inated door, where the doctor sprang down to embrace
wife and daughters, after which he handed his horse's rein to old Samson
and waited till the wain was drawn up into the enclosure and the
bullocks were turned loose to graze.

"Our task to-morrow, Nic,--to see to the unloading."

"But will the things be safe there?" said the boy.

"Safe? yes, unless the blacks come down upon us. But I have no fear.
Now, Nic, I'm not like you: I haven't been fed and pampered by the women
for hours. I'm starving for a good meal."

"So am I, father."

"What, again?" said the doctor, as he reached the door, just as Brookes
and Leather carried the lantern into the kitchen, where a meal was
spread for them. "Here, my dear, this boy says he's hungry again."

"Again, father?" cried Hilda; "why, he has had nothing but a cup of
tea!"

"Why? Not well?"

"Oh yes, father, quite," cried Nic. "I've only been asleep."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

LIFE AT THE STATION.

The late supper in the plain, homely room--where the table was on
trestles, the chairs were stools, and the arm-chairs ingeniously cut out
of casks, the carpet sacking, and the hearthrug skins--and the
performance in the way of sleep on his arrival, interfered sadly with
Nic's night's rest.

It was an hour after his father's return before they all retired; and as
soon as Nic was in his room he felt not the slightest inclination for
bed. Everything was so new and fresh; the brilliant moonlight lit up
the tract outside with such grand effects that the first thing he did
was to take the home-made tallow candle out of its socket and hold it
upside down till it was extinct, and then put it back.

The room was now all bright in one part, black shadow in the others; and
he was going to the open window to look out, but just then an idea
struck him, and he took up his gun, closed the pan, drew the flint
hammer to half-cock, and proceeded to load. He carefully measured his
charge of powder in the top of the copper flask, and poured it into the
barrel, in happy unconsciousness that in the future ingenious people
would contrive not only guns that would open at the breech for a
cartridge containing in itself powder, shot, and explosive cap, to be
thrust in with one movement, but magazine rifles that could be loaded
for many shots at once.

Then on the top of the powder he rammed down a neatly cut-out disk of
felt, the ramrod, drawn from its loops and reversed, compressing the air