way. The Torlesse range lay grey and lifeless beyond the green paddocks and the crops round the homestead, and as we got among the stony hills the mist rolled down, alternating with bursts of sunshine. Everywhere stony rivers ran at the bottom of dreary valleys, with drearier hills rising up to stonier mountains, none over 6,000 feet, and all desolate. And when the afternoon came on, the rain came too, and we rode with heads down against a tearing south-west storm, that deluged us with sheets of water. Those were forty-four long miles. I only remember a wet stony road, the brim of my hat pouring a veil of water across my eyes and Transome’s figure in front in a long black oilskin and sou'-wester, bearing an absurd likeness to a fireman who had been played upon by the hose.
But all things come to an end, and we saw the welcome end-gable of the Bealey Hotel on a rise above us. The greeting we got was characteristic:
“Och! what-iver brought yees out such weather? It’s been raining here for a fortnight, and more! Shure this was a mad journey for yees to be making! Dear, dear!”
But once inside, our kind host and hostess gave us a warm welcome for they knew us well, and I was set down beside a roaring fire, my wet coat removed, and being offered “something hot” to drink, before I well knew where I was.
It made no matter that the hotel was already
