Camp-fire conversations have a trick of coming to an abrupt end without embarrassing any one.  As Dan sat looking into the fire, with his thoughts far away in the past, the Maluka began to croon contentedly at “Home, Sweet Home,” and, curled up in the warm, sweet nest of leaves, I listened to the crooning, and, watching the varying expression of Dan’s face, wondered if Mrs. Bob had any idea of the bright memories she had left behind her in the bush.  Then as the Maluka crooned on, everything but the crooning became vague and indistinct, and, beginning also to see into the heart of things, I learned that when a woman finds love and comradeship out-bush, little else is needed to make even the glowing circle of a camp fire her home-circle.

Without any warning the Maluka’s mood changed, “There is nae luck aboot her house, there is nae luck at a’,” he shouted lustily, and Dan, waking from his reverie with a start, rose to the tempting bait.

“No luck about her house!” he said.  “It was Mrs. Bob that had no luck.  She struck a good, comfortable, well-furnished house first go off, and never got an ounce of educating.  She was chained to that house as surely as ever a dog was chained to its kennel.  But it’ll never come to that with the missus.  Something’s bound to happen to Johnny, just to keep her from ever having a house.  Poor Johnny, though,” he added, warming up to the subject.  “It’s hard luck for him.  He’s a decent little chap.  We’ll miss him”; and he shook his head sorrowfully, and looked round for applause.

The Maluka said it seemed a pity that Johnny had been allowed to go to his fate; but Dan was in his best form.

“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” he said tragically.  “He’d have got fever if he’d stayed on, or a tree would have fallen on him.  He’s doomed if the missus keeps him to his contract.”

“Oh, well!  He’ll die in a good cause,” I said cheerfully and Dan’s gravity deserted him.

“You’re the dead finish!” he chuckled, and without further ceremony, beyond the taking off his boots, rolled into his mosquito net for the night.

We heard nothing further from him until that strange rustling hour of the night that hour half-way between midnight and dawn, when all nature stirs in its sleep, and murmurs drowsily in answer to some mysterious call.

Nearly all bushmen who sleep with the warm earth for a bed will tell of this strange wakening moment, of that faint touch of half-consciousness, that whispering stir, strangely enough, only perceptible to the sleeping children of the bush one of the mysteries of nature that no man can fathom, one of the delicate threads with which the Wizard of Never-Never weaves his spells.  “Is all well my children?” comes the cry from the watchman of the night; and with a gentle stirring the answer floats back “All is well.”