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little streams that here and there found a way out to the sea were blinded with ferns, and muffled in from all light of sun or moon by the sombre unchanging southern forest.

Every country has its own stamp and nationality of woodland. In England the soft misty English sunlight appears to pervade the very trees themselves, and softens every outline with its tender chiaroscuro. In Australia the pale transparent foliage, the strong sunshine which seems to absorb every spot of shade as well as every drop of moisture, the wild dry wind , and warm atmosphere all give an impression of life and freedom, and have a peculiar native charm of their own. But these South Pacific forests abide in a semi-tropical density and darkness, undisturbed by flying shapes of sun and shadow. There is no variation between the “night of green of the bush” and the “sacred high eternal moon” of the open peaks.

There was a certain pleasure in being together again, and they loved this wild nature so well that the primeval woods seemed to breathe “an ampler ether, a diviner air,” to them both. The vague cloud that had hung between them was for the moment dispelled, and they talked together in the happy open companionship of former days. Yet all the world might have