half enough," said the boy, peering down. "Don't be
frightened to pile it in, father. I kin wind up a lot more'n thet."

A little more scraping, and the boy braced his feet well upon the little
mound of clay which he had raised under the handle of the windlass to
make up for his deficiency in stature.

"Now then, Isley!"

Isley wound slowly but sturdily, and soon the bucket of "wash" appeared
above the surface; then he took it in short lifts and deposited it with
the rest of the wash-dirt.

"Isley!" called his father again.

"Yes, father."

"Have you done that writing lesson yet?"

"Very near."

"Then send down the slate next time for some sums."

"All right."

The boy resumed his seat, fixed the corner of the slate well into his
ribs, humped his back, and commenced another wavering line.

Tom Mason was known on the place as a silent, hard worker. He was a man
of about sixty, tall, and dark bearded. There was nothing uncommon about
his face, except, perhaps, that it hardened, as the face of a man might
harden who had suffered a long succession of griefs and disappointments.
He lived in little hut under a peppermint tree at the far edge of
Pounding Flat. His wife had died there about six years before, and new
rushes broke out and he was well able to go, he never left Golden Gully.

Mason was kneeling in front of the "face" digging away by the light of
a tallow candle stuck in the side. The floor of the drive was very wet,
and his trousers were heavy and cold with clay and water; but the old
digger was used to this sort of thing. His pick was not bringing out
much to-day, however, for he seemed abstracted and would occasionally
pause in his work, while his thoughts wandered far away from the narrow
streak of wash-dirt in the "face."

He was digging out pictures from a past life. They were not pleasant
ones, for his face was stony and white in the dim glow of the candle.

Thud, thud, thud--the blows became slower and more irregular as the
fossicker's mind wandered off into the past. The sides of the drive
seemed to vanish slowly away, and the "face" retreated far out beyond a
horizon that was hazy in the glow of the southern ocean. He was standing
on the deck of a ship and by his side stood a brother. They were sailing
southward to the Land of Promise that was shining there in all its
golden glory! The sails pressed forward in the bracing wind, and the
clipper ship raced along with its burden of the wilde