t station for news in the country. So it
happened that while these terrible scenes were enacting within ten
miles of them, down, in fact, to about one o'clock in the day when the
bushrangers were overtaken and punished, Mary and her cousin sat
totally unconscious of what was going on.

But about eleven o'clock that day, Burnside, the cattle dealer,
mentioned once before in these pages, arrived at Major Buckley's, from
somewhere up country, and found the house apparently deserted.

But having coee'd for some time, a door opened in one of the huts, and
a sleepy groom came forth, yawning.

"Where are they all?" asked Burnside.

"Mrs. Buckley and the women were down at Mrs. Mayford's, streaking the
bodies out," he believed. "The rest were gone away after the gang."

This was the first that Burnside had heard about the matter. And now,
bit by bit, he extracted everything from the sleepy groom.

I got him afterwards to confess to me, that when he heard of this
terrible affair, his natural feeling of horror was considerably alloyed
with pleasure. He saw here at one glance a fund of small talk for six
months. He saw himself a welcome visitor at every station, even up to
furthest lonely Condamine, retailing the news of these occurrences with
all the authenticity of an eye witness, improving his narrative by each
repetition. Here was the basis of a new tale, Ode, Epic, Saga, or what
you may please to call it, which he Burnside, the bard, should sing at
each fireside throughout the land.

"And how are Mrs. and Miss Mayford, poor souls!" he asked.

"They're as well," answered the groom, "as you'd expect folks to be
after such a mishap. They ran out at the back way and down the garden
towards the river before the chaps could burst the door down. I am
sorry for that little chap Cecil; I am, by Jove! A straightforward,
manly little chap as ever crossed a horse. Last week he says to me,
says he, 'Benjy, my boy,' says he, 'come and be groom to me. I'll give
you thirty pound a-year.' And I says, 'If Mr. Sam----' Hallo, there
they are at it, hammer and tongs! Sharp work, that!"

They both listened intensely. They could hear, borne on the west wind,
a distant dropping fire and a shouting. The groom's eye began to kindle
a bit, but Burnside, sitting yet upon his horse, grasped the lad's
shoulder and cried, "God save us, suppose our men should be beaten!"

"Suppose," said the groom, contemptuously shaking him off; "why, then
you a