Mike took his mate home that night, and had to help him into his bunk, and Jim awoke in the morning with feelings of mistrust and bitterness, a craven consciousness of having been untrue to him self.  For a moment there was a belief that his new life was nothing but a dream.  He stepped out into the sunshine with a childish fear upon him, and looked about him, breathing deeply, and relief came, but there remained a consciousness of loss of power.  Drink was not for him:  he was a hale man, full of vitality; in his normal state his sensibilities were capable of drawing the most generous emotions from the events of existence; excess of liquor gave him, in place of that natural gratification, a set of feverish and unreal sensations.  He could understand others, from whom Nature withheld the joy of life, finding in intoxication a pale substitute, but for him it was a sacrifice of self, a sacrifice he could not afford, for it was only the other day that self had become sweet to him.  How could he exchange his rich reality for the pale, misty, groping unreality he had become last night—­give up the exhilaration he derived from the stir of life and friendly contact with men for the fantastic, fleeting emotions of the reveller in drink, emotions that fly through the darkened brain like shooting stars, the stir of a blatant egotism, the prickly heat of tiny, aimless joys that never penetrate below the skin!  He determined to be content with sobriety for the future.

This very excellent and virtuous resolution did not keep Done from Mary Kyley’s tent, however, and he retained his relish for the revels there:  the boisterous horseplay of the diggers, the dancing, the gay spirits of Aurora, her beauty and her music.  He believed Aurora still loved him, but the recollection of her appearance that night, and the fury with which she had repudiated his right to interfere, contrasted with her attitude on the occasion when he championed her cause against Quigley, gave him moments of dubious reflection.  Coming up from their claim one evening at sundown after a particularly hard day, the mates found Aurora busy at the fire preparing their tea.  They hailed her with shouts of thankfulness and welcome.  She was bare-armed and bare-headed; a snowy-white apron of Mrs. Kyley’s covered her frock, and was, if anything, an additional adornment to her trim figure.  The tea was made, and the big billy stood by the embers, while Aurora attended to the grilling of the steak.  She made a charming picture, with the firelight on her face and gleaming in her hair, and the men watched her for some minutes in quiet admiration, Josh Peetree being particularly moved by the glamour of domesticity her presence threw over the camp, and throughout the evening ejaculated a fervent ‘My colonial!’ every time his eyes encountered the girl.

‘Hello!’ said Aurora.  ‘I’ve invited myself to tea, boys.’

‘’Pon my soul, you’re good to see,’ cried Burton feelingly.