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CHAPTER XXVIII.
BROKEN TRAPS AND BREAKING HEARTS.
"Two paths lead upward from below,
And angels wait above.
Who count each burning life-drop's flow,
Each falling tear of love.
While Valour's haughty champions wait
Till all their scars are shown,
Love walks unchallenged through the gate,
To sit beside the Throne!"—O. W. Holmes.
"The day drags through, though storms keep out the sun;
Tom Lord had taken up "a twenty acre block" beside the lake, and was "graduating," so he termed it, "as a co-operative 'Cockie.'"
He had purchased "a Snowden blood warranted" quiet in saddle and harness. Since his memorable victory at the village races, Tom disported himself in most correct "bush" garb. A pair of immaculate riding-pants and top-boots, Crimean shirt with fiery-coloured "cummerbund," neck-scarf to match, had been procured from town. The hugest of cabbage-tree hat, swathed in pugaree, completed the little Englishman's outfit. Nay, we must not omit the long spurs, whose frequent collision with each opposing foot had left scars on either shining toe.
