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124 sunshine than it had been under the rain, and its wild, gruesome, devastated aspect reminded one of the merciless and relentless grey wastes of a stormy sea.

But from the higher grades of the ascent a more peaceful landscape was to be seen. The Battle-field lay below in all its chaotic abandonment, but above it, in a curved plateau half-hidden by the hills, was a green plain, so peaceful, so perfectly sheltered, in such vivid contrast to the grey hills around it, like an emerald in a setting of dull old silver, that one might have been forgiven for daring the snow-drifts and avalanches and landslips which, said Mr. Inspector, would menace it nearly all the year round, to make a home there. For close to it ran a sparkling stream from some mountain spring, just below was the quiet fern-hamlet, and all around the still grey hills, like sentinels to guard it from untoward winds and inclement weather. Who could believe that those very sheltering hills constituted the emerald plain’s gravest danger?

From the top of McKinnon’s Pass we looked down on our left into the fair and narrow Clinton Valley, with its silver ribbon glancing between lovely moss-green herbage, the valley winding gently between overhanging grey hill-tops to an opening where the sun had crimsoned the fleecy clouds in promise of a good morrow; on our right far below, lay the broad, bleak valley we had just traversed, wide as the Clinton was narrow, grey as the Clinton was green, but with a grand sublime beauty that awed where the other merely pleased. The majesty of its kingly mountains crowned with snow and ice created a hushed reverence in the very atmosphere, as though a noble life, ended, lay there in state, compelling all to silence by the stern dignity of its solemn grandeur.

And on the top of the Pass, where only four days ago we had painfully made our way through the snow, buffeted by a fierce wind, all was calm and smiling. Beautiful Alpine lilies invited our attention, sparkling stones all yellow with some mineral called out to be picked up and examined at least, if not carried away, and where we had seen nothing but a white bewildering field of snow was an innocent and hopeful grassy table-land.

A few miles more, easy down-hill miles, and we were once again on the banks of the Clinton. But the huts had been moved from Mintaro to a place called Pompolona, a few miles farther on, so that we were well satisfied with our day’s walk when at last we arrived there, having done thirty miles including the climb up the Pass.

We again made an early start next morning, a bright and sparkling morning fresh as early spring, and walked right through to Glade House but very leisurely, for this was the last we were to see of ferns and foliage for a long while to come.

And at three o’clock that afternoon when we were on the Te Anau steamer again, taking a farewell look at the snow-capped peaks and the wooded mountainsides with their silver streams and scarlet rata brightening the somewhat sombre leafage, Mrs Greendays exclaimed,

“I would not have missed it for the world, Tom!”