still ran among the hills, and broken sheds there were, and sometimes a rusty engine; but the diggers had moved across the river, and we met no one.
The valley below us lay in a mist like thin blue smoke, through which the tree-tops pierced like domes and spires; high above the evening shadows two snowy domes were touched with rose and saffron. But the light soon faded, and our road wound down between the blackened tree-stumps to a forlorn little mining town of wretched wooden houses. It was called Dillmanstown, and seemed to be all saloons and “pubs,” and these mostly shut up. Vainly we looked among them for anything that seemed to promise a night’s shelter. When we asked for such, the men and women at the corner of the street stared at us increduously. Then they consulted together, and one sent for his wife, who appeared at the door with a baby in her arms. Giving us one look, she remarked shortly: “It’s Kumara they want. This isn’t Kumara! Go on a mile, and you’ll come to it.” So we went on what seemed a long mile in the dark, and came to Kumara, with quite a large hotel and ample accommodation for man and beast. Next morning saw us off early, for we had forty-one miles to cover. It was a still, grey English day, making the bush look colourless and cold, and the desolate diggings more desolate than ever. We passed little settlements with most of the houses shut up, or this part of the country has been worked out.
