CHAPTER XXVII.
THE GOLDEN VINEYARD.
On a summer's morning, almost before the dew had left the grass on the north side of the forest, or the belated opossum had gone to his nest, in fact just as the East was blazing with its brightest fire, Sam started off for a pleasant canter through the forest, to visit one of their out-station huts, which lay away among the ranges, and which was called, from some old arrangement, now fallen into disuse, "the heifer station." There was the hut, seen suddenly down a beautiful green vista in the forest, the chimney smoking cheerily.

"What a pretty contrast of colours!" says Sam, in a humour for enjoying everything.

"Dark brown hut among the green shrubs, and blue smoke rising above all; prettily, too, that smoke hangs about the foliage this still morning, quite in festoons.

There's Matt at the door!" A lean long-legged clever-looking fellow, rather wide at the knees, with a brown complexion, and not unpleasant expression of face, stood before the door plaiting a cracker for his stockwhip.

He looked pleased when he saw Sam, and indeed it must be a surly fellow indeed, who did not greet Sam's honest phiz with a smile.