to these mountain places, and she gathered them and brought them to Blake with all the interest of a child. There were trees with a glossy green leaf and bright orange seed pods, and there was another plant with a cone of brilliant crimson berries. "I wonder what sort of flower they had," she said. "If one only knew in autumn what things were like in spring."
"Do you know," he said, "that there is a great philosophical problem underneath that remark of yours? If one could only know in autumn what had been the promise of the spring. If in the spring one could only know what the autumn would bring forth, one might in that case make a better thing out of life."
"Oh!" she cried, "to know in spring what the autumn is going to bring forth! It would he terrible. It would spoil life. I should hate it. I don't want to know anything. I want to live from day to day, never looking forward."
"So that is your theory! The mere joy of life contents you?"
"No, no," she cried, impetuously. "I say so, but it is not true. I want much more than the mere joy of life. I am always looking forward—always wondering what is going to happen—always inventing situations—always expecting people who never by any chance come along."
"What sort of people?" he asked.
"The people who apparently live in romance, and not in real life," she answered lightly.
There was a "Coo-ee" from below. Elsie peeped over the ledge.
"They are coming. Now we are going to where the horses are waiting."
"They will not be waiting yet. Pompo and the black boys have to lead them a good three miles round the ridge."
"And we have to climb down this ridge. Do you know the way?" she asked.
"No, but I am as good a bushman, I think, as most
