“Most likely,” said Cecil.  “Lost children always climb from height to height.  I have heard it often remarked by old bush hands.  Why they do so, God, who leads them, only knows; but the fact is beyond denial.  Ask Rover what he thinks.”

The brave old dog was half-way up, looking back for them.  It took them nearly till dark to get their horses up; and, as there was no moon, and the way was getting perilous, they determined to camp, and start again in the morning.

They spread their blankets, and lay down side by side.  Sam had thought, from Cecil’s proposing to come with him in preference to the others, that he would speak of a subject nearly concerning them both; out Cecil went off to sleep and made no sign; and Sam, ere he dozed, said to himself, “If he doesn’t speak this journey, I will.  It is unbearable that we should not come to some understanding.  Poor Cecil!”

At early dawn they caught up their horses, which had been hobbled with the stirrup leathers, and started afresh.  Both were more silent than ever, and the dog, with his nose to the ground, led them slowly along the rocky rib of the mountain, ever going higher and higher.

“It is inconceivable,” said Sam, “that the poor child can have come up here.  There is Tuckerimbid close to our right, five thousand feet above the river.  Don’t you think we must be mistaken?”

“The dog disagrees with you,” said Cecil.  “He has something before him, not very far off.  Watch him.”

The trees had become dwarfed and scattered; they were getting out of the region of trees; the real forest zone was now below them, and they saw they were emerging toward a bald elevated down, and that a few hundred yards before them was a dead tree, on the highest branch of which sat an eagle.

“The dog has stopped,” said Cecil; “the end is near.”

“See,” said Sam, “there is a handkerchief under the tree.”

“That is the boy himself,” said Cecil.

They were up to him and off in a moment.  There he lay dead and stiff, one hand still grasping the flowers he had gathered on his last happy play-day, and the other laid as a pillow between the soft cold cheek and the rough cold stone.  His midsummer holiday was over, his long journey was ended.  He had found out at last what lay beyond the shining river he had watched so long.

That is the whole story, General Halbert; and who should know it better than I, Geoffry Hamlyn?

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GOODY GRACIOUS!  AND THE FORGET-ME-NOT.

BY JOHN NEAL.