with vegetation richer than ever. Several ducks rose from the little creeks as we passed, and flocks of pigeons were flying in all directions. . . . The grasses are numerous, and many of them unknown to me, but they only constitute a moderate portion of the herbage; several kinds of spurious vetches and portulac, as well as salsolaceæ, add to the luxuriance of the vegetation. At seven miles, we found ourselves in an open forest country. . . . We soon emerged again on open plains. . . . At one spot we disturbed a fine bustard which was feeding in the long grass. I should have mentioned that one flew over our camp last evening in a northerly direction. This speaks well for the country and climate.

"January 12.-We started at five a. m., and keeping as nearly as possible a due north course, traversed for about eight miles a splendid flat, through which flow several fine, well-watered creeks, lined with white gum-trees."

On this day they entered a series of low, slaty sandstone hills which they called the Standish Ranges. The country they travelled through up to the 27th of January was filled with ranges of different elevations, some of which they experienced great difficulty in crossing -"the camels," Burke's brief notes tell us, "bleeding, sweating, and groaning." There was a continuous rise perceptible all the way in crossing the ranges, while the large ant-hills, which they met, afforded a proof, Father Woods remarks, that they were coming to the north coast.

On the 27th of January, they reached one of the sources of the River Flinders. Burke called the stream the Cloncurry, after Lord Cloncurry, to whom he was related. Here the country was everywhere fresh and green; palm-trees, bearing abundance of fruit just ripening, were numerous, and gave a most picturesque and pleasant appearance to the stream. One of the camels could not be got out of the soft bed of the channel, and had to be abandoned, as blacks were observed to be hiding in the box-trees close by, and there was danger in delay. During the succeeding days heavy rains poured down, and the ground became so soft that the camels could scarcely travel. Being convinced that they were now in the neighbourhood of the Gulf of Carpentaria, Burke determined (February 9th) to leave King and Gray at their 119th camp or resting-place, and proceed with Wills to the sea. He took with him the horse "Billy" and three days' provisions. In crossing a stream "Billy" sank so deeply in a quicksand as to be unable to stir; the only means they found efficacious for extricating him was "by undermining him on the creek side and lunging him into the water." The hole thus made served afterwards to point out the route followed by the explorers. They called this stream Billy's Creek.

Travelling due north, they arrived at an open plain covered with water, which was ankle deep. From inequalities in the ground, the water sometimes reached the knees. After wading through this for several miles, they came to a hard, well-trodden path which had been formed by the blacks. This path led to a forest, through which flowed a pretty water-course. They found a number of yams (the dioscorea of

Carpentaria), which the blacks had dug up and rejected, but which sharp hunger made the explorers eat with great relish. About half a mile farther on, they saw a black resting by his camp-fire, whilst his gin (wife) and picaninny (child) were chatting beside him. "We stopped for a short time," says the Diary, "to take out the pistols that were on the horse, and to give them time to see us before we were so near as to frighten them. Just after we stopped, the black got up to stretch his limbs, and after a few seconds looked in our direction. It was very amusing to see the way in which he stared, standing for some time as if he thought he must be dreaming; and then having signalled to the others, they dropped on their haunches and shuffled off in the quietest manner possible. Near their fire was a fine hut, the best I have ever seen. . . . Hundreds of wild geese, plover, and pelicans, were enjoying themselves in the water-courses on the marsh, all the water on which was too brackish to be drinkable, except some holes that are filled by the stream that flows through the forest. The neighbourhood of this encampment is one of the prettiest we have seen during the journey. Proceeding on our course across the marsh, we came to a channel through which the sea-water enters. Here we passed three blacks, who, as is universally their custom, pointed out to us, unasked, the best part down. This assisted us greatly, for the ground we were taking was very boggy. We moved slowly down, about three miles, and then camped for the night."

They did not succeed in gaining sight of the open sea, as the swampy nature of the ground impeded their progress, and a forest of mangroves to the north cut off the view. They determined, however, to proceed as far as possible, hoping to gaze upon the wide waters of the Gulf of Carpentaria. They left the horse hobbled, and walked fifteen miles down the river Flinders, but they failed to reach the beach; this caused them no great concern, as they found that the tide regularly ebbed and flowed, and that the water was quite salt.

What their feelings of triumph were at the successful accomplishment of their undertaking, may be more easily imagined than described. They had completely crossed the Australian Continent from south to north; they had succeeded in the enterprise that had baffled so many others, and performed a deed which would make their name famous to the end of time. They had braved the dangers, and opened up the depths of that immense region, over which mystery had so long hung, and which was wont to excite so much curiosity. They had demonstrated that the vast central tract of Australia, far from being the waste it was hitherto considered contained myriads of fertile acres, fit for the habitation of man, and, perhaps, destined hereafter to be the abode of millions of civilized human beings.

The other half-unloving seems,

With well-weighed word and measured mien;

But love within her gentle breast

For ever flutters, though unseen:
And gaily reigns she over all—
The rose, by right a queen.

Surely my heart were cold and hard
Unless it held you passing dear,
My peerless lily, and my rose;
Did it not throb to know you near;
Did I not all your words and ways
Love, cherish, and revere.

For you have been far more to me
Than I could dare to dream or ask:
Your eyes the light by which I see
Through worldly mist and folly's mask;
Your love the coveted reward
Of life's unfinished task.

"AFTER a search so long and anxious, is this my reward ?" asked Lucas Plunkett, reproachfully.

We intrude upon a conversation he held with the elder of his cousins, early in the day that followed his discovery of their abode.

"I am grateful for the anxiety you have shown. I can but offer my gratitude and my thanks; a further reward it is not in my power to bestow," replied the lady.

"Why mock me with this coldness, Mary? You know you have it in your power to repay any sacrifice I could make."

"Mr. Plunkett," she returned, "I will not pretend to mistake your meaning. Let me speak to you plainly, and put an end to a suit which can only be a source of disquiet and distress to both of us. My hand I will not give without my heart, and this can never be yours. Do not ask me to explain why it is so; it will be better for yourself and for me that you should not. If you would show yourself a friend, urge me no further. Be kind, and do not require me to repeat again a refusal which can never be retracted."

With all her affected firmness, Mary Dillon found it impossible wholly to conceal her agitation. She trembled visibly, her face was deadly pale, its pallor being rendered more striking by contrast with the mourning weeds she wore. She had reason to dread the effect of her answer on the wrathful temper of her suitor. Somewhat to her surprise it evoked no display of anger.

"If I have been persevering," he said, quietly, "it was because you encouraged me to hope."

"How or when have I done so ?" she asked, with astonishment. "You promised that if the day should come when you would need my protection I might offer it, and not be rejected. I have waited for it long, but that day is come at length."

"Pardon me, I did not promise thus."

"Even thus, and by the side of your father's bier."

"No, no," she answered, with a shudder, as the recollection of that dreadful night came back upon her. "Such was not the promise I gave; but, even though it were, I am not friendless yet.”

"You do not know what dangers are before you," said Plunkett, ominously.

"I know that there is danger, but where shall we be more secure than we are here?"

"Secure!" returned Plunkett, with disdain; "do you think these shaking walls can withstand the cannon of Ireton, or that O'Neill's famished creaghts can hold them against his Ironsides? Bah! He will enter Limerick as easily as his father-in-law entered Drogheda or Wexford. And then

"And then ?" "And then

-" said her cousin, in a whisper, "you may form an idea of what will follow, if you know what happened in Drogheda and in Wexford. To be an inhabitant of the city is punished with death-to be young and beautiful, with worse."

Alas! she knew the cruel tale but too well. For months it had formed the theme of every evening story told round the firesides of Ireland; and it had never failed to drive the blood from the faces of the listeners; it had chilled much stouter hearts than that of this poor, defenceless maiden.

"But oh! these horrors do not threaten us here," she said, fixing her eyes appealingly on her cousin.

Her cousin was unmoved by her distress. She was in his power, and it was well that she should understand it clearly.

"Alas! Mary," he answered, "you may soon hear the cannon which will announce their coming. I cannot say how far Ireton has advanced, but I can tell you he is on the road. Perhaps even now his trumpeters may be riding towards the walls to summon the city. The message, I know for certain, will be in vain. The stubborn fools that hold the gates, and the senseless rabble that swarms in the streets, led by friars and fanatics, are bent on resistance. They will be treated as they deserve. The gibbet awaits all of them that shall escape the bullet or the pike-head. Let the carrion be gibbeted, it matters not; but their folly will involve the innocent in their punishment."

"Yes, yes, I see it all," assented the frightened girl; "but there is yet time

"Time!" broke in Plunkett, with triumphant confidence; "there is not time. Hear but this. Even should Ireton spare the town a few days longer, we gain nothing. A deadlier foe is in the midst of us, and has begun his ravages already."

"What mean you?"

"The plague is in the city."

At the name of that dreaded scourge, more terrible than even the sword of the Parliament, the forlorn girl could only clasp her hands in hopeless distress, and exclaim:

"My God, how we are afflicted!"

Plunkett was not dissatisfied with the results his communications had produced, and calmly proceeded:

"Ay, and it has already quitted the hovels where it began, and is striking now at other victims. This morning, on my way hither, I was jostled on the pavement by one of those Ulster hobbelers who strut about the street. I thought the ruffian was drunk, and pushed