burst forth in all its pristine discord, whenever one of the party made the slightest movement.  Time and patience, however, had the desired effect, restoring tone to their not over sensitive systems, and at the expiration of half an hour, we could distinguish sharp, bead-like black eyes peering at us out of the mass, which had now sunk into silence, but burst out again louder than ever, when Lizzie made her appearance from one of the gunyahs —­ perhaps the paternal roof, who knows? —­ where she had retired, swelling with indignation, and as sulky as a whole team of mules.  Finding that no one took any notice of her, and half an hour’s reflection having, I suppose, convinced her, that if she wanted to make a display before her relations, now was the time, her ladyship came slowly up to the circle, and commenced an attack on poor Dunmore, as she knew him best.  To transcribe her words would be impossible, for she put in a native sentence whenever she found herself at a loss for an English one, but the burden of her plaint was this:  —­

“Plenty d—­d fooly fellow, white fellow” —­ a string of Hinchinbrook vernacular —­ “Baal you been shoot ’em like ’it dingo” —­ more Hinchinbrook, but evidently, from the accompanying gestures, indicative of intense disgust —­ “Baal mine take any more along of black fellow camp” —­ half sobs —­ “Baal mine care suppose you fellow all go like ’it —­”

And she summarily consigned us to the bottomless pit, as the only place at all suited for such stupid idiots who could refrain from shooting blacks when so grand an opportunity presented itself.  Her eyes flashed fire as she delivered herself of her woes, and at the concluding sentence she stamped her little foot, and flinging a short waddy she held, with remarkable dexterity and no mean force, into the midst of the sable mass, she turned round to depart with the dignity of a tragedy queen, when Dunmore jumped up, caught her, and holding her wrist, walked off a little way from us.

“You like ’it one fine fellow red shirt, Lizzie?  Mine give you one with ‘plenty long tail’.  Baal any other gin along of camp have shirt like ’it you; and when piccaninny sit down” (for there was a prospect of her presenting Ferdinand with a little pledge of affection), “mine give that fellow two budgeree flour-bag shirts, suppose only you good fellow girl Lizzie.”

Evidently, Dunmore knew the way to the young lady’s heart —­ we nicknamed him “Faust” afterwards —­ for at the mention of the red shirt, with the lengthy tails, her eyes lost their fierceness, and the allusion to the piccaninny completed his victory, and changing at once from one extreme to the other, as only a black or a child can, Miss Lizzie took her seat in the circle, lighted her pipe, commenced nodding to, and chatting most affably with, her relatives, and looking so kind, that it seemed impossible to believe that an intense longing for bloodshed and cruelty had so shortly before lurked in the breast of the pretty, smiling little savage who was now beside us.