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has written is that about ‘our useful officer and servant—I had almost said colleague—the horse.’ Is that how it goes? Well, we must ask our colleagues to move on a little faster, if we want to get there and back before dark.”

“How far have we to go?”

“Oh, not more than a mile or so. There is a little clearing just over that hill, and I expect we shall find our enchanted garden near it. Just stop for a moment now, and look back. Perhaps we shall never see this again. I for one must leave this country soon, and go back to India’s torrid clime, as our hymn-books call it.”

“You are going away?—Soon?”

“Yes. I have overstayed my welcome here, I’m afraid,” he said, looking straight at Alice. “I have wasted my time, and lost ground in my work. I begin to think I have been a fool—in fact, I am sure of it.”

This was not very enlivening, and it did not appear there was anyone to blame, except himself. Alice made no reply, but gazed instead on the dark hollows and purple slopes of the hills, as they flowed and interlaced in their wooded progress inland, only changing colour from the fluctuations of light and shade as the clouds floated over them. Here and there a scarlet-flowered rata-tree triumphed over the