was adjusted, the two men on the top and I in front on the third horse—we once more got under weigh, with many a groan from the old Berline.
We were almost in mid-stream, when, looking back, to my dismay I saw it was once more in difficulties—a trace was undone, and the horses, expecting the same performance as yesterday, were refusing and getting out of hand, but they had two to reckon with this time. In a trice Mr. Ross was on the Scorpion’s back, caught and fastened the trace, and turned their heads once more across stream; his own wise horse pretending to pull in front gave them confidence, and the Berline emerged on a shingle flat with no further mishaps.
The rest was easy. Two broad but shallow streams were crossed; then we got on a green flat on the far-side of the eastern Matukituki, and found it full of ambushments, old trenches, rabbit-holes, and other fruitful sources of disaster. At times the Berline threatened dissolution altogether. However, we were within sight of our new abode, and with expiring creaks and groans from its much-tried springs, we drew up in front of the door—and the perilous journey was over.
The Old Homestead stood on a little rise, under a group of dark, native trees. Immediately behind the paddocks at the back, the mountain rose in almost precipitous slopes, covered with trees, broken rock, and bracken—the last few hundred feet a series of step-like precipices. Deep ravines hid tumbling waterfalls in their dark depths—the
