Then, this service rendered for the man who had done what he could for his comrade, his strong, unflinching heart turned back to its labour of love, and, all else being done, found relief for itself in softening and smoothing the rough outline of the newly piled mound, and as the man toiled, Mother Nature went on with her work, silently and sweetly healing the scar on her bosom, hiding her pain from the world, as she shrouded in starry crimson the burial place of her brave, enduring son—­a service to be renewed from day to day until the mosses and grasses grew again.

But there were still other services for the mate to render and as the bush-folk stood aside, none daring to trespass here, a rough wooden railing rose about the grave.  Then the man packed his comrade’s swag for the last time, and that done, came to the Maluka, as we stood under the house verandah, and held out two sovereigns in his open palm.  The man was yet a stranger to the ways of the Never-Never.

“I’ll have to ask for tick for meself for awhile,” he said “But if that won’t pay for all me mate’s had there’s another where they came from.  He was always independent and would never take charity.”

The hard lines about his mouth were very marked just then, and the outstretched hand seemed fiercely defiant but the Maluka reading in it only a man’s proud care for a comrade’s honour, put it gently aside, saying:  “We give no charity here; only hospitality to our guests.  Surely no man would refuse that.”

They speak of a woman’s delicate tact.  But daily the bushman put the woman to shame, while she stood dumb or stammering.  The Maluka had touched the one chord in the man’s heart that was not strained to breaking point, and instantly the fingers closed over the sovereigns, and the defiant hand fell to his side, as with a husky “Not from your sort, boss,” he turned sharply on his heel; and as he walked away a hand was brushed hastily across the weary eyes.

With that brushing of the hand the inevitable reaction began, and for a little while we feared we would have another sick traveller on our hand.  But only for a little while.  After a day or two of rest and care his strength came back, but his thoughts were ever of those seven years of steadfast comradeship.  Simply and earnestly he spoke of them and of that mother, all unconscious of the heartbreak that was speeding only too surely to her.  Poor mother!  And yet those other two nameless graves on that little rise deep in the heart of the bush bear witness that other mothers have even deeper sorrows to bear.  Their sons are gone from them, and they, knowing nothing of it, wait patiently through the long silent years for the word that can never come to them.