The dreaded hour of suffering found the wayward beauty once more under the roof which had sheltered her in her former time of trial, and once more she rested her head in penitence and appeal against her owner's shoulder.

Who could bear malice in the presence of such dreadful pain?
Not Star's owner, certainly.

Besides the home resources, a man on horseback was sent off to fetch a famous veterinary who chanced to be staying at a neighbouring station, and they both returned before Star's worst sufferings began.
All that skill and experience could do was done that night; but the morning light found the poor little grey mare dying from exhaustion, with another dead foal lying by her side.

She only lived a few hours later, in spite of stimulants and the utmost care, and died gently and peacefully, with those human hands whose lightest touch she had so flouted, ministering tenderly to her great needs.

The stockman had become so fond of the wayward beauty, in spite of her ingratitude, that the only solace he could find for his regret at her early death, lay in digging a deep grave for her, and carving the emblem of her pretty name on the rude stake which still marks the spot.
No account of station pets would be complete without a brief allusion to my numerous and unsuccessful attempts to rear merino lambs in the house.
It never was of any use advising me to leave the poor little creatures out on the bleak hill-side, if, in the course of my rambles after ferns or creepers, I came upon a dead ewe with her half-starved baby running round and round her.