I was seriously considering, but my hospitable host made light of it, thus—
"We will have a walk and look at the stars while my wife goes to bed, and then, when I am in bed, I will give you a signal; you will find blankets and a pillow on the settee." So after the signal aforesaid I went in, and was beginning to make myself comfortable when, from behind the blanket screen, came a voice: "Oh, I forgot to tell you, I've had no time to make a door; please fasten up a blanket in the doorway; there are no nails, but you can do it with forks."
Morning came, and with it an incursion of fowls, pushing their way under the blanket in search of food. Got up to do my share of housework, tidied up, built and lit a fire, and set the table for breakfast, when my host called out: "Would you mind taking baby with you for a stroll whilst we dress?" Fortunately the child took kindly to me and was quite content. Mr. Moorhouse, my host, I find, is a duly qualified medical man who has taken to sheep farming, doing also occasional practice with neighbours. After breakfast he guided me on horseback to the only available ford in the Rangitata, "the river of coming day,"—an appropriate name, as it issues from a mysterious mountain gorge, guarded on either side by snow-clad peaks, and rushes down seaward over rocks and boulders, sparkling in the sunlight, bright and clear. He could not come with me, but showed me where to enter and make for the landing-place, a good way up stream. "Let your horse pick his way; don't hurry him; don't look at the water." Acting on his advice, with some trepidation, I reached the other side, and found C. Tripp watching my progress.
