and swirling beneath a suspension bridge. That afternoon we had a long walk, and later sat by the lake watching the hills change from blue to pink, and then to grey, and the last ray of sun touch the highest peak of snow. Then, as all the sky grew red, and the colours on earth faded and grew dead, we strolled back to supper, and to bed.
There were long, white bands of mist curling down over the hills next morning, but the sun shone gloriously over the lake, and we started—not so early as we might have—for Pukaki. Of that ride across the plains my remembrance is one of painful endurance. The nor’-wester was as the breath of a furnace and drove the dust in clouds along the track, or tracks, for the highway was at least as wide as four ordinary roads, and is simply made by driving on it. It was a thirty mile stage, and we cantered fast lest we and the horses should be grilled. When we came in sight of Pukaki we felt we must be at the end, but the road wound interminably round the wide bays, among enormous boulders, ice-borne in the days when the great glaciers reached out much farther than they do now. It was with intense relief we saw a patch of fir trees and the red inn close by the outlet of the lake, where we rode the horses into the water and got rid of the dusty sweat, and found we were in time for the mid-day meal. The place was full of shearers and tourists, and a bustle of coming and going. Later we went out
