All day long an incessant stream of women-folk kept coming to the hut and inquiring after my dying wife.
It seemed to be Yamba's sole anxiety that I should be well equipped for the journey back to civilisation.

She would rehearse with me for hours the various methods adopted by the black-fellows to find water; and she reminded me that my course at first was to be in a southerly direction until I came to a region where the trees were blazed, and then I was to follow the track that led westward.

She had elicited this information for me from the blacks with remarkable acuteness.
These last days seemed to pass very quickly, and one night the dying woman had a serious relapse.

Hitherto she had always addressed me as "Master," but now that she stood in the Valley of the Shadow she would throw her arms about my neck and whisper softly, "Good-bye, _my husband_.
Good-bye, I am going--going--going.

I will wait for you--there." For myself I could not seem to realise it.