The drays with which I was travelling (it was in the month of March, 1849) had arrived as far as Lake Boga, on the Lower Murray River, within a day's journey of our destination. We had halted for the night close to a sheep-station established there. In the course of the evening the gentleman in charge of it—Macfarlane was his name—walked over to our camp; and I was informed by him that Mr. Stevenson, the superintendent of the run I was about to visit, had on the previous day ridden over to meet me, and had only returned home that afternoon.

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