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122 but no one could catch a word he said. Then there was one tremendous crack—we understood it—the iron-bark tree had gone over. At last, the shingled roof commenced to give. Several times the ends rose (and our hair too) and fell back into place again with a clap. Then it went clean away in one piece, with a rip like splitting a ribbon, and there we stood, affrighted and shelterless, inside the walls. Then the wind went down and it rained—rained on us all night.

Next morning Joe had been to the new fence for the axe for Dad, and was off again as fast as he could run, when he remembered something and called out, "Dad, old B-B-Bob 's just over there, lyin' down in the gully."

Dad started up. "It's 'im all right—I w-w-would n'ter noticed, on'y Prince's-s-smelt him."

"Quick and show me where!" Dad said.

Joe showed him.

"My God!" and Dad stood and stared. Old Bob it was—dead. Dead as Moses.

"Poor old Bob!" Dad said. "Poor—old—fellow!" Joe asked what could have killed him? "Poor—old—Bob!"

Dave brought the dray, and we took him to the house—or what remained of it.

Dad could n't make out the cause of death—perhaps it was lightning. He held a post-mortem, and, after thinking hard for a long while, told Mother he was certain,