my bird," said Edwin; "both of us caged completely."

His eye wandered round in search of any outlet in vain. All his

experiences since the night of the eruption had taught him to look to

himself, and he turned to the window. It was securely shuttered and

apparently barred.

"How strange!" he thought, as a sudden shock of earthquake made the iron

walls around him rattle and vibrate, as if they too were groaning in

sympathetic fear.

The kaka flew to him for protection, and strove to hide its head.

Another tremor all around sent it cowering to the floor. Edwin stooped

to pick it up, and saw that the thin sheet of iron which formed the

partition between that room and the next had started forward. He found

the knife which Dunter had left him, and widened the crack. He could

slip his hand through it now. The walls were already twisted with the

shocks they had sustained. He got hold of the iron with both hands, and

exerting all his strength bent it up from the floor. His head went

through. Another vigorous tug, another inch was gained; his shoulders

followed, and he wriggled through at last in first-rate worm fashion.

"It is something to be thin," thought Edwin, as he shook himself into

order on the other side. He was in another bedroom, exactly similar to

the one he had left. Both were designed for the reception of "the

coach;" but door and window were securely fastened, as in the other

room. The sounds which had awakened him must have been the noise

accompanying some departure, for he thought he could distinguish the

splash of oars in the water, and words of leave-taking. But the voices

were strange voices, which he had never heard before, and then all was

profoundly still.

It dawned on Edwin now that perhaps he had not been shut in by accident,

but that something had occurred. He was getting very near the truth,

for he recalled Nga-Hepe's threats, and wondered whether friend or foe

had made him a prisoner.

Well, then, was it wise to keep making such a row to get out? He began

to see the matter in a different light. He lay down on the bed in the

second room, determined to listen and watch; but in his worn-out

condition sleep overcame him a second time.

The kaka missed his society, and followed to perch on his pillow. He

was awakened at last by its scream. The window was open, and the bird

was fluttering in and out in a playful endeavour to elude a hand put

through to catch it. Edwin was springing upright, when his recent

experiences reminded him of the need of caution. But the movement had

been heard, and a voice, which he knew to be Whero's, said softly,

"Edwin, my brother, are you awake?"

"Awake? yes! What on earth is the matter?" retorted Edwin.

"Hush!" answered Whero, looking in and laying a finger on his own lips.

"Come close to the window."

Edwin obeyed as noiselessly as he could. Whero held out his hand to

help him on to the sill.

"Escape," he whispered; "it is for your life."

His hands were as cold as ice, and his teeth were set. Edwin hesitated;

but the look on Whero's face as he entreated him not to linger

frightened him, already wrought up to a most unnatural state of

suspicion by the tormenting feeling of being shut in against his will.

Any way, he was not going to lose a chance of getting out. It was too

unbearable to be caged like a bird. He took Whero's hand and scrambled

up. The Maori boy looked carefully around. All was dark and still.

Again he laid his finger on his lips.

"Trust in me, my brother," he murmured, pointing to his canoe, which was

waiting in the shadow of the rushes.

"Where are we going?" asked Edwin under his breath.

"To safety," answered Whero. "Wait until we are out of hearing, and I

will tell you all."

He grasped Edwin's hand, and led him down the bank to the shingly bed of

the river.

"Stop a minute," interposed Edwin, not quite sure that it was wise to

trust himself altogether to the guidance of the young Maori. "I wish I

could catch sight of Dunter. I want a word with him, and then I'll go."

"No, no!" reiterated Whero, dragging him on as he whispered, "No one

here knows your danger. It is my father who is coming to take your

life; but I will save you. Come!"

Edwin lay down in the bottom of the canoe as Whero desired, and was

quickly covered over with rushes by the dusky hands of his youthful

deliverer. A low call brought the kaka to Whero's shoulder, and keeping

his canoe well in the shadows, he rowed swiftly down stream.

[Illustration: ANOTHER FLIGHT.]

The brilliant starshine enabled him to steer clear of the floating

dangers--the driftwood and the stones--which impeded their course

continually.

"Are you hungry?" asked Whero, bending low to his companion. But Edwin

answered, "No."

"Then listen," continued the excited boy. "My father has found this

Lawford, the rabbiter you told me about. He was with one of the biggest

gangs of pakehas, going back from the hills, every man with his spade.

Had my father raised his club, it would have been quickly beaten out of

his hand among so many. He knew that, and the pakehas talked fair. But

this Lawford did not say as you say. He made my father believe it was

you who asked him to go with you to the roadside, and dig between the

white pines, to find a bag you had dropped in the mud; and so he dug

down until you found it and took it away. You then went alone to the

ruins at the ford, and he thinks you hid it in the hayloft. It was

before the fordmaster and his people had returned. My father wanted

these pakehas to come with him, and take it from you; but they all

declared that was against the law of the pakehas. They would go their

ways and tell their chief, who would send his soldiers for you. It was

but a bag of talk. My father has been watching round the ford, waiting

for them, yet they have not come."

"But, Whero," interposed Edwin, "Nga-Hepe cannot be sure that I was at

the ford, for it was at the valley farm that he met me and took the

horse."

"Does my father sleep on the track of an enemy?" asked Whero. "Has he

no one to help him? My grandfather was following in the bush when he

took the horse from you. The one went after Lawford, the other stayed

to watch your steps. My grandfather saw you enter the ford; he saw the

master leave it alone. A Maori eye has been upon the place ever since.

They know you have not come out of the hole where you went in. Nothing

has been done. What were the fordmaster's promises? what were Lawford's?

A bag of talk. My father feels himself the dupe of the pakeha. A

geyser is boiling in his veins. If you meet him you fall by his club.

He will wait until the day breaks; he will wait no longer. At nightfall

the old man, my grandfather, rowed back to the little kainga our people

have made on the bank of the river."

"A kainga?" interrupted Edwin, breathlessly. "What is a kainga?"

"That is our name for a little village without a wall," explained Whero,

hurrying on. "He came. He called the men together. They have gone up

with clubs and spears. They will come upon the ford-house with the

dawn, and force their way in to find the bag. The master cannot resist

so many. O Edwin, my brother, I said I saved my kaka when they would

have killed it; shall I not save my friend? I wanted to go with the men,

that I might tell my father again how you have stood by me. And should

I not stand by you? But my mother, Marileha, held me back. My

grandfather kept on saying, 'I knew from the first it was the farmer's

son who had robbed you. Was it he who helped us out of the mud? I saw

him not. It was Ottley, the good coachman. Have we not all eyes?' 'Go

not with them,' said my mother. 'What is talk? Your father will make

you the same answer. Do they know the young pakeha as we do?' So I

listened to my mother, and we made our plan together. I knew our men

could not conceal themselves in the water; they must all be hidden in

the bush. I filled my canoe with rushes. I rowed after them up the

river, gliding along in the shadows. I climbed up the bank, under the

row of little windows at the back of the ford-house, and listened. I

heard my kaka scream, and I guessed it was with you. I was sure you

would take care of it. I could see the windows were all cracked and

broken with the earthquakes. The shocks come still so often I knew I

had only to wait, and when I felt the ground tremble under my feet I

smashed the window. Nobody noticed the noise when everything around us

was rocking and shaking. You know the rest. We have an hour before us

yet. I am rowing for the coast as hard as I can. Once on board a

steamer no Maori can touch you. I have plenty of money to pay for our

passage. My grandfather came to see me when I was at school, and gave

me a lot to persuade me to stay. He was taking his money to the

Auckland bank, for fear another tana should come. Then we can go and

live among the pakehas."

"But where shall we go?" asked Edwin, struck with the ability with which

Whero had laid his plan, and the ease with which he was carrying it out.

"I only wish I could have spoken to Dunter or Mr. Hirpington before we

came away; for what will they think of me?"

"Think!" repeated Whero; "let them think. Could I betray my father to

them? Our hearts are true to each other. We have given love for love.

Would they believe it? No. Would they have let you come away with me,

Nga-Hepe's son? No. One word, my brother, and you would have been

lost. A steamer will take us to school. They told me at Tauranga there

was a school in every great town on the island, so it does not matter

where it lands us; the farther off the better."

Marileha was watching for them on the bank. Whero waved his arms in

signal of success, and shot swiftly past in the cold gray light of the

coming day.

The eastern sky was streaked with red when the first farm-house was

sighted. Should they stop and beg for bread? Whero was growing

exhausted with continued exertion. He lifted his paddle from the water,

and Edwin sat upright; then caution whispered to them both, "Not yet!

wait a little longer." So they glided on beneath the very window of the

room where Mrs. Hirpington was sleeping. One half-hour later she might

have seen them pass.

The ever-broadening river was rolling now between long wooded banks.

Enormous willows dipped their weeping boughs into the stream, and a

bridge became visible in the distance as the morning sun shone out. The

white walls of many a settler's home glistened through the light gauzy

haze which hung above the frosted ground. Whero's aching arms had

scarcely another lift left in them, when they perceived a little

river-steamer with its line of coal-barges in tow.

Should they hail it and ask to be taken on board? No; it was going the

wrong way. But Edwin ventured, now that the hills were growing shadowy

in the dim distance, to sit upright and take his turn with the paddle,

whilst Whero rested.

How many miles had they come? how many farther had they yet to go?

They watched the settlements on either side of the river with hungry

eyes, until they found themselves near a range of farm-buildings which

looked as if they might belong to some well-to-do colonist, and were in

easy hail of the river-bank. They ran the canoe aground, and walked up

to the house to beg for the bread so freely given to all comers through

the length and breadth of New Zealand.

Invigorated by the hearty meal willingly bestowed upon a Maori boy on

his way to school, they returned to the canoe; but the effort to reach

the coast was beyond their utmost endeavour. Edwin felt they were now

out of the reach of all pursuit, and might safely go ashore and rest,

for Whero was ready to fall asleep in the canoe.

They were looking about for a landing-place, when, to his utter

amazement, Edwin heard Cuthbert shouting to him from the deck of one of

the little steamers plying up and down the river.

"By all that is marvellous," exclaimed Edwin, "if that isn't my old

Cuth!"

He turned to his companion, too far under the influence of the dustman

to quite understand what was taking place around him.

Cuthbert's shout of "Stop, Edwin, stop!" was repeated by a deep, manly

voice. The motion of the steamer ceased. Edwin brought the canoe

alongside.

"Where are you bound for?" asked his old acquaintance the captain of the

coaster.

"Come on board," shouted Cuthbert.

The captain repeated his inquiry.