As we were sitting in the tent after dinner, with our tea still before us, I said to him, “I am afraid, Browne, from what I have observed, that you have mistaken the object for which I have returned to the Depot, and that you have been buoying yourself up with the hope that it is done preparatory to our return to Adelaide; for myself I cannot encourage any such hope for the present, at least.  So far indeed from this, I have for some time been reflecting as to the most prudent course to be pursued under our present circumstances; for, I would not conceal from you the pain I have felt at the failure of our endeavours to penetrate farther than we have been able to do into the interior, neither can I conceal from myself the fact, that whatever our personal exertions, the results of our labours have not been commensurate with our expectations, and that however great our perseverance or however difficult the task we have had to perform, the world at large will alone judge of its merits by its success.  In considering how we can yet retrieve our misfortunes, one only step occurs to me, and whatever pain our separation may cost us, I am sure, where the interests of the services call for it, you will readily comply with my wishes.  I propose, then, your return to Adelaide, with all the party but three; that you should leave me five horses, and take with you only such provisions as you may absolutely require upon the road.  By such an arrangement I might yet hold out against the drought, and ultimately succeed in doing something to make up for the past.”  My young friend was evidently unprepared for the proposition I had made.  “You have done all you were sent out to do,” he observed, “why then seek to penetrate again into that horrid desert?  It is impossible that you can succeed during the continuance of the dry weather.  If you now go you will never get back again; besides, have you,” he asked, “made any calculations as to the means both of provisions and carriage you will require?” “That,” I replied, “is for my consideration, but I have done so, and it appears to me that both are ample.”  “Well,” said Mr. Browne, “it may be so, I do not know, but I can never consent to leave you in this dreadful desert.  Ask me to do anything else, and I will do it; but I cannot and will not desert you.”  It was in vain that I assured him, he took a wrong view of the matter.  That, as I had sent Mr. Poole home to increase my means, so I wished to send him, and that he would be rendering me as valuable, though not such agreeable service, as if he continued with me.  “You know, Browne,” I added, “that the eyes of the geographical world are fixed on me, and that I have a previous reputation to maintain; with you it is different.  If I hoped to make any discovery I would not ask you to leave me.  Believe me, I would that you shared the honour as you have shared the privations and anxieties of this desert with me; but I entertain no such hope, and would save you from further exposure.  I have not seen enough