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MEMORIES OF MY LIFE

FROM MY EARLY DAYS IN SCOTLAND TILL
THE PRESENT DAY IN ADELAIDE

By Mrs. J. S. O. ALLEN

ADELAIDE
J. L. BONYTHON & CO., "THE ADVERTISER" OFFICE
King William Street
1906

DEDICATED

TO

THE LADIES OF SOUTH AUSTRALIA.

In a sense I am no stranger to you. It may be asked why I should bring the names of people and the incidents of my life into book-form. Loneliness is the principal cause. What would become of me if I could not recall past years. I have written something of the history of what I have lived through. Many times over I have promised to write a cookery book from my colonial experience—I am talking about cookery all day. I try to live on recollection, although occasionally it hurts me. Many will discern in these pages some of the observations they have listened to while I have been giving lessons on cookery. It has been habitual to me to allude to by-gone days and customs.

Mrs. J. S. O. ALLEN.

77 Tynte Street,
North Adelaide.

CONTENTS.

Memories of My Life

FROM MY EARLIEST DAYS IN SCOTLAND TILL
THE PRESENT DAY IN ADELAIDE.

MY FIRST PLACE.

We did not talk of a "situation" in those days but of a place. My sister, who was a few years older than I, was out at a place five miles from where we lived. She came home, as she had not been well, and my father sent me to tell the people that Mary could not return for a few days. They asked me if I could stay in her stead till she was better. I was quite willing, provided that my father would allow me. They obtained my father's consent, as he said if I was any use they could keep me; so at the age of ten I began to be a house-servant.

We had no mother. She died when I was six years of age. The name of the town was Denny, not far from Falkirk. The people with whom I went to live were bakers and confectioners in a large way. With their sons and journeymen and apprentices, in addition to the master, there were, all told, 12 men living on the establishment, and the mistress, with one daughter and myself, did all the work, except that a woman came to help with the washing. Some of the journeymen and two apprentices slept over the granary or store where the flour and other materials were kept. Every night at 10 o'clock those men and boys had to be in their room; one of my duties was to see that the door was locked and to bring the keys to the master. The mistress would bring them to me again in the morning at 4 o'clock, when I had to run up this long stone stair and open the door and tell the men it was time to get up. I always went back to bed again till 6 o'clock.

It was a busy house. There was a large shop facing the front street, with two windows filled with beauteous cakes and confectionery. There were five carts to load up every morning, for the establishment served the locality for miles round with bread.

Stirling town was not far off, and the neighborhood was full of historical events. The battlefield of Bannockburn was close by, and also an old castle; I was told that once it was the stronghold of Bruce and Wallace. I liked to wander through the old ruins on my way home from Sunday-school. I got to like the place, and they were kind to me. It was not displeasing to me when I learned that I could stop there for a time and that my sister would live at home. I used to go home about once a month. There were no tramcars or conveyance of any kind on that wild moorland. Nothing but heather met the eye all the way from Denny to Slamannan, which was the name of the village I came from. The Edinburgh and Glasgow railway ran through it, and we could see Stirling Castle from our door.

I did not have much wages, but the mistress saw to my clothes and made some of them. I was taught to be careful and useful. One of the things I liked was to go into the shop window to hand out all the nice cake and confections. The work of bakers and confectioners has moved forward by great strides since then. For weeks and weeks the daughter of the house and myself had to help in the work-shop while some of the men and one of the apprentices were away ill with measles.

I shall never forget the first morning I went to the bakehouse. There was a long trough, which stretched the full length of the bakehouse. Overhead there was a strong beam of timber, with ropes hanging down for a balance. In this big trough I saw six men with their trousers up to the knees, and they were tramping in the dough to make the bread. I put up my hands and gave a scream, and someone threw a flour bag at my head. I felt as if I did not want to eat any more bread. I did not like the way that they made bread, but I soon got interested in other beautiful work which was done, and I had to help. What I learned then I have never forgotten.

The master told the mistress that she was not to give me any wages, as I was learning more than the apprentices. So he said I was to have no wages, but that I would have to pay him some "sil-ler" for what I was learning. When he said "sil-ler" he meant money. I knew the apprentices had to pay when they were bound for so long a period. Time went on and I was happy.

There was one daughter who had a runaway marriage, sometime before I went there to live. The old folks had forgiven her and she and her husband came on a visit. It was the first since the elopement, and everyone seemed pleased to see her again. Even I, the little maid, was allowed to enjoy the gay times. They came from Glasgow, and had seen some style in city life. The gentleman brought with him an apparatus for taking photographs. It was the first ever seen in Denny. They fixed up a studio in the garden for him, but he did not take photographs to make money, but only as a pastime. It made quite a stir in the place. Ministers and doctors and all kinds of people came to see this wonderful thing. I will add here that this was 46 years ago. Things are different now. I had my photograph taken without my knowledge.

I was sent with a cup of coffee on a tray in the morning as so many people were round that the gentleman could not come to breakfast. Just as I got to the gate I was told to stand still and look straight at what proved to be the camera. I was told to wait and get something to take back to give to Miss Isabel, and to ask her to put it in the shop window. I carefully carried back the parcel, never thinking it was my own photograph I had. It was taken on glass, and in some way it seemed to have a kind of tar put on. However, there I was, holding on to the tray, and on either side by the gate stood the doctor of the town and the Congregational minister. After I gave the picture to the young lady I could hear roars of laughing. All the bakers came running from the bakehouse to the shop, and I saw the people staring at the window. So I went to look, and when I saw my own picture was exhibited there I cried till they took it out of the window. That was my first photograph. I never saw it again.

I was interested in all I saw. It was new to me after our poor home. I had one little brother three years younger than myself, and one sister four years older. Father became addicted to drink after mother's death. It was agreed that my sister and myself should go to service in alternate years. So I was to stop at my first place for two half years, or two terms of six months each. That was how you were engaged then. If you left your place before the term expired you were liable to be arrested, or at any rate, you would forfeit your wages.

LIFE'S BATTLE BEGINS.

To me life's battles began at the age of 10 years. I was known all about as Baker Miller's "wee maid." The family all attended the Congregational Church, and I had to go also. The minister's name was Dr. Jeffrey. The "Manse" was close by, and I was often sent there with messages. Dr. Jeffrey was a bachelor. I would find him sometimes digging in the garden, dressed up very queerly. He liked to tease me about having my photograph, which was taken with him that morning at the gate. What attracted my attention to him was his hair. It was in long ringlets, hanging down on his shoulders, and parted in the middle. When he was working in the garden or preaching his hair would hang down beautifully, like that of a lady. I went to his Sunday-school, and some words from him helped me, too, to face the future.

I can truthfully say that I only knew the alphabet, and how to read from a little spelling book, some words to my mother who died a few days after I was six years old. My greatest misfortune has been the want of schooling. There was a school in Slamannan, but it was a mile from where we lived, and there was no one to care whether we went or not. People were not compelled to send their children to school in those days. I could read some easy words in the Bible and Testament. What I could not make out I would ask someone to tell me. There were family prayers every Sunday morning and evening, and all had to attend, or at least all who lived in the house. We had to read a verse each as it came to our turn all through the chapter, either in the Bible or the Testament, as the master gave it out. I did try to be able to read my verse, for fear that the apprentice boys would laugh at me—how I used to hope that my verse would be an easy one. I was fond of reading, and they gave me nice books, while there were so many old places about in connection with the "History of Scotland" that it was pleasant to read about the deeds that were done, and then to go and look at the ruins.

As the time went on I grew strong and hardy, and there was plenty of good food. All had porridge and milk in the morning, with plenty of hot scones and butter, and relishes of some sort. There was no waste, and the mistress was a good cook. I was told that when she and her husband began business that she did all the fancy cooking. Even in my time she did a lot of things for the bakehouse. I used to help with the raisins and currants and lemon-peel, and the meat for the raised Scotch mutton pies and so on. Those Scotch pies produced more profit than any other item in their trade. When I come to think of it, even now, I remember that Saturday was the only day they made them. The large boards, on which the bakers used to carry the bread into the shop, would hold about eight or ten dozen raised mutton pies which were sold for two-pence each. Ever so many of the great boards were filled with pies and sent to meet orders all around. There was a fair in Denny every six months. Talk about pies! There were no clothing factories or shirt factories in Denny. There were, however, some cotton mills, to which I used to see so many poor-looking people going every morning when I was attending to the front of the shop and the private entrance. I often thought to myself that I was better off than them. The girls had no hats, and some of them had no boots, and they looked wistfully into the shop window. I know they were hungry.

There were no sewing machines in those days. If a man wanted a suit made he would employ a tailor. The tailor would bring an apprentice boy and a large iron, called a "goose," and they would be there ever so long. Sometimes they worked on the kitchen table. Everything was made by hand; there was no machinery. I saw two dress suits made for the young gentlemen of the house. While I recollect how they made the outside clothing, it was evident to me that the tailors did not make the men's shirts and under-garments. These were made by women, and if a man's wife could not make his shirts, as well as wash and iron them, she would be the talk of the place. Quite wee "lassies" could knit their own and their father's or brothers' stockings. The wool was not dear. At a date more remote they used to spin their own wool. There was often to be seen in some lumber place the old discarded "spinning-wheel." Alloway was famed for its fingering wool. The women of to-day should be thankful to see how nicely they can dress their children and themselves.

I often recall the apparel of the dim past. You could see well-to-do farmers' wives come to church, wearing a lilac or print gown in the summer, and in the winter it was replaced by a "linzewince," with a plaid or kind of woollen cloth or shawl. This was two yards long and two yards wide, and was folded to hang three-cornerwise down the back from the shoulders. And then the boys and the girls. I remember well seeing quite big boys with petticoats and pinafores when 6 or 7 years old. I do not mean the "kilt." It was just the same as that the girls wore. Of course the mother could make things like that when she could not do the needlework of tweed. There never was a time previously when dress was so becoming for all as it is at present. Think of the old grandfathers with knee-breeches and long stockings. I only saw my grandfather once, and that is how he was dressed.

To say that I was always happy and had an easy life would not be true. I was often in tears and in disgrace. I would break some thing, or put things where they could not be found. I felt as if I belonged to nobody, and would have a cry to myself. Still, I must confess that I received kindly appreciation from all. The only daughter was about to be married, and I knew that neither myself nor my sister would be old enough to do the work when that time came. A healthy body makes a healthy mind whether happy or not, so I began to think of going home after Miss Isabel was married. What I had seen of my father did not comfort me. My heart cried out for someone to show me how to write. Miss Isabel was giving me lessons on a slate. From all I remember of our home life in looking back into the past, after all these years, I know that I did my best to gain instruction. I tried my hardest to find out for myself the way to do things.

The months passed by, bringing the New Year. Christmas time was not much spoken of then. My master noticed how earnest I was, and must have thought that I should learn the baking. I could see that Miss Isabel could work in the bakehouse like the men. I got to like going there, too. What a time we had getting cakes ready for the new year. I remember that one bedroom had the carpet taken up and all the furniture removed and the floor cleaned, while the cakes were put in, and built on some framework nearly to the ceiling.

It was the custom to give to the customers at New Year's time a fruit cake. They called it a currant bun, but sometimes it weighed from 2 to 4 lb. There were all sorts of fruit in them, with boxes and boxes full of raisins, candied peel, currants, and all sorts of spices. All of these were prepared in the kitchen, and I used to help often till late at night. I know that they were not iced like the Christmas cakes we see here. But those bakers could do some lovely work with sugar. What I saw then has been valuable and important to me all through my life to this date, which proves that a special interest in the usefulness of cooking may become a part of a young girl's training, as much as reading or writing. I have been teacher of cookery for many years now, and I teach without a textbook. Instead of giving pupils recipes, I teach that which I have tried and proved by experience.

But I must keep to the bygone days. It was customary when there was a funeral in the neighborhood, and the people were not too poor, for them to send an order for a special kind of sponge biscuits, which had to be made at once. Sometimes such a large quantity was wanted that all hands had to help. If there were frost and snow about it was hard to whip up the eggs, so they used to get a good-sized cask, half fill it with hot water, and stand the mixing basin on that. The steam from the water helped in the whisking of the eggs. If there were no heat the eggs would be frozen while whisking. It was always my duty to whip the eggs. Then some skilled hand would come and put in some of the sugar, and keep on putting in more sugar time after time till the specific weight was used. Then the flour was added. At last I got so experienced that I could add the sugar myself by the appearance of the eggs, and, eventually, I could add the flour and take the basin of mixture to the bakehouse all ready to drop into the desired shape. I make sponge cakes in the same way yet, only here we require no hot water.

I RETURN HOME.

I may burn this some day, but still I will put down the story, or, at least, those parts that are most essential. I have no literary attainments fitting me to write a long book, though my memory would furnish me with plenty of material. I was in comfort and luxury in my first place, yet I longed to go back to my humble home and to my wee brother, who had not got into "pants" yet.

Miss Isabel got married before I left, and as I continue my story I will have to tell some more about her. I got to like her so much that I would do anything she asked me. I knew she liked to see things look bright and clean, so I felt happy to be able to shine anything that I could. They gave me some wages, and the time came when I was to leave. I had on my best things, with the rest of my clothes tied up in a parcel, which was not very heavy. So I walked from Denny to Falkirk to spend my first money. It was not the only time I had been to that town. I used to visit it with father when he bought things for us, so I bought something for everyone at home, and my dear brother in particular.

I can remember my thoughts yet. I was a good deal worried about my prospects. If I only had an oven I could make Scotch mutton pies to sell in the village. The face that I made some subsequently serves to show that knowledge and perception can be stamped on the mind of youth.

And so I found myself at home. My sister went to a place close by at a farm. She had to help with cows and work in the field.

I remember I used to go and see her. They had all sorts of things growing. Corn, wheat, and flax, which I liked to see. They pulled it up by the root and let it stand tied up in bundles. When it was dry it was thrown into a pond of water, formed by an inlet from the stream, and left there till it got soft and pulpy. Then it was drawn out and left on the bank to dry. The Scotch named the flax lint, and when the water in the lint hole was drained off the smell was something awful. I think I can smell it yet. What excited my imagination was that they told me that the beautiful fine white linen was made from flax, or otherwise "lint." It was taken in to the barn or hay house and thrashed by means of a "flail," an instrument used then for thrashing corn or wheat. There was no machinery for that purpose, at least in that district. This "flail" looked like two broom-handles, and was as long with a hinge in the middle. I never saw a woman doing the thrashing. It was always done by a strong man, but the women did a lot of work from the first. Quite young girls, from 12 years old upwards, were employed in pulling up the "lint." They got 4d. or 6d. a day. It seemed hard work. I never tried it, but I used to look on. Then, after it was thrashed, both old and young women would be employed tousing or pulling it out. After this "flailing" it was no longer a plant nor lint, but was called "tow." Then it had to be carded. I helped with the carding, which is slow work. Then I saw them spinning this tow into threads. It was no uncommon sight to see several women carry their spinning-wheels to a neighbor's house in the long winter evenings, and spin and laugh.

I never got the length of trying to spin. I did love to sit and watch those that spun. There was the nice humming of the wheel, with no noise to distract the reason or the nerve. When I think of it I see the women sitting upright. It looked so easy, the wheel being very light, and made of wood for the most part. There was no bending over. I have compared the attitude since then with the attractive way a lady sits at the harp. It is so graceful, and just like the spinning-wheel.

I may add here that a river in Scotland is always known as a "burn." The water is not hard, and the people did not have water taps in their wee houses, so we had to go to the burn for water. That would do for odd things and washing. Just think of it. This lint water went into the burn! Nobody wanted to wash clothes till that rolled off to the sea.

In the summertime the housewives would bring their washing to the burnside and make a fire, and that was quite a picture. They would have a big tub, and they washed the blankets in this way. They had the water hot with soap melted in it. Then they put in the blankets, and a woman would take off her shoes and stockings (that is, if she had any on), and go in and tramp on the blankets. Young children were there as well as their elders, as the mothers could look after them, or they could be otherwise protected. We were not afraid of anybody with a camera taking snapshots, as such a machine was then unknown. I have also washed in that fashion.

I would not have anyone think that the burn was the only water we had. Close by there were more than one beautiful well of spring water, but we had to carry it. Those who lived near the wells were best off. We had a yoke with a wooden frame shaped to rest on the shoulders. A portion of rope hung from each end with an iron hook to hold the vessel for water. The rope could be adjusted so as to make it suitable for a tall or short person. I have seen Chinamen carrying their wares as we once carried the water. It was the same in all the country places. But as if to make up for the water carrying we had no wood to chop, the coal being so plentiful and cheap. There were numerous coalpits all round and ironstone. We had not long lived there.

I could just remember the nice home we had when my mother lived. Everything seemed so changed. The little house we lived in was at the end of a long row of houses all of the same size. The railway going through from Glasgow to Edinburgh passed close by. How I used to look out for the train, and particularly if the Queen was expected to pass. I only saw her once with Prince Albert. That was at the inauguration of the Loch Katrine water supply. Previously Glasgow had obtained its water from the River Clyde.

ON THE COAL MINES.

My father! How can I write of him. He descended from being a house-carpenter and having men working for him to the doing of rough carpenter's work about those awful-looking coal pits. I used to go there sometimes with his dinner if he did not come home. And then to see the men coming up and going down into the pits! Some of them were hundreds of fathoms deep. They descended in what they called a hutch, and the coals came up in it. It had wheels. When it reached the top someone pushed it off and wheeled it to where its contents were tipped out on a great heap of coals. There was an engine working all the time pumping water night and day. If it had stopped the works underground would have been flooded. No one could go down and no one could live underneath if the engine were not working all the time. I remember how I stared at the men entering the trucks in which the coals were brought up. How queerly they were dressed! On their heads they had a close-fitting cap made of leather, with a place in front to hold a small lamp that would hold half a gill of oil. It had a narrow projection at the side for a wick. Each man had to have his own lamp.

I must say something about the manner in which those men and lads were dressed. Some were laddies from eight to nine years of age. Ah, and some were old men! In fact, there was nothing else for them to do, and they came from all parts of the country to work in the pits. They did not seem to mind it, but I had never seen pits before, and, while waiting for my father, in fear and alarm I watched them going up and down. They were the colliers, and rows of houses were built on purpose for them. Wherever you saw a coal pit there also were the houses, built on the same plan. Now about the clothing. I have mentioned the cap. Their shirts were of a dark, thick, woollen material, while their trousers and coat were of a warm material without any shape. They wore a leather belt round the waist, to which was attached a flagon of oil to fill up their lamps. If they had good, kind wives they would have on long knitted stockings and strong shoes with big nails in them. It looked horrible even to see them going down dry, but when they came up drenched with water or perspiration and all so black and grimy it was worse still. If there were frost and snow their clothes would be frozen on them ere they got to home. Frost and snow lasted many months in the winter in Slamannan. Each one had his own pick to take down with him and he had to bring it back again to get it made sharp for the next day. Some had more than one. They also took with them some food tied up in a handkerchief. When they were washed and clean I did not know them to be the same men and lads that previously I thought did not belong to the human race.

The impression made on my mind then is as distinctly there now, even at this distance of time. I got the idea that they were different from ordinary men. Yet the children of the colliers took no notice of the things that filled me with fright. All the pits were not so deep as the particular one to which I had to go.

There was a heartrending scene one day when a rumor spread that the "New Pit" was on fire. Thank heaven, all the men and boys had been drawn to the top. It was no uncommon thing to hear of a pit catching fire, through foul air or gas, which, if the miners were not careful, ignited and rushed through all the spaces whence the coals had been taken. Some of those pits had been working for years. But I never knew where coal came from till we came to Slamannan. There were many old pits all about that had been worked out. They were fenced around for protection. It made a lot of work to fill the long train of waggons every day with coal and ironstone, to be taken away to Glasgow and Edinburgh by rail. There were many other men and boys employed about the works beside the colliers. All the waggons and hutches for bringing up the coals were made there, and that gave work to rough carpenters. Then blacksmiths, engineers, clerks, timekeepers, and other men, many of whom never went down into the pits at all, were on the mines. I learned also that there were gangs of men who, under contract, cleared away the ironstone in the nighttime, after the colliers had left the pit. The stone had to be blasted out of its place with powder. It was as well, perhaps, that I did not know at that time, although I often wondered what was in some little barrels I saw stacked in the carpenters' shop. Years afterwards, when I was in South Australia, I had a newspaper sent to me containing an account of an awful explosion which happened in a carpenters' shop at Benny Hill, near Slamannan. Many lives were lost, including those of children who had come with their fathers' picks to get them sharpened. I knew the place so well, and I felt thankful that I was not there.

How little do the people think as they sit at a bright fire what a risk to life and limb is needed in order to get this coal when it is so far down in the earth. I saw some very old women, who remembered when they were young having worked in the pits. I saw a young man that was born down in the pit.

When the dear Queen Victoria came to the throne it was made illegal for women to work in coal pits. Here and there through Scotland a mine was found where they could dig in from a hillside and find coal, and get horse-power to haul the coal out, but never in such quantity as was produced when they dug hundreds of fathoms under ground.

I am always grateful when I think how kind some of those colliers' wives were to us two "mitherless bairns," as they called my wee brother and me. In almost every house you would find a wood frame, on which the women did work called tamboring on muslin, in window-curtain lengths, or a hanging cloth for a bed. The pattern being stamped on, they tambored it over with a needle, very like a crotchet-needle. They also used a cotton made for the purpose. These women used to go to Ardria, a town eight miles away. They could go by train for a very few pence, but, to save that, I have known some of the dear creatures to walk there and back. You will say that they would wear out as much in shoe leather as they saved in money. But shall I tell you in a whisper that they would take off their shoes and stockings and walk bare-footed till they came near the town. They did the same on the way back. When the tamboring was finished anyone could take it back and get the money. Some would send their wee lassie on those messages. While I think of this long-ago time and the wives of the colliers, the memory of them is always dear to me. I found much kindness beneath what would appear a harsh surface.

As a rule both men and women married very young. It was no uncommon thing to see a young girl of 16 or 17 with a cap, or what was known as a "mutch." When married, this strange-looking headdress was donned. It did not matter how beautiful the hair was, you could not see it for this mutch. It was made of muslin, white, of course, and with two and sometimes three rows of goffered frills all around, with long strings to tie under the chin. The old women wore them too, but not with so many frills. They were more plain, with a black band of ribbon around.

Every now and then a strike would occur. It always involved a severe struggle between master and men, for a little more wages or some alteration in the work, but it was always about the pay. These strikes brought the workers to the lowest ebb. They never made complaints, but it was sad to see a battalion of over 500 or 600 men, young and old, marching about. They often suffered from hunger, for sometimes the strike would last for many weeks, so that they were reduced to an awful plight. On three different times a strike broke out while I was in that place. I am sure that no negro for whose liberty America was then in conflict was more miserable even in his bonds than those white slaves in the thrall of some of the uncharitable coal masters, who lived away in a grand place in great style in luxury. More than one of these poor women, with hungry children and a hungry husband, has said to me, "See, Annie, this is our last handful of oatmeal." There was some aid or relief organised from a fund that other miners would send, for if they were on strike their comrades in work would help to sustain them. There seemed to be a league with a kind of "help one another club," a kind of freemasonry. They would know if any were in distress, even so far away as England. So few of them knew how to write, but yet they were so kind to each other, were those colliers.

There was a church in Slamannan, with a churchyard for the burial of all the dead. There were a few little shops here and there and a large store, which was also a public-house. You could buy drapery, china, wool, iron, or whisky. There, too, someone would bring his fiddle to a big room, and they would dance Scotch reels. They would gather from miles away, both the lads and their lassies. There were no law courts in Slamannan, so if anyone broke the law they were taken to Falkirk to be dealt with. There was only one policeman. He wore a tall hat and a queer kind of uniform, and he was well liked, for he did not take many to Falkirk if he could help it. There was a post-office, but such a thing as a telegram was then unknown. There was also a school, and the teacher was called the Dominie. He was not liked, as it was said he was cruel.. The schools were not so interesting in those days. Near those rows of houses known as "Benny Hill" there was a general store, where provisions of all sorts were sold, and whisky, too. Only to think of that maddening beverage—we had to suffer for it, my brother and I.

All round the people were paid once a fortnight. How we dreaded the pay-day. Sometimes we would not see my father for two or three days after he was paid. He would go away with a lot of young fellows on what they said was a "spree." He would come back, but all his money gone. Sometimes with some more he would come into the house and bring a jar full of whisky. Then my brother and I had to run to some kind neighbor and stay there till they had drunk the whisky and got sober again. We dreaded my father when he took whisky, but he was nice to us when not in drink, and we loved him, and hoped he would soon get away from the coal pits. He did not drink when mother was alive, so I know now it was not habitual with him. I used to say then, and I have faithfully kept my word, that if I ever grew up to be a woman I would not have any whisky in my house. This was a strange, wild place. I wondered what brought my father to "Benny Hill." I was there only a little while before I went to Denny, and lost hold of the past. Almost a year had gone since the terrible experience of my mother's death, which had an effect on me as though I had been awakened from a dream. Some say that childhood's grief is short-lived, but what I suffered then will till the hour of death continue in my memory.

Things got gradually worse. My father had a little place fitted up, where he did some carpentering work in the evenings, and people would come for odd jobs. All about there seemed so many who had "fiddles" and played, and many of them would get father to make a bridge for their fiddle. Then they would play cards and send for drink, and to get rid of the smell of whisky and tobacco we would drag the bedclothes over our heads and try to sleep.

At last one night there was a fearful quarrel. We heard the things getting smashed, including all the crockery and furniture. I looked in and saw a man with his face bleeding.. I ran and picked up my little brother, and carried him to the house of a woman who had been a good Samaritan to us before. She made a shakedown for us in front of the fire, and that was my last night in Benny Hill for some years.

I GO TO GLASGOW.

I made up my mind that I would go to Glasgow to find Miss Miller, of Denny, so I watched till I saw my father go away in the morning. Then I went into the little place, which was awful to look at. Everything was thrown about, and my hat had been knocked off from behind the door and trodden on. So I had no hat. I knew where there were two shillings on a shelf. I took the shillings, and as I knew that when my father was all right he would look after my brother, I did not say anything to the kind woman, but went off to the railway-station and got a ticket for Glasgow, which cost one shilling and eightpence. When I landed in Glasgow I had not the slightest idea of how large a city it was. I only had the lady's address in my memory. Her husband was a wine and spirit merchant, Mr. George Stirling. I made enquiries, and found the street, but was mystified by the length of it. After wandering up and down for some time looking for Mr. Stirling's house he saw me, and, happily for me, he knew me as the little maid at the baker's. He said, "Little Susie, where are you going?" I told him I was looking for Miss Isabel. He stared at me, and asked me to come inside, while, sobbing, I told him all my trouble. While he came to the house at Denny he always called me Susie, and I did not mind. He said now, "Well, Susie, you cannot see Mrs. Stirling; she is very ill, and you must not call her Miss Isabel now, but I will see what can be done for you till my wife is better."

So he sent some food for me, and wrote a note, and got a boy to take me to a friend of his in Argyle-street. This was a large place, known as the "Steak and Chop House." The proprietress was Mrs. Wilson, a widow with three daughters. In the note she was requested to find something for me to do till Mrs. Stirling could decide what was to happen to me. I was sent amongst the cooks downstairs, and I helped to do the vegetables and other things. This was in a very busy street, and it was a busy house. There seemed such a lot of people employed, both men and women. Everything was different to me, and the whole world was changed, and I did not care whether I was called Susie or Annie.

I had to work underground in a room always lighted with gas. I did not see real daylight again for a long time. Through thick glass in the pavement some light entered a room where another girl and I slept. All night I could hear the people passing, and at first I could not sleep for the noise. I had a lot to do, and I did not like my surroundings. For instance, all the meat and similar food was brought direct from the slaughterhouse. A man cut it up in the different portions allotted for different purposes. He had the ox feet and the tripe for his perquisites. This was all done where I attended to the vegetables.

How often I wished I were back again amongst the bakers. I liked that better. In my anguish I often gave vent to my feeling in sobs and moans when nobody could see. I could not write, but could only make symbols that had no meaning to me. They were only strokes and crooks. I saw nobody from Slamannan, and no one there knew where I was for the first six months. I got no wages, but the mistress obtained for me some little changes of garment, for which I was thankful. I did not see the mistress very often. She kept a woman as manager, and I thought she was the most awful woman I had ever seen. She used to take snuff. I never went to see Mrs. Stirling, being afraid of the thronged streets, but I learned that she was a little better, and had gone away for some months. So I thought the best thing I could do was to stop where I was till someone came whom I knew. There were always such a lot of people coming in and out, for although there was a framed card in the large window, stating that it was a "steak-house," there were all sorts of soups and roasts, with pies, and frequently gentlemen would order large suppers for their friends, sometimes on the premises, and at others to be sent to their flats or rooms, as the case might be.

On a busy day I got to be helpful, and went into the rooms to assist the waiters. The day that Sir Colin Campbell was made Lord Clyde was the first time that I helped inside. That was a day never to be forgotten. We all tried to see him in an open carriage as he was driven to the Town Hall to receive the freedom of the city. I saw him going and coming back. The streets were something to remember. It was stated that many were carried out of their way, and did not get their feet to the ground for ever so far.

I had been at this place for a year and some months when one day I was sent a message, I heard someone say, "That is Anna McDonald." To my joy, I saw two young men from Slamannan. I knew them at once. One was James Simson, and the other William Robinson. I could only ask them to come in and tell me if my father, sister, and brother were alive. They told me that I had been given up as lost or dead, and that all the old pit-shafts had been searched for my body. Still, through my disappearance and the shock it gave him, my father had become a sober man, and had entirely given up the drink. They never thought I had found my way to Glasgow.

Both of them said together, "Your sister is in Glasgow to-day. We saw her." I just stood rigid and helpless till one of them set out to find her, and the other stopped with me until she was brought to me. Not a sound could pass my lips. We kissed and looked at each other. She had grown, and so had I. There was now no home, she told me. My father and brother were in lodgings and my sister still remained at farm service. I got permission for my sister to stay with me all night. She told me that she had been in Glasgow two or three times before to see if she could find me.

The young men went back to Slamannan that night and told my father where I was, and a little while after my sister left, my father and my dear little brother arrived. That was the first time I saw my brother in pants. My father looked so different and so young-looking and well. I had no wish to go to Slamannan to live, so that was settled. I was still hoping to go and live with Mrs. Stirling when I would be a little bigger and stronger.

I was very troubled about my throat, for I could hardly speak without an effort, it being very painful.

I CHANGE MY OCCUPATION.

A change came that I did not expect. One day a lady came in for some refreshments, and I was in attendance. She knew us, and she saw that I was not looking as well as my sister. She asked if I would come with her and help her with her children. Her husband was a contractor, and undertook railway works. With his partners he had a contract to build a railroad from Maybole to Wilmington, in Ayrshire. Wilmingtonn was close to "the banks and braes of bonny Doon." As some nice houses were on the route of the line, and would have to be pulled down, he lived at different places till the five and twenty miles of line was finished. I thought it would be nice to see once again the green fields and flowers, so I promised to go to Mrs. Scott. She had been a servant lass herself once, but she had a good husband and they were comfortable. She was then on her way to one of the houses near Maybole, which had to be pulled down.

I had two more months of my time to serve, as I had agreed to stop for six months with Mrs. Wilson, and they did not like to part with me, but I would not agree to stop on after the term. I was to get as wages 30/ for the six months. We could not give a week's notice and leave.

To give some idea of how this kind of business paid, I may say that Mrs. Wilson had a summer-house in a place at the seaside, "doon the water," as it was termed. The name of the place was "Killmunn." Another girl and myself were sent there to get some of the rooms in order, the youngest daughter, Miss Jane, being ill, and the doctor having recommended that she should be sent to the seaside. It was a good distance from Glasgow. We went in the steamboat "Iona," and saw Balmoral Castle as we passed. Mrs. Wilson's house had 40 rooms altogether. It was a beautiful place and very interesting with its house-boat and other conveniences. There was some lovely furniture, but it was all covered up with holland, and all the carpets had been taken up and carefully put away. The mistress and the young lady came two days after us, and they said that I would be able to do all that they would require for a week or two, so the other girl went back to Glasgow. Life was then brighter than it had been since I left Benny Hill. It was a new experience to me to see the ships passing. Many persons had their summer-houses there, and were beginning to arrive. I was sent up to Glasgow with some message all by myself, but it was pleasant, and I was not a bit afraid. A man and his wife acted as caretakers during the winter months. They were very old, but still useful. I used to go out with Miss Jane to carry her books and other things, and I watched the excursions or pleasure trips up and down to Killmunn. There were villas and what were called "self-contained" houses, let whole or in part, with sometimes "a but and a ben," which were filled to overflowing. All faced the sea and were close to the very water's edge, and so were nicely suited for summer visitors. What with the yachts and skiffs and the glad voices of the mothers and their children on the beach the place was very merry. There was nice shade from the trees. I did not think the five weeks we stayed there a long time. We returned to Glasgow a week or so before the end of my term.

I saw Mrs. Scott again, and she told me that if I would stay with them till the railway was finished that they were going back to Slamannan, and I could go with them. So she gave me the address to put on my box and the money to pay my fare to Maybole. I went through to Slamannan to tell where I was going, and with whom. I had hoped when Mr. and Mrs. Scott came back that my father would have a house, and that I would live at home. He was still in lodgings, but I knew that I could stop there for a few days. It seemed like "auld lang syne" to me. And those dear kind women, how pleased they were to see me, and to tell me how I had grown! How different their speech, too, to the dialect of Glasgow! They said it was a long journey to Ayrshire, and tried to persuade me not to go. However, I liked the appearance of Mrs. Scott. She looked so motherly and kind. I was all excitement; I would have to go to Glasgow again, but I knew that I could get a train from the station at Glasgow right through to Kilmarnock, and change for Maybole, where they would be waiting for me. I went and saw my sister, who was still at the same place. I thought whatever I had to do I would never be a farm servant. It was rough and hard feeding and milking cows, attending fowls and horses and other animals. Sometimes she would harness a horse and go harrowing in the field after the men had ploughed it.

I took my departure from Benny Hill, caught the train in the early morning, but had to wait till the afternoon, as I missed the train in the forenoon. I got a third-class ticket for 3/3 for 35 miles. I had a whole compartment to myself for the last part of the way, and went to sleep and did not hear them calling out to change at Kilmarnock for Maybole. I woke up and came out at the next station and asked where I was, when a guard told me I was in a train on its way to London. Then I cried, and asked for my box, and the man looked in the van, but there was no box of mine. He asked if it was addressed, and I said it was. He then remembered that it had been sent on to Maybole, and he said I should have had an address put on me too, as then I should be comfortably in my bed. It was then midnight. Some more men gathered round, and they were sorry, for me. They did not often see such a young girl so far away from home. They took me into the station, where a nice fire was burning, and obtained some rugs and brought me a cup of coffee and some bread and butter. Then they told me to go to sleep, as a train would be coming from London in the morning, and they would wake me up. I did not sleep, but cried all the time, for I thought I had lost all my clothes and my box. It was the first box I ever had, and I was so pleased with it. I did not look at the name of the station I had reached, as it was dark, but it must have been a long way, as I did not get to Maybole till about 8 o'clock in the morning. I found my box was there, and the people were anxious as to where I was. Mr. Scott made enquiries, and the railway men said that they saw a little girl asleep, but they thought I was with someone who was travelling by the train. They never thought of me as a lone passenger.

I felt quite at home with Mrs. Scott and the dear children. It was my first experience amongst children, and I was delighted. We got into the trucks that were used on the line, and got pushed along as far as the line was made. Mr. Scott and Mrs. Scott also came sometimes. It was great fun. We nearly lived out of doors all the time. It was a grand house, but had to be pulled down, so there was not much trouble taken over it. I was very happy at changing from work by stifling gaslight to the light of day. A daily governess came a few hours to teach the children, and I also had lessons with them. It was a new life for me.

I never heard Maybole called either a village or a town. It was only "Maybole." It was close to the house; it must have been very old. The buildings looked so gloomy and dark. There were no bright gardens or flowers, and, oh, the people were so poor! The only industry I saw was that of the weavers. The people all had looms in their houses—big, clumsy wooden structures. Men, women, and children all worked at the looms in such small places, and they lived and slept there. To me it seemed as bad as the collieries. There came a depression in the weaving trade, but I never knew the cause of it. It might have been that machinery was constructed to do away with hand-weaving. At any rate, I had once again the awful dread of seeing people perish with hunger. They broke out and took everything they could obtain in the way of eatables, while they tore off the palings and fencing, and armed themselves with sticks. They came to our place, and we could only stand and look at them divide the flour. I remember we had what was known as the American flour. It came in large barrels from the United States. Mr. Scott was up the line when they came, and they took everything in the way of food, but nothing else. They broke into the bakers' shops, and the grocery shops, and butchers', so we were told, and cleared away with all they could lay their hands on.

I did not see much of Maybole, being afraid to go there. There were no tall chimneys to the mills or factories, or we could have seen them from the house. I saw the castle from which Sir James Fergusson brought his wife, Lady Edith Fergusson, who died in Adelaide, whence her body was taken back to the vault at the castle, near "Maybole." Meanwhile we tried to be ignorant of the excitement stirred up, as we knew we would not be long there, but the touch of melancholy was felt by all.

THE COUNTRY OF BURNS.

This was the land of Burns, and the district of Ayrshire. It seemed to be a large, plain, open country. The town of Ayr had a castle once, and the walks about Ayr were pleasant. I did like to go there. There were some old buildings, which people come from all parts to see. Churches are still preserved there as ruins traditionally famous.

There was no smoke and dust in Ayr, as at Glasgow, and visitors could get easily to any of the places of attraction, either by train or steamboat. Ayr was nine miles from Maybole. Mrs. Scott was most ardent in every object about Burns, and she took us with her wherever she went. On one occasion, when at Ayr, we had luncheon at a tavern, the name of which I forget, but we were shown three such queer-looking old chairs, with high backs, and in the back of each were portraits. In the middle was Robert Burns, and on either side was Tam o' Shanter and Suter Johnnie. The chairs were only for show. They told us that those three jolly men used to meet in that room, and sit in the chairs. Girl-like, I did not pay much attention then, but in after years, as I grew older, it gave me joy to think I had seen them. The influences of those times entered into my being, and have grown up with me. For myself, I made it a rule to visit all the objects of interest, and I would go round and round them till I was tired. We all went another day to see Burns' monument. I gathered a few pebbles from the foot of the monument and had them for years. They are lost, but the journey lives in my recollection as if it was only yesterday. I saw a very old lady walking about and talking to the people. She had on what was known as a sow-backed mutch. Mrs. Scott told us that was the youngest sister of Robert Burns. Her name was Mrs. Back. I read the account of her death in the paper some years afterwards. Then we went to see the Burns' cottage. And, again, on my own account I visited it, and took all the children with me, from where they were building the railway.

We were in the waggon with Mr. Scott and some other gentlemen. I heard them say, "That is Burns' cottage over there," and when they were not looking I started off for the cottage. It must have been quite three miles, and I had to carry the youngest child on my back all the way to and from the place. Mr. Scott was cross, and gave me a severe talking to, and told me if ever I did such a thing again I would not be allowed to come out in the waggon. It was cold weather. Little maids were dressed then in a print dress with short sleeves, low at the neck, and opened at the back. I was cold, and so were the children, and we kept them waiting so that they could not go back in the waggon without us. The gentlemen were either engineers or directors, for they had on tall hats. At least they were in position over Mr. Scott. They came from Glasgow to look at the new line.

There were a lot of navvies working, and they had little tents all along the line. Anyhow, I saw the cottage where Burns was born on two different occasions. I saw both the outside and the inside. It was not a grand place to look at, but merely a whitewashed wee house. To think that a man born there would have a monument like what I saw made me think of my earlier years. I can yet remember the names of the places in passing to and from the place.

Ayrshire has plenty of rivers, and on the Clyde years afterwards I saw where it began just a little burn. It was pointed out to me while I was in the train travelling from London to Glasgow. But I must keep to the far-away times. Ayrshire is divided into districts, and what always perplexed me was when a neighborhood was called a burgh. I liked the parts, such as the rough high hills and the Ailsa Craig, which you could see from a long way off.

I GO TO A NEW PLACE.

The winter came in and we had to keep in doors, but the line was getting near to an end. Mr. Scott got another contract on the Dumfries line, so I was to go back to Slamannan, but Mrs. Scott said she would be going through for a trip and I could go with her. Before the time came for us to go a friend of Mr. Scott's came on a visit from Grangemouth, near Falkirk. She was about to be married to a gentleman living at the railway terminus at Dalmellington. This was her second husband, although she was quite young. She and Mrs. Scott thought I would do nicely for her little maid. She had a little boy, whom she hoped to have with her. Mrs. Scott knew my home troubles. They asked me if I would go to Dalmellington with her when she got married. I liked the lady and I said I would go with her, or, at least, she was to come for me. It was agreed that when she went to Falkirk that I would go with her. So she came for me. The name of the gentleman she married was Mr. Macblean, and he kept the new Railway Tavern. It was all taverns, or inns, then, and seldom you saw a hotel. Neither Mrs. Macblean nor myself had anything to do with the drink traffic, for which I was thankful. Before I left Maybole we all went to have something woven by those poor weavers. I chose the colors I would like, and saw them put into the loom. I had that skirt in Adelaide as a reminiscence of that time of mixed feelings. Mrs. Scott also knew the housekeeper at the Earl of Cathcart's, on the banks of the Doon. I thought I would try any of the places rather than go to Slamannan, or stop at Maybole after Mr. and Mrs. Scott had gone. I did not seem to fear the people. I knew that I would have to go amongst strangers wherever I went. So it was all the same to me.

I never regretted going with Mrs. Macblean, but, young as I was, I think I was right in my idea that she regretted having married a tavern-keeper. He was very unwilling to have her little son taken there, as he did not want the people to know that he had married a widow. I know she was not very happy, although he seemed a nice man. She had every comfort, but she did long to see her son. I was beginning to want to see my friends, and I missed the children, who were with me at Mrs. Scott's, and the out-of-doors life in the waggons. I had agreed to stay for six months, so I was made useful in the house. There was a big maid as well, but I kept with Mrs. Macblean for the most part. She was a stranger, and, as I knew no one there, we often went for long walks together. The place was delightful, and the absence of poverty a relief. I could see as the weeks went on that if her little boy was not allowed to come I would not be wanted there. The next week Mr. and Mrs. Scott and children came to stop at the tavern for a few weeks, and that was a great joy to me. They took me everywhere they went, while the children were affectionate and pleased to see me again.

Then for the first time I saw that beautiful locality "the banks and braes o' bonnie Doon," which was about two miles or so from Dalmellington. The road was good, and there was pasture land, with plenty of cattle and sheep, and high knolls covered with grass and the sheep on top. The Loch Doon is said to be seven miles long and seven miles wide. It flows to the sea near to Ayr, and it is "banks and braes" all the way. I have often tried to tell my first impression. But this is the first time I have written about it. I know I cannot say much. There were two paths, one was close to the water and the other on top of the hills. The Earl of Cathcart's seat was most romantic. He was noted for his love of hounds and huntsmen. He kept stags and deer there. They would look at you and rush up the rugged height and get caught in the bushes with their wonderful horns. There were trees growing all the way up the side of the bank, so that on the top walk you could put up your hand and pull off nuts from such tall trees. I did not go to the top walk that day. But again and again I found myself on the braes of Doon.

Mrs. Scott went to see the housekeeper at the earl's, and took the children and me. I thought it was the lady countess. She was dressed in black satin, with a lovely lace cap and white hair. She went to that family when she was a girl about my age. The place looked magnificent, and I learnt afterwards that 20 men were employed to look after the stags and horses and hounds. There was a page boy and ladies' maid, but no children. The ladies went also to the hunt, and I used to go and see them. The earl and countess only came there for the hunting season. It made me think of the colliers in Slamannan and the weavers in Maybole, and to wonder. There was a lot of queer talk about the earl. We had a peep into the kitchen, and never shall I forget it. There were men cooks and women cooks. The men always went wherever the earl went.

Loch Doon was a favorite excursion, and for the fishing season some noblemen would come there and have tents erected with men-servants in attendance. The loch is famed for the trout and salmon, and is a good place for fishing for those who are allowed to catch them. Both coal and ironstone are found in many places in Ayrshire.

At Dalmellington there was a large ironworks, where they smelted the ore into iron, and whence they sent it to all parts of Britain for making railway iron. They put the ore in a great blasting furnace. Then they made beds of sand all around to receive the melted iron in moulds while it was hot. It was generally well known when this iron would be let out of the furnace and the people would rush to see it and to watch the men gauging that red hot melted iron, so that it would run in to the moulds. It seemed awful. It was said those men never lived long, and no wonder, seeing how they worked amidst that fluid. I only went once, but we could hear when the iron was cast off. It always made me shudder.

The tavern was not far from the railway-station, and on the road leading to Loch Doon. Mr. Macblean seemed to do well. Some refreshments were also obtainable, and there were a few rooms to let. After the Scotts went away I felt lonely. Sometimes I saw a drunken man, and on the Saturday nights such a lot would be about. Both Mrs. Macblean and I would shut ourselves in a dark room and cry. I knew that I was a long way from where my sister and brother were. If I could have seen them sometimes it would have been something to look forward to. Mrs. Macblean could not see her way to leave her husband and home for a week or so. We talked the matter over, and it was arranged I should go. I knew Grangemouth was close to Falkirk. I could go thence for a week's leave and see my friends and take some things to Mrs. Macblean's boy, she paying for my return ticket to Glasgow. I had some nice new clothing and was growing tall. I thought for 14 years of age I had seen the serious side of life and some of its vicissitudes, and had gained experience from my trials. I felt happy to go back, and I knew the places. I was not likely to get lost on the Caledonia and Glasgow line. I could write a little, but I did not let them know I was coming home. I thought I would take them by surprise. What wonderful possibilities lie in store for the young!

I was glad to find that my father kept from the drink, and my dear brother, how he had grown! I did not see my sister for a day or two, as she had gone to a place further away. My brother came with me the next day, and we walked all the way to Grangemouth. It was a shipping port, with good-sized vessels lying at the quays. We had no trouble in finding the house of Mrs. Macblean's mother. Although close to the dock, it had a nice appearance. They knew by letter that I was coming, but they did not know on what day during my week's leave. I shall never forget the dear little son of my mistress. He was five years old. He wanted to be taken to his mamma. They were gracious and kind to my brother and me. I have seen many shipping places since then, but none so clean-looking as Grangemouth. They wished to keep us for the night, but we walked back to Slamannan that night. It was late, but we were not afraid. It was eight miles there and eight miles back. That made it sixteen to walk in one day, so we were tired the next day. I am quite sure that on some of the other days we walked just as far. I know that we went to Linlithgow to see someone we knew. We went all along the railway line and it was a long way, but we had no money to pay for train fare. It must have been more than nine miles there and nine miles back. From Slamannan the youngsters would think nothing of walking to Castle Carrey, a wood where a queer-looking berry grew wild. It was called a blea berry, and grew on short stems low down, not bunchy. The people used to send their children there in the season to pick those berries and make jam with them. They had to take a can or a jar to carry them. The juice of the berry was in itself a perfect dye, and it was amusing to see the hands and lips and teeth of those who picked or eat the berries. My brother and myself went, and our teeth were soon black like coals with juice. In Scotland we did not know anything about snakes. At that date I had never heard of them, so we could wander about without fear in the woods.

My week soon came to an end, and I returned to Dalmellington. I did not like being so far away, so when I got to Glasgow I saw Mrs. Stirling. For her home she wanted someone who could do everything in a house. She thought I would be too young to be left when she went away. However, if I wanted to come to Glasgow she promised to do what she could for me, and then I would be nearer to my friends. It cheered me to know that. I had still three months to stop with Mrs. Macblean. I was taught to work and be handy and tidy, but I did not like the idea of being in a tavern. Mrs. Stirling advised me not to engage for another term, but to go to Colonel Cathcart's, if I wished to live in Ayrshire. I had no fault to find with Mr. or Mrs. Macblean. They were kind and good to me.

The warm, bright weather continued nearly all the time. Mrs. Macblean and I had long walks all round in the evenings. If anyone was met whom she knew there was only a brief, respectful salutation and she passed on. I am quite sure she was a lady, and she was beautiful.

We had no garden, not so much as a pot-plant about the place, but close to the end of the house a good, wide burn ran under an important looking bridge, or, as they were called, "brig." It was wide enough for two large vehicles to pass. The roads were splendid, but the buildings were strange. They must have been very old, and were built here and there along the roadside. Sometimes the end of the house would face the street, and often the side or back of the house would be next the road. Mrs. Macblean called my attention to them, or I would not have heeded them. The place had no pretence to the rank of a town, yet it was not called a village. There were two churches and a school. I took notice that, even if it were a tavern, the minister came and asked the lady to let me come to the Sunday-school, and I went to church with Mrs. Macblean. I never went to Sunday-school or Bible-class all the time I was in Glasgow.

What with being healthy and strong, I began to take a bright and hopeful view of life from every point. I could write a little, and was fond of reading and knitting. It was merry and lively. There was a large room upstairs, where one evening every week meetings were held of some lodge. No women went to meetings of that kind in those days, but the men seemed to enjoy themselves. You could tell that by their laugh and song. There was always something to make one laugh. We had a gentleman up to stop for a few days. There was a gate which opened on some steps to go down to the water of the burn. We used it for some household purposes, but, as in Slamannan, the water for cooking had to be carried from the springs. One evening the gentleman opened the gate, thinking he was going into a garden, but he fell in the stream and was carried under the bridge. Luckily, some men saw the accident, and rushed after him and got him out of the water. He was nearly dead and the incident made a great stir. He was ill for some time. There was a heavy rain once while I was there, and it was something awful to see how the water swept along that burn. The cattle were carried away too. I saw some sheep rolling away under the bridge, and learned that cows were drowned also. The whole of Dalmellington lay nicely on a flat surrounded by a group of hills and valleys. After I had left I received a letter to say that a waterspout had burst over the place, and that people had left their houses and had taken their belongings to the tops of the mountains. A log of wood floated into the end window of the tavern and all the rooms downstairs were flooded. Some poor people, who lived in small houses, had their rooms full of water.

The autumn was passing, and I thought I would not like to be at this place in the winter. I had really no one to care what I did with my life or where I lived. There were no Christian friendly societies for young girls at that time. I felt the want of sympathy and approval in what I did. I saw the housekeeper at Colonel Cathcart's, and hoped when I was a grown woman to return there. I was old enough to admire the lovely scenery, but not old enough to disbelieve in witches and warlocks and fairies. Ayrshire is so full of glens and caves that I expected to see natural wonders, and not the work of man, for the imagination runs riot at times.

Gipsies I saw in plenty, and was afraid of them. They did not live in houses, but only in the wood; quite large numbers of them all together, and there were children, young girls, and youths who had never lived in a house. They came and went at will, and nobody seemed to take any notice of them. They were travelling tinkers. They made tinware, and sold it as they went through. The older women would come about to tell fortunes, and they would steal fowls or anything else they could lay hands on. The farmers always lost sheep and lambs when the gipsies were about, while one heard tales of them stealing away children of the high-class people.

I LEAVE AYRSHIRE.

It was the end of October when I left Ayrshire, and Mrs. Macblean's son had not come. I know she was grieving acutely about him. I promised that I would go and see him again when I returned to my own people. I found myself in Glasgow, and left my box at the station, and paid a penny for a ticket, for which they agreed to keep my box till I came for it. I saw Mrs. Stirling, and stopped there all night, and read the paper with a long column of advertisements for all sorts of working-girls. One, she thought, I might enquire about. It was from a lady and gentleman at No. 5, Florence-place, who wanted a young country girl, who must be useful. So I went. I found it was a furnished flat in a stylish part of the city. I told the lady that I had come from Dalmellington the day before, and that Mrs. Stirling would speak for me. I was engaged to come that evening. They only intended to stay in Glasgow for three months, but I thought I could get something else at the end of that time. They seemed rich people, but were in trouble. Their name was Skirven. They had one daughter at home. I was not long there before I learned that it was through another daughter that they came from their home in Fifeshire. The youngest daughter, while going to boarding-school, fell in love with a young medical student. She ran away with him and got married, and came to Glasgow. He was a Roman Catholic and an Irishman, while her parents were Scotch. As they were married by a Catholic priest, Mr. Skirven said it was no marriage. That is what brought him to Glasgow. He came to find those two runaways, and to make them get married again in their church. Mr. Skirven had his gun loaded to shoot the young doctor if he objected. His name was Dr. Reily. They found the young lady and took her to Florence-place, and the doctor was not allowed to come near her. It seemed so sad. She was a pretty little lady, and so young. A strict watch was kept on her, and she saw nobody. She soon found that she could trust me with a letter, and many times a letter came for her in my name from the husband. I even saw him, and brought messages to her from him. He was waiting for his diploma, and he had a good practice in view. Then he intended to show that they could not keep his wife from him. It was my first experience of the fact that love can destroy happiness.

I never knew how matters were fixed up, but the old folks went back to Fife, and I got another place as under-nurse with Dr. Fargus, in Elmbank-street, off Sauchihall-street, Glasgow, close to where I had been living. Dr. Fargus was eminent in his profession as a medical man, and of great distinction. And his wife—How can I write about that gentle lady? It was a Christian home, and well appointed. The nurse had been with them ever since they had got married, and there were three children. It was a large, new house, four storeys high, with everything up to date, and so convenient. There was no carrying water, for both hot and cold water were in all the rooms, and there were bathrooms right up to the top, where the nurseries were. The lady's mother had died a week before I went there. There were other servants, and we all had mourning, a dressmaker being in the house. I had a black-and-white print, and a black stuff dress, with a cape and hat to match, because I had to go out so much with the children and the nurses. We were well looked after, both as regards our bedrooms and our food. And there was a whole pew for us in a church in Cudoging-street, not far from the Clyde. They had a summer residence, about seven miles from Glasgow, and a man and his wife to keep it always ready for them. The children were all small, and if the doctor thought they wanted a change, the nurse and I very often went to this old castle, some of which was in ruins, but there was plenty of room for us and lovely grounds for us to romp about in. The lady would come sometimes and stop for a few days. The locality was Eastkillbride. There was no railway. On the way we passed through the very old towns of Rutherglen and Hamilton. All along near at hand I could see the coal-pits, like Slamannan. But there were none at Eastkillbride. The doctor would sometimes bring his wife in his carriage, or in the omnibus, the only way of conveying passengers to that part. She was kind to the poor and the sick. There were no district nurses heard of then. Every day she took some broths and dainties to those who needed them. One poor woman appealed to me. She was in bed for seven years with rheumatism. She had the use partly of the right hand and that was all. I often went when I could, and tried to do something for Mrs. Kennedy. If Mrs. Fargus was not there the nurse looked after her poor pensioners all the same. The houses were spread about with quite a distance between. There was no interesting scenery, but only an old ruin.

DR. DYKES, DR. GUTHRIE, AND DR. MACLEOD.

Close by there was a church with a manse. It seemed out of keeping with all the rest of the place, for it looked new. It had an air of freshness about it, and belonged to the Free Church of Scotland. The minister was quite a young man and a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Fargus. He came much to the house, and the children knew him, so that we often found him rambling about with them. His housekeeper used to be his nurse when he was a child. We went to the manse often. The minister was the Rev. Dr. James Oswald Dykes, and he came out to Australia many years ago. The church in Eastkillbride was his first appointment. His fame as a preacher and a good man spread all about. The way he filled that church with the scattered people was wonderful. He would go miles and miles after parishioners. He had a persuasiveness in his preaching, although it was homely and plain. I went to the Bible-class, and he explained things to me of which I was formerly ignorant. After months of catechising I became a member of the Free Church of Scotland. It gave me thoughts which enabled me to resolve to do the common things I had to do well, and to be happy in doing what was right.

I was in the manse one night with Mrs. Clark, his housekeeper, when he came in all wet and muddy. He had found a man and woman living together who were not married. The man was ill end likely to die, and he thought the children would be guarded from some threatening injury if the father and mother were married. The man, however, did not care what became of woman or children. He turned his face to the wall, and for a long time would not listen to the minister, but Dr. Dykes got him face-to-face with the woman and a witness, and married them while the man was still in bed. Dr. Dykes was very upset about this event. Happily, in Scotland such things are rare.

One of the maids had not been well, and Mrs. Fargus thought I might do for the house in town for a week or so, so as to let Elsie come to Killbride. The climate there was mild and healthy. The doctor arranged to dine out, so I had only to get breakfast for him and take any messages and write them on a slate. By this time I knew how to do many things neatly. The lady would come and go to see how I got on. She had not been long in one afternoon when a fearful ring came at the door. I opened it, but could see nobody. I went away, but the bell rang again. I looked over the other side of the street and saw a tattered looking sailor. He came over and asked if Elsie was in. I answered in the negative. He could hardly speak. The lady came to see what was the matter; he told her who he was. She told me to take him downstairs and get him something to eat. Then she told me that he was Elsie's sweetheart, and that Elsie had heard that he was wrecked and drowned four years before. She went in mourning for him. The ship in which he had arrived within half an hour before had also been reported a wreck. There was such excitement. Mrs. Fargus wrote to Elsie to look out for her lost lover the next day. His ship was at the Broomilaw, whence they had sailed long ago. The man had come back well off, but he was brown and rough. The next day he had other clothes and his whiskers were trimmed. Elsie had been with Mrs. Fargus for a long time, so Mrs. Fargus said that she would like her to get married there. The date was settled, and the Rev. Dr. Oswald Dykes was to perform the marriage ceremony. We had plenty to talk about, for it was the first wedding for me to see. Elsie came to town, and I went back to Eastkillbride.

Mrs. Fargus was skilled in botany and the natural history of insects as well as plants. She had a museum full of all sorts of things. While at Killbride she would take me with her to carry her things, and talk to me so nicely all the time. We went down deep dells and to all the out-of-the-way places hunting for specimens. One day, in a deep dell, she found a gooseberry bush, with large gooseberries on it quite green, although the season for the berry was over. She sat down and explained why that berry was not ripe. She said the sun had not shed its rays on that bush, as it was far down in the dell. Some birds had dropped the berry, and it grew into a bush, but the fruit would always be green and sour. She compared this with some poor people whom we visited. They were hard and sour, and she thought if their environment were more bright they would not be so sour. She meant spiritually and temporarily. It was new to me to listen to so grand a lady. She would get us all in her beautiful room and kneel down and pray and read with us. God's best blessing rest on her if she is living, or on her memory if she is dead.

It was drawing near time to go back to town, and there was Elsie's wedding to look forward to. It was a common occurrence to let the servants have a party two or three times a year. We had had one already, and the wedding was to be the next. We were to have games and dancing, and Elsie was to be married in the best drawing-room, upstairs. By this time I had seen the sailor many times and many of his relations. His home was in Dundee. The Rev. Dr. Oswald Dykes had received a call to go to a grand church in Edinburgh, but he agreed to come for the wedding. I was passionately fond of dancing, and I knew that we were to have dancing, but I thought, being a member of the church, I must not dance any more. I met Dr. Dykes in the corridor and asked him if I could dance at Elsie's wedding. He said—"Yes; by all means. Those who can dance, let them dance, and those who want to play games, let them play." Then he showed me how dancing could be made both wrong and sinful, if we went to objectionable places to gratify the pleasure of dancing. How little did I think that in so short a time I would be out here all alone, without any of this moral directing power to act upon.

So the wedding night came. Elsie looked lovely, and the sailor looked splendid. He had some trouble to get off his white kid gloves. Mr. and Mrs. Fargus, and also some of their friends, were present. The cake was cut in the drawing-room, and then brought down to the hall, where the supper was laid, and all the place was filled with plants and bunting. We kept the gaiety up all night. In the middle of the fun our master and mistress and the minister came to have a look at us. The minister said if he could dance he would have a dance with the bride, just to show that it was good recreation. Elsie had some lovely presents. The master gave her a kitchen range, while the mistress gave her a chest of drawers and a dressing-table and washstand. She had something from all. The servants from all round were kind, and we spent a good time.

After Elsie went away the nurse took the children to her own home, which she often did. They were too young for instruction, and only childish books were read for them. There were two boys and one girl, the girl being the oldest. I shall say more about them later on.

I found where the Dr. and Mrs. Reily lived, and saw them. They were well and happy. Mrs. Stirling was not in good health in Glasgow, so she was often away. I was happy anyhow, and hoped for courage to face the life that lay before me. I had a holiday, and went to Slamannan, and learned that my sister was to be married very soon, so the dresses I had for Elsie's wedding would just do. It was at New Year's time, and I was the bridesmaid. They were married at the Old Established Church of Scotland, and in the evening the snow was falling, and thick on the ground. I felt glad for my sister's sake. It was not much of a prospect, but they were young. My brother was my whole care; I did not know what my father was going to do with him. He was growing up and learning nothing. Father kept off the drink, and we all the time thought that some news would come to us from our relatives who had gone to "America." These were uncles and aunts; we had no grandparent living. For myself, I knew that I had to work hard for everything I got; but I could not see how to help my dear brother. I was afraid that my father would take him down into the pits to work. If only my mother had lived she would have put him to some useful pursuit. I suppose the mind seeks something upon which the emotions may grow as we get older. One thing I was nearer than if I had stopped in Ayrshire. I could do some things for him. There seemed no "self-help" for him.

I got back to my work again, feeling inspired with the idea that I would try and get my brother to Glasgow also. At Dr. Fargus' the Sundays were properly observed. We set aside toil for that day and were not allowed to do anything that could be avoided. Our own clothing had to be laid all ready to put on. The dinner was cooked the day before. Such peaceful days I have never had since. We went to the Rev. A. N. Sommervil's Church. It was near to the shipping part of the city, and the church and congregation were large. Other ministers would come some times. Dr. Guthrie came from Edinburgh. He was a real friend to the servant girls, and pleaded with the mistresses to be kind to their handmaids and see to their general wellbeing and the cheerfulness of their surroundings.

Dr. Thomas Guthrie was then a popular preacher. He started the ragged school movement in Edinburgh, and his efforts to suppress vice and to promote temperance made him a power on social questions. He used to hold services in the open air and in barns, or wherever people would come. While on his visits he found so many houses without a Bible or any book at all. He often stood in rooms bare of furniture, where father and mother and half-a-dozen children had to sleep, the destitution being all through drink. The stories he told were sad and true. Wherever he preached, there you would see the serving-maids and the persons of every rank in life. He had a good voice, and would sometimes describe in his sermon natural scenery, showing the wisdom of God, and that the earth is full of beauty. We had Dr. Norman Macleod, who preached to the Queen while she was at Balmoral. I could not follow his speeches like Dr. Guthrie's, although he wrote books and was the editor of "Good Words" and others, as well as a leading minister.

The misery I suffered, by reason of seeing so much of human woe and want and sin, made an old woman of me at the age of 16. I shall never forget one Sunday after church I went with some other girls to see their "district," if it could be called a district. In some instances there were foul underground cellars, where the inmates never breathed the fresh air. The children were covered with rags, and hunger reigned everywhere. This afternoon a starved-looking boy had broken a street lamp, and the policeman was taking him to the lock-up. One of the girls knew him, and asked the man how much it would cost for the lamp. If 7/6 could be found he said he would let the boy go. I told them to wait and I would get the money. I went to my mistress and to my Bible-teacher and to some others that I knew, and got the 7/6, and the boy was released, or, at least, I thought so. We took the money to the boy's mother, and told her to go to the office and get the boy back. That was on Monday evening. I went to see on my own account if the boy had got back. It was so dark that I could not find my way to the cellar. I went to a shop to buy a candle to see the underground room.

The man in the shop said, "Are you the youngster that found the 7/6 for that awful woman that lives down in that cellar?"

I said, "Yes."

"Well," he said, "that woman has been drunk ever since. She did not go for the boy, but has been quarrelsome and is making such a noise."

To my view it was sad, but not singular. I went down to the cellar and saw the sweetest and prettiest little girl I ever saw in my life stretched on the floor sleeping. There was no mother or anyone else there. I learned that the father was a sailor, and that was why. The girl was eight years old. Oh, what a picture she was as she lay calm in sleep, forgetful of her sorrows!

The daughters of well-to-do farmers and mechanics went to service to help themselves. There seemed no other way. Then through Elsie and the nurse I got to know a number of nice girls. We could come and go to each other. In different homes there were different rules. There was always plenty to be done. I know the sanitary part of the work was a study at the doctor's house. The furniture was mostly carved, and that meant some polishing. Then the wide halls and bannisters must be kept free from dust, while the fireplaces and the steel had to be kept bright. I was not old enough to have charge, but I learned how the work was done. In the winter it was hard, but I felt as if I were getting taught everything. My mind was full of hope the more I knew.

Unaware of what had happened, we went to church on a Sunday morning and found it all draped in black. The news had come that very morning that Prince Albert, the Queen's Consort, was dead. It cast a sadness over all the place, as he had been in Glasgow not long before to lay the foundation-stone of some public building.

ANOTHER NEW PLACE.

I had nothing to grumble about, but still the array of so much sorrow among the people round me made me wonder what failure or success lay in the future for me. Independence is so fondly sought after. Reluctantly, and with a touch of uneasiness, I heard of a place that I thought I would like. The lady was a friend of Mrs. Fargus, and the house was close by, while a smaller girl than myself would do for Mrs. Fargus' children. Then, too, I would have a little more wages. It was spoken of between the two ladies, and I was engaged to go in six weeks, when my term ended. Mrs. Mouncey was the name of the lady, and there were three in family. Mr. Mouncey had been married twice, and had one grown-up daughter by the first wife, with a son and daughter by the second wife—a boy of eight and a girl of ten. It was not a large house, and was on Victoria-terrace, facing the West-End park. From the windows could be seen the pleasure ground of the city, with its shrubs and monuments; that was its beauty spot. The West-End looked like the country yet in a few minutes one could be in the Trongate or Buchanan-street. I thought those two streets seemed the most busy, at least, with fashionable folk. Mr. Mouncey was the editor of some publication, and also wrote for some magazine. He seemed a man of independent means. They did not live in a showy manner, but they travelled a good deal. "You will have plenty of hard work," my fellow mates used to say to me, but I thought I would extract some happiness by coming to see them, and I would be gaining fresh experience.

Before I went to my new place I had an excursion to Slamannan. Glasgow, like all large cities, had its grievances and distresses in some of the dark and destitute parts. I had seen a little of both sides of the picture. I wondered at the goodness of those ladies, who went to the squalid and neglected. One had only to read the newspapers to learn that evil was not confined to the poor and degraded. Close to where I then lived the daughter of people in high rank was arrested for giving her lover poison. Her name was Madeliene Smith. So widespread was the interest felt that people chipped bits of the stone window-sill, where she passed the poison to him which caused his death. Her trial took place in Edinburgh. "Not proven," was the Scotch verdict returned. I saw a book with the whole account when I came to South Australia. I found comfort in going to see my own friends. A whole week before going to Mr. Mouncey's there was trouble in the air. A fresh gloom was over the place, as war in America was threatened, and people were rushing back from America as fast as the boats could bring them. In less than two weeks one could get to America.

We made the most of my holiday at home. I went once more to work. It was a mixed kind of position to rely on, but I determined to do my best. I found no difficulty; the mistress said, "Come along, my lass, you are welcome." I had a comfortable bedroom, and everything was convenient. The mistress undertook the care of providing and attending to the cookery, that nothing should be lost by carelessness, and there was Miss Mouncey with me to help to keep the house beautiful, and in a state of cleanliness. I could go to the same church and see my friends at Dr. Fargus'. I soon learned that Miss Mouncey was looked on as a rich woman, and that her mother's money would come to her. She had a mind of her own, and did not intend to marry. I think the condition of the homeless and uncared-for children was her special care. She would come and sit with me and tell me about the wretched little urchins she found amid dirt and disease, while the parents of the poor creatures were drinking. I confess many things seemed to me hopeless. It was depressing to hear of evil about everywhere I went. Mind and memory in moments of solitude tell me still how much I owe to the impression and influence of that sad time. In after years, when one or another would say what happy times they had when they were young, I thought "no, I would not like to be young again if this is all." I could not shut out of mind the long years that lay before me in that far-away time. In the present, all the world is behind me, and what does it matter?

Such a lot of people came to see Mr. Mouncey. Some wished to see Miss Mouncey particularly, and some she wanted to avoid. She only laughed. She was 22 years of age, fair, and accomplished, without a touch of vanity, and with the sweet name of Mary. The youngest child went to school. They liked to tell me of the good times we would have when we went to the Island of Arran, where they spent the summer months. We had family worship night and morning. By that time reading was no effort to me. I could read writing and write a little, with the aid of Miss Mouncey.

I brought a canary songbird from Slamannan to Mrs. Reily. I had no cage, but I had a strong paper-bag, and cut some tiny holes in it for air. I knew she had a cage, so I went one evening to see her and to learn how the bird was getting on. The doctor opened the door, and did not speak. He led me into a room, and there, in a coffin, lay Mrs. Reily. I flung myself on my knees beside her and cried bitterly. The doctor stood by and said, "Weep, girl, weep, for that is the first tear I have seen shed for my wife." He told me that her father, mother, and sister had come only to see what of her jewellery they could take and then they went away. He sent for the nurse, and I saw a little baby girl, which he said was all he had left. He had a good practice, and was growing rich, and, as he stood there with bent head, he looked sad and cheerless, but young and handsome. Such is the inevitable! I saw the little bird that I gave her; it was hanging in the window of the same room. My heart was full of compassion, as I remembered the beautiful face of that young wife. She was only 20 years of age. All must have courage to submit to their own destiny.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

Preparations for going away for the summer were hurried on, and there seemed more visitors than usual. I was pleased at the idea of going to the Island of Arran, which had many attractions for visitors, I longed to see the place, having heard so much about its hills and mountains. Miss Heslip, a young friend of Miss Mouncey's, was with them for the summer. From that day things were pleasing and mirthful. One evening, while I was passing the cake-basket in the drawing-room, I held the cake to a tall and dark gentleman. In place of taking some cake he took hold of my hand and shook it warmly. I was not used to shaking hands with people in the drawing-room. I felt so confused that I nearly let the basket and cake fall. I could see that the act was noticed by the smiles on the faces. I knew that Garibaldi was in the room, for I had seen him there before, but who could this be? When Miss Mouncey came out I asked her, and she told me I had shaken hands with a great man. He was the President of America, Abraham Lincoln. She told me then that there was going to be a civil war. I did not know what that was.

THE ISLE OF ARRAN.

It was so delightful to see Iona again. We left in the morning and called at so many places. There seemed quite a crowd, and such beautiful scenery. We arrived in the afternoon at Lamlash. There was someone to take the luggage, and we walked by the sea. The name of the house was Oakbank, and it was right on the top of a hill, with steps leading down to the boating-house, and there we could see the house-boat. The boat was called Oakbank, too. The house seemed small after Glasgow, with its little green gate, but the people only wanted somewhere to sleep. We lived outside, either on the water or on the mountains, there being plenty of caves as well. It was the month of June. The people who belonged to the house lived on the place in some way for the time. We could get milk and butter and eggs and poultry from them, but all the rest of the provisions came from the city, and the lovely fish they could get themselves in plenty. What a different life for the people who lived there when compared to that I had seen in the city. Whether they took me with them or not I had very little to do, there being a lot of people on the island known to each other. They would go off in the morning and take provisions with them, and I would not see them again till dark. Very often they took me as well. I could climb on my hands and feet, and did not trouble if I rolled down, so long as the sea was not immediately underneath me. How the people lived has often puzzled me more since than it did at the time.

It seemed that the whole, or nearly all, the island belonged to the Duke of Hamilton, and he was said to be eccentric. He would not let people make any alteration, but wished every place to remain in its wild state. It was known that coal could be got there in any quantity, but they dare not dig to get it. Some of the old people, with whom I liked to talk, told me that they were born on the island, and had never been out of it, even to cross the Clyde, and they hoped to die there. Only in summertime, when visitors were there, they spoke in English. To each other they spoke in Gaelic. The language was very strange to listen to, and more so when they made blunders, for one must laugh. The church was at Brodic, and it was quite two miles and a half to walk there. The minister preached in the morning in Gaelic, and it was good to see the old men and women coming over the hills to hear this Gaelic. I went one Sunday with the people of the house to hear the preaching. The minister was Mr. Davis, and he did look so cross, and railed at the dear creatures, who had come six and seven miles to hear him. I used to like to hear some of the old stories about the place.

It interested me when they told me that the deep valleys we were then passing would be filled up with snow in the winter months, and they showed me places here and there where some poor shepherd had perished in the snow, while he was looking for his sheep. They also said that for many months in the year they could not go to see anyone, and no one could come and see them because of the snow. There were no roads, but only footpaths on top of the hill or at the bottom. On seeing the place one could understand what it would be like after a heavy fall of snow. Then it would roll down from the mountains. The habits of those people were plain and without art. They let their houses in the summer, and that brought them a little money. They had little patches of land on which they grew flax and all sorts of things. It was rare to see a ploughed field between Lamlash and Brodic. The Duke of Hamilton's palace was at Brodic. It looked a grand place. He need not stop shut in it all the winter, however, for he had other places. Then the people had to make provision for the winter. They killed a sheep, and had it dried in some way. I saw some of it. They called it braxxie. Then there was the fish, also dried, in plenty. They made cheese and they had bacon. Those who were too far back from the sea had to have stores inside their homes. From Oakbank one could clear away the snow from the steps and get to the ships in a small boat, but none of the steamers could come near, although they would come as close as they dare in the rough weather. We counted as many as fourteen one morning, after a stormy night. There were all sorts, some being good-sized sailing vessels and yachts.

One more thing I found, and that was that the people made the linen from the flax that grew on the place. The bed-linen that they had in use for the visitors they said was a hundred years old. I saw some that was newly made. It would be something to remember to sleep between sheets newly made. I ought to explain that these ships I saw came in for the shelter of the hills from the fearful gales. I think now that was the most enjoyable time I ever spent. One way and another I got to see a good deal, and was learning to know that there was both dignity and independence in the labors of a house-servant. The charm is to feel assured that your services are approved. I am quite sure that Mr. Mouncey could get plenty of inspiration for his magazine; he was always taking notes, and was not above calling my attention to things interesting or instructive if I were with them.

Miss Heslip came from near Falkirk, and knew all about Denny. Both she and Miss Mouncey often took me with them. I rejoiced in a scamper, so one morning we took the two children and tracked off to climb a hill called Goat-Fell. We had some lunch with us. Mr. and Mrs. Mouncey had gone somewhere else; at any rate, we began to climb, and kept on climbing and resting for I do not know how long. Well on in the afternoon we had lunch, and started to come down. We did not go to the top. It was awful, perfectly awful to see the sheep browsing about on those hills. They looked like mere specks. My wonder was that they did not roll into the sea, which foamed at the foot in some places. We were to be there from June 1 till the last day in August. The beach was a picture, with the cliffs above and underfoot the Scotch pebbles and shells and the rocks and seaweed. I had only to sit and think.

Many people came to the island on a Saturday afternoon and brought tents with them, and stopped till Monday. The caves were used as well. Some minister would come from the city and preach in the open air. We all went on the hilltop to hear him. It was like a fairyland. From there you could see the Ailsa Crag, which looked as if it were in the clouds. There were no public buildings, no fine arts, and yet few places have so much natural attraction for the holiday season as the Island of Arran.

While bathing I made the acquaintance of a young girl, who, like myself was with some visitors from the city. She could swim and float on the water for ever so far. She told me that her father and brothers were fishermen, and that she had been often away with them for weeks at a time, and they had taught her to swim. I used to watch her in terror when she would go under water and come up in another place. Her name was Annie Smith, and she took me in hand to teach me to swim. I tried to do as she told me, but one morning I went too far. I could not see her, and I felt myself being carried out to sea. I was helpless, and the seawater was in my mouth and ears, and I was trying to catch hold of some seaweed. All at once Annie got sight of me. She gave a scream, and, coming out, pulled me to the shore. I did not know how I got there, but I found myself in bed with all the young people and the master and mistress in my room. I soon got alright, but never again went beyond my depth in the sea. It was a strange feeling, and for days I could hear the roaring of the water. I felt that I should always remember that girl who saved me from drowning. Annie could manage a boat and use the oars. The young ladies often went for a sail and took me with them. They had gentlemen friends, and sometimes we had the Scotch bagpipes on board. I thought what a pity it was that such glorious days should pass so quickly.

Mrs. Pringle, from whom we rented the house, would let me come with her to the dairy, and I helped her sometimes with the churning. The butter was made differently then. She had fowls and plants and a vegetable garden. Everything was speckless and clean. All this gave me an insight into the ways of the world not to be regretted. She had three children, and her husband and her brother, who was an elderly man, worked about the place. They had some hay growing some distance from the house. Mrs. Pringle let the young couple and me go to see the haymaking. We would go off in the cart and come back on top of a load of hay, which was put in the loft for the winter. The fresh sea wind and the smell of the hay were beautiful. How one can enjoy life in the open air! I looked forward to coming again the next year.

It looked such a short distance from where we bathed to cross over to The Holy Isle, which was once the burying-place. The dead were taken there in boats, and there was an old monastery where the monks lived, and where many of them were buried. It was much patronised by visitors. There was but one house there with people living in it, and that was a public-house. All our people with some friends went one afternoon. It was not convenient to take me, although it had been promised that I should go to The Holy Isle before we left.

That memorable summer was nearly ended. Mr. Mouncey had gone to Glasgow. Mrs. Pringle's brother and his nephew got the boat. I made arrangements with Annie Smith to come with me to see the isle. The days were still long, so we got there in time to see the ruins of the abbey, and to try and read the indiscernible names on the tombs. There were no headstones, but all were lying flat, and were covered over with moss. Such were the graves of the monks. We rushed about to see all we could. The moss was more than a finger in length, and there were feathery-like ferns. The higher up the old building the more dainty they appeared. I asked the young man if he thought he could get some for me from the top, for I wanted some pulled up by the root to plant. At some risk he went, and, to my grief, he just pulled the ferns off. I brought different curios to keep in remembrance. We went into the house. I only saw one woman, and she did not look very bright. No wonder, either, surrounded by the sea and its deadliness. Mr. Cook, who was with us, spoke to her in Gaelic, and she brought in some scones and whisky. Neither Annie Smith nor I drank whisky, nor were we asked to, but the scones I shall never forget. They were made of flour, ground from green peas. I tested them, and I asked Mr. Cook afterwards what they were made of. He said they had a field of green peas, which, on being, gathered, they dried and ground after the Bible custom between two stones. They were as green as grass, but not bad to taste.

Mr. Cook was well acquainted with the isle, and he showed all the places of antiquity. The people who lived there had boats, and some more than one, and ran to and fro from Lamlash and Brodic. They made a good living in that way in summertime. We went back to our boat, and the tide had gone and left it high and dry on the side, such a long way from the water. Mr. Cook stood and looked in despair. He forgot that the tide was receding, as we were in such haste to get ashore, and he told us afterwards that he had never been on the isle after dark. The men who lived there had gone either to Brodic or Lamlash. The young man who was with Mr. Cook was named Cooke also. The strength of the four of us could move the boat, but it could not be dragged down the side of the rocks for fear of damage. So three we had to wait till the tide came in. It was moonlight, and the mental visions that passed through my mind are there yet. The people were anxious about us. Mr. Cook had only one eye, and they thought that some mishap had occurred. We got home alright, and I was glad I had seen The Holy Isle.

While it is fresh in my mind, I may add here that many years after I was telling a friend about my trip to The Holy Isle. A friend of hers came in and sat down. She begged me to finish the incident, and I went all through about the ferns, and so on. Someone called to the man that sat by me. I looked to see if he were going. He called out to the questioner that he would not move till I had told my experience of that night on the isle. He then said he was the young man that climbed up the ruins to get me the ferns. His name was Cook, and he was employed in a confectioner's shop in Adelaide. He had a wife and children. I hoped to see him again, but I was away from Adelaide for some time. When I returned I made enquiries, and was told that he bought a place near Blackwood. It was laughable that, not knowing the man, I should be telling a story in which he had a part. If he is alive and sees his name in print I hope he will pardon me.

I still love the beautiful and the true. Nothing lasts, pleasure least of all. I knew the joy of living and of my freedom, with no one to make me afraid. My name was then Anna Macdonald. The name gave me an entrance amongst the people of Arran, as I was one of them. I understood that my by-gone relations had all drifted from Scotland through some religious matter, but that did not trouble me.

But I must not linger over by-gones. I felt a sort of responsibility to myself and those I loved. I had only myself to depend on for my food and clothing and to help others. It seemed very well for the preachers to tell you of the lilies of the field that toiled not, neither did they spin, and so on. Scotland is not the place for that style of life. This is not meant ironically.

The time for going back to town was drawing nearer, and we had only two more Sundays. I used often to go with some of the people to church in the morning, although I did not understand the Gaelic. They had Gaelic Bibles as well. The same minister would preach in English in the afternoon, and then we often saw people from Glasgow. I saw a young gentleman one Sunday from Mr. Somervill's church. His name was Malcolm White, and he was studying to be a minister, but was not yet ordained. I told the young ladies on the way home. I was so pleased to see him, although I was not near enough to speak to him, as I would like to have done, as he was my teacher at a Bible-class.

Miss Heslip said she wished that she had seen him, as he had been one time tutor to her brothers. He had just published a book, of which he was the author. They asked me many things about him when they saw that I knew him. We all knew at the class that he was a young man from amongst the working people. It was he who helped me to gather the money to pay the fine for the little boy who broke the lamp-glass one Sunday. I had to tell him of the sad sequel at the time, and he told me to try and forget it. I had been thinking of all the questions I would ask him when I got back about Arran. One very old man told me that when the apostles were sent "far hence," that some of them landed at Arran.

Soon the time of our stay concluded. We were getting some pebbles and shells and seaweed, and I dearly wanted some ferns with the root attached. There were a lot of large ferns growing near the bathing-place, so I got Master Robert and Miss Annie Mouncey to come and help me. Miss Annie and I held them back and Master Robert, in the hope of finding some tiny fronds, pushed right through till he entered a large cave. He ran and called his father, and then Mr. Cook came and made a clear way into a place that went ever so far in the rock. There was a strange-looking thing, like a lamp, hanging from the roof. Mr. Mouncey could stand upright in the place. Neither Mr. Pringle nor any of the others knew anything about it. How we wished we had found it in the early part of our stay, but we hoped to examine it the next year, and begged the people to let it remain hidden till we came back. No doubt something could be discovered about it to tell a tale. It seemed natural that we should think of all the countless cruel deeds of olden times wrought by a blind and brutal humanity.

The thought of "home, sweet home," brought happiness to the young people. Annie Smith promised to come with me to Slamannan when I went, and to tell my relatives how she saved me from the deep sea. After many kind good-byes, we were once more on board the Iona, and the Isle of Arran was far away. As it was well towards the end of the season there was a scene of excitement coming and going between the shore and the boat. We had to go in small boats. How it has all clung to my memory. There was one laughable incident. Some economist had been saving or buying eggs till he had a hamperful. Because they were not packed well, or owing to the heedless way they were carried, they tumbled on the deck. The eggs began to roll about. Like that of some sudden explosion was the effect, and both ladies and gentlemen got up on the seats. Anyone who saw those sailors mopping up the decks and cleaning away the eggs would never forget the look on their faces. Every now and then, when they thought all was cleared, the lurching of the ship would send some more eggs rolling out from under the seats. The comic episode caused laughter to everyone but the sailors and the person to whom the eggs belonged.

BACK IN GLASGOW AGAIN.

I could not help being glad that I was back in Glasgow again. Everyone seemed so happy. Yet all was strange, and in the midst of my happy feelings I could not forget the uncertainty at home, or the trouble as to what we were going to do. My dearest ambition was to live at home with my father and brother and sister. But I had a dread of the pinch of poverty, and Glasgow was then in a fearful state. The war in America had broken out, and hundreds and thousands of people were thrown out of employment. All the cotton-mills were stopped, as the raw cotton came from America. Then all the commerce or trade from Glasgow to America was at a standstill. I thought it bad enough before we went to Arran, but it was worse then. Every day persons were coming to the door begging, and one could see tradesmen and mechanics digging in the West-End park for a shilling per day. How often I have found, too, in the morning sleeping in the archway some poor boys that had been there all night. They had no home. I was all the time in sadness, but what could I do? No efforts of mine could lessen the sorrow of even one human being. I should assist my own people first. And despair sometimes possessed me.

Miss Heslip went to her home, and Mr. Mouncey went away to Italy, and when we had things straight I was to have a few days and go to Slamannan. I went and saw my friends at Dr. Fargus', and to the Bible-class, and told Mr. White that I had seen him at Brodic, and I told him about Miss Heslip being a visitor with Mr. Mouncey's people. Mr. White said he knew Mr. Mouncey, but he had never met Miss Mouncey. Before Miss Heslip went there was a concert at the Queen's Rooms, close to us. Jenny Lind was the singer. It was a guinea to go in to hear her. She gave all she got for that night and many other nights to the relief of the poor and the distressed. Our two young ladies were in evening-dress, and I was to bring wraps. While I was waiting, together with some other girls on the same errand, the man at the door asked us if we would like to see and hear the singer, there being a place on the ground-floor from which we could both see and hear her without being seen. We were glad, and thanked the man. There was only Jenny Lind's husband with her to play the accompaniment. She had just commenced to sing "John Anderson, my jo, John," and her husband was at the piano. He seemed older than she was, and his head was bald, but the singing and the playing were beautiful. She sang a Swiss song, too, and that was all I heard. Could anyone ever forget the voice of that woman? And it seemed no effort for her to get the Scotch words so nicely. The ladies were pleased that I saw and heard her, even ever so little. I thought that Miss Mouncey and Miss Heslip sang very well, but both said that they would never sing again after hearing Jenny Lind.

Glasgow was a manufacturing city and crowded with human beings in the struggle to live. Edinburgh did not seem to me so bad, but I never lived there. There was some restless discontent going on in Italy. The world must move on. Life's destiny lay hidden from me. Mrs. Mouncey was good and kind. My sister came to see me. She had a baby girl! I was allowed to go out with her and show her some wonderful places about, and she stopped with me all night. My father and brother called to see me now and again, and my sensitive nature was keenly alive to every act of kindness shown to them.

In conversation with Mr. Malcolm White I told him that Miss Mouncey was going to Miss Heslip's for a time. He said he wished that he was acquainted with Miss Mouncey, as he had something to send to Miss Heslip. It came out very unexpectedly that I heard Miss Mouncey express herself equally anxious for an introduction to him, so I said, "Why not come to-morrow afternoon, Miss Mouncey will be at home?" I went into her room when I got home that night, and told her that Mr. White was coming to see her the next day. She could not understand it, and questioned me a lot as to what I said. She was perplexed, but not angry. He came, and I opened the door to him, and led him to the drawing-room. I found Miss Mouncey and announced her and shut the door, and I learned that the Rev. M. White became Miss Mouncey's husband two years after I came to Adelaide. He was a gentleman, according to my standard, and in every sense of the word she was a lady. Everything came about as I hoped. She often said that if ever she married she would like to marry a minister. I knew that she was sought for by others. I did not forget to ask about the apostles landing at Arran. I asked Mr. Somervill, as well as Mr. White. I had some things made plain to me which need not be added here.

The time came for me to go to Slamannan. All was turmoil there. I had not long been in the little house when my father came in and said, "Anna, why don't you go to Australia?" He had seen two young girls whom I knew, and they had only that day received a reply from London to tell them they were to sail for Queensland in two weeks' time. I sat and looked at him. I thought he was joking, and I said, "No, father, I will do all I can for you, but I will never cross the sea so far."

Later on, when I went out with my brother, I said, "Well, Mac, what would you say if I went to Australia?" He told me how he wished he could go somewhere out of Slamannan. I learned for the first time that he was working down in the coal-pits. And the next day when I saw him come in I made up my mind to come to Australia if they would take me. No one but myself knew my thoughts. My brother was a little over 14 years of age, and I was not 17. When I returned to Glasgow I knew that there were bills all about in the streets notifying that free passages would be given to capable young women as domestic servants to three different colonies, Queensland, South Australia, and Victoria. The notice went on to say that a doctor and a matron would be on board, and that the ships were fitted up with sanitary and other arrangements according to rule. I had often seen the advertisement before, but I never read it. I went to the place in Hope-street, and saw the agent, and asked if I could get my brother to come with me. When I told him the age he said "No," but added that if I had some friends out in the colonies they could send a grant or get an assisted passage for my brother. I said I had no one out there.

"Well," he said, "we will take you, and you can soon send for your brother." He talked to me for a long time, and gave me some papers to get filled in and to bring them back to him again. I took the papers, but I did not like to say anything to Mrs. Mouncey. That night I went to friends at Dr. Fargus', and they tried all they could to persuade me not to go to Australia. The Dr. and Mrs. Fargus were in London at the time, as there was a great exhibition there, and they had gone to see it.

I had no wish to see the world, and doubted if I would have the courage at the end. I mistrusted myself, but still I had the papers filled up. Some said I had lost my senses. When I explained the facts to my master and mistress, and showed them the conditions of the voyage in a printed form, they added their names as to what they knew of my reputation. Then the minister's name and the doctor's name were put on in addition, and the forms were sent to London.

I DECIDE TO COME TO ADELAIDE.

Meanwhile I had gone to hear a man who was lecturing. He dealt with all the colonies in turn, and when he referred to South Australia and Adelaide, so pleasing were the pictures he drew of the country all round, that they made a deep impression on me. I knew no one in Adelaide, and I knew no one in that lecture-hall, but as I sat there my mind was made up to come to South Australia, having the choice between it and either Melbourne or Queensland. I told the Rev. A. N. Somervill, when I showed him the papers, that I would like to come to Adelaide, and he said that a college friend of his was in the city of Adelaide. His name was Dr. Gardner, and they wrote to each other. From Dr. Gardner's account he thought it would be a nice place to live, and when I left Glasgow Mr. Somervill gave me a letter to Dr. Gardner, who was minister of Chalmer's Church, North-terrace.

I was healthful, sound of body, and free from disease, and I did not think so much of the trouble of the voyage.

It seemed, such a short time after the papers were sent away till I had an answer back to say that I was to hold myself in readiness to sail from Liverpool or Birkenhead in a ship called the Morning Star. That was near the end of October. I had not told them at home what I had done in regard to applying for a passage, and I was to be at the place of embarkation not later than November 2. With a fluttering heart I went to Slamannan. They would not believe me. Then they did not want me to go. I was sorely tried. I wondered at the maze of difficulties; the only thing which determined me was that it was too late to draw back. I craved for their sympathy, and asked them to let me go. I overheard a man speaking to my father. He asked if it was true that I was going out to the colonies. My father said "Yes." He replied, "Surely you will not let your daughter go." My father said "Yes." The man had some family himself, and he then said, "If it were a daughter of mine that wanted to go to that wild, outlandish place I would take her to the plantation and take a gun and shoot her rather than let her go to such a place."

I heard it all, and had a cry. I did not know enough to realise the distance or the time I would be on the sea. The Morning Star was a sailing vessel.

In spite of my impulsive nature it was hard to give up all the humble joys of youth, and I thought I could face the future better in Scotland. What would a strange land hold for me? It is no use to tell how the colliers and their wives and friends crowded to see me, as they said to mix up the sour with the sweet. We were living in the main street of Slamannan then, and my sister and her husband, as well as the colliers and others, gathered together and got the large hall and arranged a concert on my behalf. I felt grateful to many whom I had never seen before. All round I was asked such strange questions, and was told I was rushing to destruction. Some thought I would get eaten when I got out here.

The final morning came. It was dark and cold on November 2. All my own relations travelled with me to Glasgow, but at the railway-station at Slamannan there were the people again with their hearty farewells. I told them I would come back and see them some day, and I did so. The brave spirit which sustained me gave way, and I went in tears to say good-bye to my friends in Glasgow. Oh, the bitterness of that hour! To see the old scenes of my daily life and say the last word. I saw Dr. Reily, and he gave me some useful advice for ship life. In Scotland the days are short in November. The train left at 5 p.m. It was dark, and every familiar object grew dim. There was no one in the train whom I knew. I was told that it would be 7 o'clock the next morning before I would get to Liverpool. All night the train journeyed on, and at some of the stations we picked up some more weeping passengers. It seemed to console me when I saw others who I learned were going to Adelaide in the Morning Star.

When we got to Liverpool we were taken to Birkenhead. There was a queer-looking building where we were taken. I soon found that plenty of people were there to the appointed time for the voyage, and they did not seem afraid to travel to the fair land beyond the sea. Such a mixed lot of strangers I saw. There were Welsh and English married couples with their families. There were Welsh and English single young men and Welsh and English single young woman. Then there were Scotch and Irish married couples, and also their families, and single young Scotch men, and single young Scotch women. I can still remember how many single women there were altogether. There were 105. We had nothing to complain of. There were separate divisions for all the young women in a department by themselves with the married couples next to us. Then the young men were at the other side, and in the ship the same plan was carried through all the way on the voyage.

We did not sail till November 19, but there were no unreasonable restrictions. We went in and out at will. I went about with some of the married people, and clung to them all the way out and after. I go and see some of them at this date when I can find the time. The ship was brought alongside of the depot, as this place was called, and I thought it looked so splendid, so clean and nice; but, for all that, more than I thought it might be our last resting-place. The touch of kindness in it all was wonderful to me. One lady, also a free passenger, was elected as matron. She was an English lady, and she endeared herself to all. The doctor had all our names on a roll, and he called them over every evening and morning, and we had to answer to our names to see that none of us got lost. The doctor acted as chaplain. He was a bachelor, and had many years' experience of sea life. There was a punt that went to and fro from Birkenhead to Liverpool, and vehicles of all kinds with horses attached passed over on this punt. It cost a half-penny for each individual. We often went in companionship in that way, and we saw many things to surprise us in Liverpool.

We were watching to see when the Morning Star would sail, and wondering why we were there so long and were provided for, without payment, with good as well as suitable food. The last afternoon before we sailed we had our tea on board the ship. Some were skilled in music amongst the men, and they formed in a harmonious way and marched on board in order playing some lively tunes with flute and fiddle. Only to think that we must gradually get settled and be pent up within the walls of a ship for three months and not see land in that time! We girls were arranged so many for each table, and the table had a number. We took it in turns to keep the utensils and vessels that we used clean. The sleeping convenience, too, was adjusted for sleeping only. There were comfortable hammock-like beds, and two shared a compartment together. A young English girl came to me and said her name was put with mine for sleeping in the same division. I had not seen her before, as she came on board only in time to sail, as her home was in Liverpool. She cried bitterly at leaving home and mother. She was about 20 years of age, and so beautiful and pleasing, and she could sing. We went to sleep, and in the morning when I awoke I found the ship moving gently. We were being towed out of the dock by a steamboat.

ON AN EMIGRANT SHIP.

It was a foggy morning. I could see the boat and I learned that we were in the River Mersey. How different it looked from the River Clyde! I was on the poop and a man was standing waving to a woman in the boat, who was also waving a handkerchief. He was a tall, strong-looking man, with such a tanned face. I looked up at him and saw the tears standing on his brown cheeks. That was our captain. When we got fairly out to sea a great many felt ill. Strange to say, I did not, and was able to be helpful and to go here and there and assist the others. Some were never on the deck for weeks, but rough or fine I never missed being in the open air for one day during the voyage. I loved to watch the wheel that controlled the helm and guided that great ship in a direct course to Adelaide. A few verses, written by one of the married men, will give some idea of the high opinion we all had of the captain. They are still in a legible state, although written so long ago. I will add them here. The author of them is dead, but in his lifetime in South Australia his name was popular and high in public favor. Here are the lines:—

ON THE MORNING STAR.

Come, let us be cheerful, at last we are afloat

Alone on the ocean, where battles were fought

By England's true sons, to memory so dear,

Whose cannons were never yet seen in the rear.

Brave Captain Mathews, he is truly a hero,

His barque is his pride on the wide, rolling sea.

His voice through the tempest sounds strong and clear,

And the deck is his cabin when danger is near.

No favor yet asked has he ever refused,

In the fair weather all the young girls are amused.

Always so cheerful, with a sweet, pleasant smile;

See him romp with the children, the time to beguile.

Mr. Granger, the first mate, like the captain, is free,

Always happy when he sees some amusement and glee.

Amongst the young women he is nothing amiss—

I judge by the number that I've seen him kiss.

Mr. Hudson, the second mate, has a fitness of mind,

In his place he is ever upright and kind.

Truth and sincerity you discern in his face,

He will never the cause of old England disgrace.

Then may success attend those three brave sons of the sea,

May fortune befriend them wherever they be;

When old age comes on may their pillow be soft,

When called from below, God grant their souls go aloft!

When scenes and places were pointed out to us I began to realise how far away I was. When the captain gave orders that we were to be kept below, as the ship would get a tossing in the Bay of Biscay a solemn silence fell on us all. The dear old Morning Star ploughed her way through that awful water, and I could see no bay, but only stormy billows. All our things swung to the other side of the ship, and the things from the other side came over to us. We soon regained confidence, and there were merry peals of laughter to see the plight of the passengers when their goods and chattels were rushing from side to side. Fancy us being afraid of sea or storm after that. If any other ship that flitted across the horizon was near enough the men got out some flags and signalled to her, and in that way found out who she was and where she was going. If she was close enough and was homeward bound we could send letters. An American warship came close by, but when the captain discovered that we were a ship full of people voyaging to Adelaide he let us go. I learned that they were bent on plunder. The warship was the famed Confederate privateer Alabama. I used to read about it and the desperate things Captain Semmes did on the high seas, not sparing either boats or schooners, but overhauling them in a most merciless manner. Our captain knew who they were, but we did not at the time. Although I saw the name I was not the least disturbed, and years afterwards, when reading a description of the Alabama, I knew that I had seen her.

The doctor read the Anglican Church service every Sunday forenoon, and usually we all attended, sailors as well. How sweet the singing sounded on the sea. It was so solemn and so mysterious with only the sky for a roof. The ways and the saying and the doings of those on the Morning Star were very peaceful in that never-to-be-forgotten time. Health and contentment were unspoilt by contact with the world. I, for one, too often turned with regret to the old times in Scotland, although our days were full of excitement. If any isolated places could be seen as we travelled along the captain would let us have his telescope in turns, and would tell the name and the situation and all particulars. We learned that he had children at home, and that when I saw him first he was waving good-bye to his wife and children. He would come up in the afternoon with his pockets full of sweets and put them on a canvas to see us scramble for them. He was beloved by the sailors, and it was good to see how they would run when he called. He always said, "Come along, my boys, and let that go every inch."

We were a long time at sea before he knew that I had no relatives on board, and when I told him I knew no one in Adelaide his voice trembled. "Oh, well, be brave," he said, "you are young, and you must take your part in labor and in life." The days seemed to pass so quickly, and as day followed day the companionship grew more strong, as we were grouped together with only the noise of the waves to listen to. How little did some think of the deep shadow of sorrow that would reach them through those bright, rolling waters. Scarlet fever had already seized some of the young children, and one by one they were lowered down into the bitter waters. They would be enjoying their hours of play in the sunshine on the deck one day and the next they would be gone. The trouble continued till twenty-seven had died. A man died also, and one family lost six children, some of them grown up. After seeing so much of the troubled horrors of the deep we were heavy-hearted, and no wonder. Everything passed like a mist, and we did not know who would go over next.

Captain Mathews showed much sympathy for the grief and suffering. How we watched him as he sat with his telescope, and anxiously wondered how long it would be ere we got to Adelaide. Wild winds would toss the ship with such cruel force that we were very anxious. Once we saw icebergs floating about in the sea, and it required some skill to steer clear of them. They looked awful. There was a skylight just above where the other young girl and I slept, but it was always shut and made fast every night at 10 o'clock. One fearfully rough night when the wind was blowing strongly the water came rushing down the ladder. It was sea water. Our berth was getting full, and I could not go on deck for the hatchway was locked. I called, as loudly as I could, but could not get anyone to hear. So I thought of a plan, and I found a mopstick and tied my towel on it, and poked it up through the bars of the skylight, and rattled it to and fro with such vigor that the captain, who was at the wheel, came running and calling what was the matter. I said, "Please, captain, will you put the cover on the skylight to keep the water from coming down the steps?" He said I would have to appear before the doctor in the morning to answer for the fright I had given him, and I was sent for in the morning for the first time.

Fever was in the captain's cabin; the doctor was there and the mates. The captain said he had been to sea for thirty-three years and had met all kinds of incidents, but that he had never before had such a fright as I gave him with that broomstick. He was horrified to see this white thing come up in the middle of the night. I promised never to offend again, but I received a good scolding. He said it looked like a goblin, and he pretended to be angry, but I could see the smile on his face. I could only look from one to the other, for if the ship had got wrecked they said I would have been to blame, for the captain was at the wheel himself, and he let it go when he saw this white object thrust out in the darkness, while the sound disturbed him as much as the sight of the thing.

I shall never forget that time. Sometimes doubt and despair were at war. I felt that I could not undertake the journey again, for the task I had undertaken seemed harder than any I had learnt before.

A lot of nonsense was talked about "crossing the line." What dreadful things some of us thought we would see! We feared the Equator and the Southern Cross, but there was, after all, only fun and merriment, there being nothing strange to see. The ship went on steadily just the same, but when they told me a certain constellation of stars was the Southern Cross, and I lost sight of some stars I was familiar with, I knew we were making our way to the new land. After crossing the great dividing of the seas we often had it very hot. This was new to me. Often in the tropics the ship would just roll to and fro, and sometimes make no headway. Then we would see the tar boiling in the seams on the deck. We had plenty of time for dreams and fancies, as we longed for the first glint of freedom, so as to start into life again. It was getting on towards the end of December, and we thought of the New Year on board ship, and set to work to form some plans for being joyous.

Christmas and New Year's Day were festive times. Some of the young girls who had friends amongst the married people were allowed to go to their quarters to spend the day, and we had all sorts of enjoyment by direction of the captain. We were well content with the arrangements, and the whole time was restful and quiet, despite the monotony of the voyage. The share of joy and sorrow that comes to every life was not absent on sea. What troubled me was that I was growing tall, and I wondered what I should do for clothing. I grew in height and got broader. I could only with difficulty get on some of my garments that fitted me well before I left on the long voyage. Some actually laughed, and asked me why I came before I had stopped growing. I only had one hat, and that blew over the side of the ship. I stood and watched it as far as I could see it with tears in my eyes. That had fitted me alright. We got up our boxes every now and then to look through them. But I must not keep on about my discomfort, although what seemed droll to others was to me a matter for serious thought. I had a new pair or boots and would not wear them on board, but was saving them to go ashore with. I put them in what I thought a safe place in a corner where we slept, but when I went to get them the rats had eaten all the kid off them. There were only left the canvas or lining and the leather on the toes. I took them and showed them to the captain, and he said it was good to have rats on board ship, as it indicated that we would not get wrecked on the voyage. I had been so helpful to the matron all the way that the doctor told me I would be rewarded with some payment when we got to Adelaide. I was thankful for that, because I had no money.

We were told that it would take to the middle of February, supposing everything went right, before Adelaide would be reached. Many on board were travelling to relations or friends, and there was no home-sickness amongst them. They counted the moments until their arrival. Neither the captain, the doctor, nor any of the mates had ever been to South Australia, nor had any of the passengers been either, so we had no one to tell us of anything encouraging about this new country. We could only have hope and courage. Everything was done for our comfort. When the weather was too hot awnings were spread to protect us from the sun, and we always seemed to have a reasonable supply of water. I never saw the least sign of whisky or grog, as it was called, in the case of any of the officers of the Morning Star.

Cleanliness was universal, and every precaution was taken against infection by the use of carbolic. That South Australia was a place for men and women who believed in themselves was recognised, and the question was often discussed. There were men of culture and training on board the ship, and so they proved themselves afterwards. It made me proud to think of having come a sea-voyage with them. The same remark applied also to the women, with but few exceptions. We had all signed an agreement to stop in the colony for two years. The thoughts of a return to Great Britain were shared with many of us, and they gave me hope.

The most painful experience I ever had on that deck was one Saturday morning. I was sitting in my usual place, when I saw a seaman going up in the rigging. All at once I heard a fearful cry, and I saw him fall into the sea. They shut down the skylight to keep the people from causing confusion. On either side of the ship a lifeboat was lowered in a moment, and before I had time to look round I could see the mates and the men in the boats, and the lifebuoys thrown over. The captain had the ship heaved to. It was awful. They did not rescue the sailor, and it was affirmed that a shark had pulled him under, as one had been seen that morning. Sharks were often seen. The sight of that man falling into the water has lived in my memory. I had not seen him before, except amongst the others, when they were all together pulling the ropes, but I could see his face so plainly as he fell that I would have known him again. This occurred on January 17. The sea was calm, and there was no breeze. We all felt sad, and the flags were dropped half-mast. All the man's chattels were given in charge to the steward. He was a young Scotchman, from the Orkney Islands, and a single man. How I shuddered at the sight of a shark after that! They followed us nearly all the way. Anyone who has heard the cry of the sailors when a man falls overboard will never forget it forever. Then there was the confused mingling of the people, with the murmurs of "hush, hush."

I ARRIVE IN ADELAIDE.

It was a glorious sight on February 14 when we came on deck to see the land of the south. There was such intense excitement, and the scene is beyond my description. Dr. Duncan and some other officials came on board soon after we reached the anchorage. They had puggarees on their hats and hanging down their backs. That was the only foreign sign in the clothing. It was a hot day. I, for one, quite expected to find that the people dressed differently, and that the houses were on some other plan from those at home, considering the long distance from Scotland. After the officials had convinced themselves that everything was satisfactory the gangway was let down for the people from the shore, who came in numbers to welcome the friends whom they had not seen for so long. Amongst the very first was the head-gardener from Sir William Milne's, at Glen Osmond. The gardener came to meet his sister and her husband with their family. He had instructions to employ a young girl to do laundry work at Sunnyside, Glen Osmond, and he pointed out the place from the side of the ship under the hills. It looked so nice, and he told me they were a Scotch family. I knew that I was strong, and that I could do laundry work nicely. He tried amongst the older girls, but came back to me, and I agreed to go to Sunnyside when we got to the shore. The captain, the doctor, and the matron were pleased, as there was a home found for me before I left the ship, and such a dear home it proved to be.

The married people and the single men went off first, with such of the young women as had friends to receive them. The next day we were brought to Adelaide, where a few of the single girls had gone. We were all on deck next morning in good time. There was no railway from Port Adelaide to the Semaphore then, so everything was left in its place. All were making preparations to leave, with hearts full of gratitude to the captain. While he was sitting looking through his telescope, not thinking of what was going on behind his back, one of the girls slipped up quietly and cut off the tails from his old blue serge frock coat. She then cut it into little bits and gave it to us to remind us of that grand man. The look on his face when he saw what was done was good to see. The young woman who did the cutting became a captain's wife two years after we arrived, and she and I were friends all the time to her death, which occurred a short time ago. The doctor was very kind to us all, but not with the hearty interest that touched the captain for the forlorn condition of some of us. We saw four large omnibuses on the beach, and in a tempest of sobs we were brought ashore. The doctor had been to town in the morning. He and the captain came to see that we were all in the buses safely. We all came to Adelaide that way and got into King William-street, some inside, and some outside.

I had no hat to wear, and the matron, who was with us, promised to get one for me that day. The air of cheerfulness amongst these girls was splendid, and some of them were singing on the way. We were taken to the home for servants, which stands yet. It was a little way from the railway-station in King William-street. When I pass it now the past all comes back to me just as it was as I was getting out of the omnibus. I could not go back from the thought of what my life and work would be. A new gladness came to me, for Adelaide seemed a wonderful place. We admired the brightness of the sky and the splendor of what we saw coming along, as well as the grape vines about the houses. We had plenty of fruit of all sorts sent to us on the Morning Star, with many grapes. I had never before seen a grape-vine growing. The very earth seemed new. We were kindly spoken to at this home, and everything was done for our comfort. A committee of ladies were appointed; one, I remember, who was so nice was Mrs. Henry Gawler. She was so sympathetic. I told her where I was going, and she knew the lady. Mrs. Gawler took a fancy to me, and for years afterwards I used to go to her if I was in any difficulty.

It was on a Thursday afternoon that we arrived, and on the Saturday after tea the coachman was sent to take me to Sunnyside in a spring-cart. I was shown into the mistress' room, and the first words she said were, "Dear me, you are young!" It was the same complaint as I had heard in Scotland, and I wondered if I would ever get older. I showed the lady the letters and papers I had to give in proof that I could do what was likely to be required of me willingly. They were a large family, some were grown up, but there was a baby in arms. There were other servants. One I found in the kitchen had only been in the colony a month, but a housemaid who showed me to my room had been in South Australia all her life. She brought me some grapes, and was so anxious for my comfort. I am quite sure that thankfulness for the kindness of them all touched me with a sense of security.

I was early astir in the morning. What a scene was spread out to view. As far all round as I could see there was nothing but grapes and fruit trees. I was told that two-and-two the girls went out on Sundays, and if I liked I could go to town with the cook, and that I should stay home the next Sunday with the cook. I knew where to find some of my shipmates if I could get into town. So it was settled that I should go that morning, because the other girl knew all about Adelaide. There were no tramcars then. There were two carriage-drives to the house at Sunnyside. One led to Glen Osmond and the other towards town. We got on a road and kept the town in view till we got there. I found my way to Wakefield-street just in time to see some of my friends getting ready to go to the Port and get on the Morning Star, which was not going away for some time. They asked me if I would like to go with them, and, having been so much with this lady and her children, I was pleased to go. I showed my fellow-servant where and when to come for me, so that we might go home together, and I went gladly once again on board the ship. They had got into Port Adelaide and everything looked so different. Most of the sailors had deserted, which was no unusual thing in those times. When the captain saw me he said he thought I had told him that I had a place to go to. I replied that it was my Sunday off. He could not understand, and the lady I was with tried to explain to him, but he merely laughed, and his face was a study.

Such a lot of the people who came out with him went to see him again. The ship did not leave the Port till March 17. I never saw the captain again, but I liked to hear about his safety and that of the ship, as well as that of my shipmates, with whom I felt most at home. There were five brothers, three had wives and families. One was a widower and one a youth. They had a young Highlander always with them who wore the kilts, and when we got back from the Port the young man in kilts was there.

I waited and waited, but the young girl from Sunnyside did not come at the promised time. I was distressed, not knowing my way to the Glen. We were all strangers. I went to the servants' home, and I met one of the young girls, and she said she would go with me to enquire the way to Sunnyside. We returned to tell my friends, and the young Highlander with one of the brothers said that they would see that I got safely home. So we all started off, and they made enquiries for the road to Glen Osmond. The young girl came as well. It must have been the first time for a man to have kilts on in the colony, for everyone stared so fixedly at him. I had been so used to see men dressed thus that I could not understand what the people were so rude for. We kept along till we got to the Vine Inn. They asked there for the house, and we had to pass into quite a plantation of trees, which did not look anything like what I saw when going to Sunnyside the previous night. It was bright moonlight, but never a body did we see. I caught sight of the house when we got to the top of a rise. Oh, the joy of the discovery!

At one entrance was the coachman's house and at the other the house for the gardener. The coachman's house was overgrown with a lovely creeper, and the Highlander, wanting to know if this was the right place, tried to get to the door. We could see the light. He was tall. There was a woman sitting inside with a baby on her knee. She saw only the kilts as the Highlander had to stoop down to get in. She ran and screamed. It was the coachman's wife, and she had never seen anyone in kilts before. She made such a scene, and brought her husband out of bed. The gardener told me afterwards that his first thought was to lay hold of his gun; but when he saw me the matter was soon explained. I saw the mistress when I went in and told her that Lizzie, the cook, did not call for me, and how I got home. It appeared that Lizzie had a lover, and they thought that two was company and that three was none.

Just a word about the dear friends that brought me home. There being no bright gaslight to show the road distinctly they got out of their way, and travelled on till they came to Glenelg, and did not reach home till near morning. There was a committee meeting about it and such a lot of talk, for the young girl was staying at the home in King William-street. But when they went into the details there was nothing to say, except that we were "new chums." Such were the events of my first Sunday in South Australia, which appear vividly among the strange happenings of the past and the planning for the future.

I began to work the next day. Through the skill and kindness of some of my friends I got over the trouble about my working clothing. Only I had short sleeves and my arms were burnt by the sun. I did not mind that. I felt well and strong, and the look of the place was an inspiration. From where I worked I could see the sea over which I had come. How I watched the ships coming in and going out, and wondered when I would cross it again. But the people I was with, well, they were kindness and goodness itself, and the children—How I did love to scamper over the hills with some of them when I could get the chance, even if I had to carry them part of the way. It was a well-appointed and happy home. They entertained a lot, for there was a grown-up family with such gay and pleasant manners. They must have been welcome guests wherever they went.

Sir William was in Parliament, and was Minister for Crown Lands and Emigration. Sir Dominic Daly was the Governor then. The Government House party came to Sunnyside on festivals and on other days. There was the Governor and Lady Daly, with two sons and two daughters, young ladies and gentlemen. The sons in stature and height were so unlike their father. He must have been brave enough, but he was neither tall nor stout. I was often in the room as an attendant. I liked to hear the Governor talk. I always helped in waiting on the assembled guests. How the times have changed since then! The young ladies from Sunnyside and the Miss Dalys and many others belonged to an archery club. Shooting with the bow and arrow was a favorite sport both for ladies and gentlemen. There were targets all about. One was at the Government farm, which is now called the National Park. More than once I have been sent to assist in spreading lunch there when they had their customary meetings. How exciting it all looked to me. The bright activity of the young people and the scenery were so entrancing that I was glad I came here.

Lizzie and the cook got married. I used to go to town once in every three weeks, but soon found where to get the omnibus both in and out of town. I always went to the home to look for my young friends of the voyage, and we were so pleased to learn of each others' welfare. I found many who had not got such a nice home as I had. And I told my mistress of one young girl that I thought would do in Lizzie Ross' place. So the lady asked the master to call at the Servants' Home and ask this girl to come. He did so and told the matron to send her on my recommendation, and she came and stopped at Sunnyside till she also got married. That girl grew very attached to the family of Sunnyside and kept the respect all her life. Only to see some of them was a joy for Mary. She came from Scotland, and she and I got into the same train at Glasgow. So we went out on the same Sunday every other week and came to town together. All was well for a long time, but Mary had given her affection to a young man on board the Morning Star. He was the baker of the ship, and when we landed in Adelaide he went out with some exploring party.

I received some letters from home and I sent some. I had good news to tell of what I had seen in Adelaide. Those were prosperous times. The gas was getting laid on in the streets, but in some streets they had only oil lamps. Four of the brothers already mentioned went to work as plumbers and gasfitters at first. They were all plumbers and painters except one, who was a mason. There were no unemployed in the streets in those days, and no poor children without boots. Everything, too, was so cheap. So many of the houses have been pulled down in all the streets and the place has so changed that if one had not seen the alterations he could not believe it to be the same place. All the time I was hoping to get my relatives here. I gave a full description to my master of the reason I had come out to the colony and had left all my friends. He told me to rely upon him to do what he could and showed much sympathy. I was anxious to get all the family out together, so as not to have any more partings. A great peace settled on my mind when I found that Sir William would use his influence in securing the dispatch of six persons with assisted passages to Adelaide. There was a lot for me to do, as it would at least cost £20 for me to send the land grants to them, and may I add here that I saved that in one year from 10/ a week. After subscribing for the voyagers, it amounted to just the same, as my wages in Glasgow, which were six pounds a year, so I had enough for my needs.

It is hard to explain about the kindness of the people of Sunnyside. The gardener and his wife and family lived on the domain. As he was the very first man I had spoken to of the South Australians, I used to go to him and his wife, and tell them of my hopeful desires. I saw that man the other day in town, and he looked as upright as he did many years ago. And we talked of the long ago days. If it were not for the craving of the lone heart for love and for kindred, there would have seemed nothing but brightness, peace, and plenty at Sunnyside, Glen Osmond. Satisfaction being mutual, the year went by so quickly. If this should fall into the hands of any of this household, concerning which I have such happy reminiscences, I hope they will pardon me if I refer to a few of the incidents that appealed to me.

It was good to see the fruit that grew there of every kind. Some I had never seen before. My chief wonder was at the grapes, and the making of wine. I had read about the wine-press, but I then saw a great number of people gathering in the grapes, and then watched them crushed and the juice put into a large vat. I was not long there before it was known that I had a terror concerning snakes. There were some about, even amongst the vines. The boy from the stable saw a dead one at Sir Thomas Elder's place and dragged it all the way to put in the laundry to give me a fright, but the coachman saw him and took it from him, and brought it to where I was, and told me not to be afraid. It was such a size when he put it down at its full length, and told me if I saw anything like that to get away from it. I was thankful I did not see it unawares. The boy thought it would be fun. A governess came daily on horseback to instruct the youngest child. The eldest son went to college. The young master and some other youths about his age would ask in a gentle way if they could melt some lead to form bullets for their guns. The laundry was not far from the carriage house. While working I could hear them tell of their playful merriment and of the birds' nests, just like the boys in Scotland. It may not be out of place here to add that some of those youths so full of frolic, are men of dignity to-day in this State. The young gentleman used to bring his trifling property and ask if I could let them stop there where he could find them, as the housemaids were always putting his trappings where he could not find them. All had horses who were old enough to ride, and so had the ladies also. If no man were there I would help the ladies to mount if they wanted help, and very pretty they looked.

The eldest daughter married a gentleman who owned a farm, near Port Augusta. It was a gay time. The Parliamentary caterer and his waitresses were there for days, and there was a breakfast in great magnificence for a hundred guests, with a ball in the evening. Such wealth and beauty I never saw before. The wedding service was performed at the Scotch Church in Wakefield-street. How feeble it all looks in written words. Only in some way to show the experience gained in early years, I had taken the letter I brought from Glasgow to Dr. Gardner, on North-terrace, and I often went to Chalmers Church with the friends who were so kind to me on the voyage. One of the gentlemen took a leading part in the singing, and I went with his wife and family. All of those five brothers mentioned went there, and many others who came in what we called "our ship." On more than one occasion the master and mistress took me and left me at the Manse the night before a tea-meeting so that I could help. My work was always done at the end of the week, and I gladly helped the others, answering the door, bell, or otherwise, and amongst ourselves we had merriment in the home-time. One of the housemaids was married, and I got another of my fellow-passengers to come to Sunnyside. I knew by that time that some treaty was in hand to obtain the earliest passage for my people in the first ship that would come with assisted passengers. I began to be busy in preparation to meet my relatives. The time would be coming soon when I would want to go away, and the thought way disagreeable to me. I did leave Sunnyside, but went back years afterwards. One Saturday afternoon I was in attendance, and I was told to bring in the decanter and cake to the library. There were two or three men there looking so weary and dusty. I learned while in the room that one of the men was John Macdouall Stuart, the explorer. I hardly knew then what exploring meant. At any rate those men looked broken down, but the master was so pleased to see them.

I had a letter to say that my people were coming by a ship name the Art Union when there were the number required. I cheered up, for although I had plenty of everything and friends included, when I saw other girls' eyes fairly shine when they talked about home, I hoped to begin life afresh and to forget about the past. I looked forward not the least discouraged. When I thought of what a sea of water divided us, I tried to be practical. I came to this distant land in the hope that they might better their fortunes and that happiness would be ours. But I must soon turn out of the home where I had been sheltered and happy, and where I led a new life in this new land which was still strange to me. Anyone who lived in the full safety of family ties could not understand the dread I had to leave Sunnyside. In all the years past I could yield to the wishes of others, I had so far cared but little for my own preference. Now I must decide for myself what I ought to do.

Time passed on. The young master went for a long visit to his young married sister at Port Augusta. He brought back a good sized kangaroo. He asked if I was at Sunnyside yet, and being told I was he wished the man to take the kangaroo out of the hamper and let him loose in the laundry. It was late, and I did not know anything of this. But the young master was so used to putting his odds and ends in there that he thought I would not mind. I went in the morning and opened the door, and when I did so this kangaroo made one bound for the opening. I had never seen one, even in a picture before. The sudden spring it made for the door and the length of its tail frightened me, and I was insensible with terror. I ran shrieking to the house, and the kangaroo rushed through the vines down the gully. All the bedroom windows were thrown open, and everyone had seen "him." I leave anyone to guess what I thought I had seen. They had some trouble to find the kangaroo, but it was not put in the laundry again.

On looking back from now I intend to say a few words to young serving maids. If any of the incidents which happened to me in my early life also happen to you, the fact that I got through them may convey some courage to you. I think you will see that pleasure is possible in life as a domestic servant. Only let our needs be natural, and let us lead a life without vain, empty show, not trying to appear richer than we really are, or to spend all our money on dress and amusements. I noticed the difference between this colony and Scotland. The pleasant evenings we passed would not be understood now. Pleasure with unrest has led and will lead our young girls to spend money they cannot afford to make a show. How did they manage before there were so many clubs and the so-called friendly societies? They all go to the club now, and the home is too dull. The hearth is solitary. Men and women are spoiled for home life. Many would have us believe how good it is to be seen smiling and talking on some platform, and to care no longer for home in the old sense of the word. In the rush for and the love of excitement very heavy demands are made on the endurance of the working woman. Perhaps I do not see the humorous side of life, but that no doubt is because it has been all so real to me.

I often went to the coachman's house to see his wife and children, and more so when the carriage was out late. She was a nice, pleasant woman, and there were some pretty little children. We often laughed about the man with the kilts. My shipmate, Mary, the cook, was sought for in marriage by the baker of the ship. I was her bridesmaid. They had the goodwill of everyone. I sorely missed her. She was older than I, and so bright, and we went out a lot together. The man went to work at his trade at Unley, and I went to see them at Goodwood in their little home. Goodwood and Unley were then in their littleness. There were but few houses here and there, and no tramcars. How changed all is! One of the housemaids had her home in Glen Osmond, and kindly took me to see her parents and brothers and sisters. What pleasure they all gave me, and they wished to make me glad, because I was a lone girl, so far from all I knew. My fellow-servant belonged to the Anglican Church in the Glen. I went with her sometimes. Our lady mistress gave a tray in aid of something for the church, and had suitable provisions sent there. Then she graciously allowed the housemaid and myself to attend, as she could not go herself. The retention of the memory of those days is easy, seeing that only the other day I saw my helper at that tea-tray looking so well. She has been a happy wife for many years. Many others with whom I got acquainted at that time, and who were well satisfied with being house servants, could be named to-day.

Letters came to say that my people were on the way out. I got restless and ill at ease, anxious to make some household arrangement for them. I thought Glen Osmond and the hills were beautiful, but I knew that they could not come there to live. I could get an afternoon to visit town now and then. I could have done so more often than I did if I had cared to. I came to town one afternoon, and went to the home in King William-street to learn about my ship friends. While I was speaking to the matron a gentleman came to ask if she knew of a young girl who would do for a house of business at No. 10, Rundle-street, in the city. She asked me if I knew of anyone. Impulsively I offered myself, as it would mean that I would be in town to look out for some place for my relatives when they landed. The gentleman, too, spoke with such a Scotch accent. As it would all be a possible help, there seemed to be nothing to do but to accept the offer, although anguish and indecision was there also.

MY FATHER AND BROTHER ARRIVE.

So I came to Rundle-street, No. 10. It was a butcher's shop then. My employer had been the shopman, and had bought the business from his employers, who had lived on the premises. Being a bachelor, he, too, lived there, and my duties were to attend to his needs and to those of his shopman, and some youths who slept on the premises, and to prepare plain meals for them. It was odd to me at first, for everything was upstairs, except the dining-room. The rooms were plainly furnished, and I had a lot of time to go out and in. There was no one to say an unkind word to me. My master had some brothers in a different business. They came frequently, and were so good to me that I claim them as friends to this day and will while I live.

I had the hope that I would live with my father and brother when they arrived. I understood my own intentions, but what would I have done then if I had thought that men could be so cruel—cruel as I find what the spirit of bitter cruelty is now. All the world seemed to me so true then. Although I was thousands of miles from every one who knows me or cares for me, all the time I felt so guarded and so happy in my efforts, and I had everything necessary for a decent and comfortable existence. The lady from Sunnyside would come out in her carriage and see how I was getting along, and some of my fellow-servants would come and see me. We could go up to a room and look out into Rundle-street. I was not at all lonely. And as the time went on, how I watched for that ship to come. It was expected to arrive about the middle of August, and not in hot weather like we had.

At last it was nearly due. I had engaged a house for them. It was small, and I had only taken it for a time. I had some of my shipmates to help me fix it up. I had to pay two weeks' rent before they landed, awaiting the arrival of the Art Union. I was there one morning, but the ship was a long way out in the bay. There being no railway from the Port, I walked along with my basket full of all sorts of things for them. It was so rough that no one would go out to where the ship was anchored, except the health officers. They went, and I waited until they came back, to learn if all was well on board. In the afternoon someone came with a boat, and told me if I did not think it too rough he would take me to the ship. It being decided that no one should be landed till the next day, I went out in the boat, and I never had such a rough time on the sea. When the boat got alongside the big ship it banged against the side and bounded out again ever so many times. I looked up and saw my dear brother. He was the first I saw. They let down the gangway, and my brother descended, and when the boat hove to again he caught me, and I got on the steps and soon found myself on the deck with all my kin once more. It was quite a year and a half since I saw them. My sister's little girl knew me, and held me by the skirts. I talked to my father. The dear man, how pleased I was to think that I had them all here, and I thought all my trouble was over, which, however, proved not to be the case.

The boat that I went out in came and went two or three times between the ship and the shore. I waited on deck, hoping for a calmness, so I could get them all to come ashore. My sister had a little baby girl that I had not seen before. She would not run the risk of being wrecked so near the beach, but my father and brother landed with me. How delighted my dear father was when he felt his feet on land again. We had to walk to the Port, and it was dark and cold. When we got to the station the last train had gone, and we had to get lodgings in the Port all night. I knew that at No. 10 they would do the best they could till I came. They all knew where I had gone, and were sympathetic. So I brought my brother and father to Adelaide, and showed them where the house was that I had taken for them, and they did not go into a house without something being provided for them. My master sent a man with a butcher's tray with the choicest of meat on it for them. He said that the burden I had to carry was too heavy for my young shoulders.

I was disappointed, and failed to see why my father would not settle in Adelaide. He wanted to go all over the place. My brother-in-law went to work at once in some blacksmith's shop, but my father and brother went up to Moonta. I had promised to go, and be their housekeeper when they got settled. But learning that Moonta was a mining place it got mixed in my mind with Slamannan. I could see that my father, at least, did not like South Australia. I thought that if I went from place to place with them I would be penniless and without a roof. Still, I felt sure that I must do what was right, even if I did not know where I was going. So I wrote and told them I would go to Moonta. Accordingly I went to the Port, and saw Captain Wells, of the steamship Eleanor. He went to Moonta regularly. I did not like leaving No. 10, Rundle-street. It was a very restless time. Captain Wells asked me a lot of questions, and told me he thought I would not like Moonta, if only because of the scattered thinness of the population. I got my trappings on board the Eleanor. I was the only girl passenger on board. In fact, there was no other woman at all. Captain Wells talked to me about bringing out the Eleanor all the way from England entirely, and fully under his own control. I then asked him if he knew Captain Matthews, who was the captain of the Morning Star, and he told me that he had known him in England. I thought Captain Wells just such another good man. He was kind to me, and saw that I was comfortable. He pointed out all the places, and told me the names. We saw Port Wallaroo and Port Wakefield. The Eleanor ran into Port Clinton, and there being no jetty, I got into a little boat. Then a horse and cart came into the sea a good long way, and I got out of the boat and into the cart, in which I got to land. I could not see any houses, but was told that there was one house at Port Clinton. A conveyance was there to take me to Kadina. It went no farther that day. I stopped at the Wombat Hotel, and how pleased I was to find one of my shipmates there as housemaid. I was covered with dust. It was my first experience of the country in Australia. In the morning some other kind of public vehicle carried me on to Moonta. I got there in the afternoon. My father and brother were waiting for me on the roadside. They did not live in Moonta township. Once more I was glad, realising that they had missed me, and were pleased to see me again.

My father worked at a building in Moonta, some large hotel, as a carpenter, and my brother, with some of his shipmates, was again in the mines. Just fancy his coming to Australia only to go in the mines again. Alas, for my castles in the air. There were scarcely any women or girls about, and particularly where we lived they were all mining men, many of them waiting for their wives and families, who had been sent for. Ever so many seemed to live in one or two little houses like the one we had. And just think of it! Some men had places dug in the ground and covered in some rough way. I used to feel so troubled. There was nothing that I could do except cook and take father's dinner into Moonta every day. The wee house we had had no garden attached to it, or anything bright about it, and there were only earth floors. The same kind of houses and buildings were everywhere, set down anyhow. Some end to end and some sideways. For the most part they were whitewashed. There were a lot of trees and scrub, and the worst of it was that my father was so uncomfortable about the heat, and reproached me for bringing him out to South Australia. My brother was nice, but it was a hard time for me. Tears would come as I tried to realise what it all meant. At last when we had been there about six months, father came home before dinner and told me that he was not going to work any more at Moonta, but was going with someone to Angaston, and that we were all going to that town. I did not know before that he had partly bought the house, but he said that he had sold it again. I admit that I was glad beyond words. So father arranged for my brother and me to return to Adelaide, and to take his tool-chest and all the movables while he fixed up about the house. It was not smooth and bright for me, as everything had gone wrong, and I feared that what had begun badly would go on badly. The truth crossed my mind, and a keen disappointment ensued, for I feared they would upset all that I had arranged for their benefit. I was not twenty years old, and anyway I was used to fitting myself into a work-woman. I could see people were sorry when I went away, and glad to see me again and I had not been badly treated as a servant.

We had to buy water and go and fetch it, and then it was condensed water. I felt glad when the time was fixed for leaving Moonta. I saw no evil. The people seemed frank and kindly, but the fewness of women made me miserable. I only saw three in the place where we were. Two elderly women and a younger woman. On the other hand, there were hundreds of men, and when I had to go anywhere it seemed as if I had to pass through a long procession of men. I was shy, but they were offenceless. How many times I have wished to see Moonta again, to see the progress that has been made. I thought my father so terribly foolish, and I was fond of him. He was comparatively a young man. Brother and I got on board the steamer and we arranged that we would stay with my sister till father came. We were both in doubt what we should do. Some mischance happened to our boxes, which left me in a state of hopelessness. We had a tool chest, which did not look large, but it was a great weight, and the man moving it did not know that, and somehow he let it fall into the little boat with such a force that it upset the boat, and the men and all our boxes were floating about in the sea. All our things were spoiled, and the tools as well.

My mind was made up I could not live in such a fashion and comply with the request to go to whatever place the others chose. So when I got to Adelaide again I told some ladies I knew that I would go to service again. And at once I was engaged to go to the Government farm for a month or six weeks, to be the attendant of Sir R. D. Ross, who had just married, or was on the eve of getting married, to Miss Baker. It is called the National Park now. It was very lonely. I was there a few days and nights before they came. The house was a little way from the principal buildings, that being the caretaker's place. An elderly man and his wife lived there. She was so deaf that she had to have a horn to her ear all the time. It was a beautiful place. There were two houses, one being called the old farm, and the other the new. All that I had to do was to keep good fires in the rooms to make them warm. It was cold weather. At last the bridal party arrived, and the lady brought a lady's maid with her. What a gentleman Sir Robert Ross was, and the lady, how gentle of manner! The troopers' horses were left on the farm to run when they were not wanted. They told me that from east to west the distance was nine miles of extended wood. That was the length of the "farm." I slept in the old farmhouse all by myself for nearly a week. In the daytime I never went far from the house for fear I would not find it again. I was taken there in a waggonette with a lady and gentleman. And they were afraid they would never find the place. It was almost dark when we got there, and the roads were not very distinguishable. The lady and gentleman did not stop all night, but the caretaker's wife showed me where I was to sleep. I slept, but I did not then think that I was all by myself in that large building, with nothing having life except the troopers' horses, the opossums, and the wild cats. When I got older I could not do such a thing.

Sir R. D. Ross and his lady were fond of horse-riding, and horses were brought for them. The Government farm was an ideal spot for a honeymoon then. It was just the sort of place to escape attention. During the rest of the time I enjoyed the friendship of the lady's maid, and we strolled together through the woods. She was a colonial, bright and full of adventure. Her name was Martha, and she fairly danced along like a wild bird. It was a great treat to me after my solitude at Moonta. Martha did not know whether her young mistress would settle here or not. For my part I hoped they would, and that they would think me likely to be serviceable to them. But such was not to be. Sir R. D. Ross had to go to Maoriland rather hastily. War was either in progress or some hostility with the Maories was contemplated, and he had some command in the military forces. He took his wife to New Zealand with him. The brightest is the fleetest. I was left alone at the Government farm. That would not matter, except that I shrank from going home. I was to stop for a week to put all the things in their place, and to leave it all tidy. Some goods were to be sent for from Morialta.

One evening while I was sitting in the verandah listening to the opossums, I heard a footstep and a cough. I was preparing to run to the caretaker's, when I found that it was my brother. He had been all day trying to find the farm. I was pleased to see him, and he wrote home and told our people that he would stay with me till I had finished there. He helped me a lot. He told me that father had taken a little workshop in Leigh-street, off Hindley-street, where he was doing some carpentering work. They went to and fro to my sister's house for meals. My brother was still young, and he felt bitterly upset. He recognised what I must feel, and that I was not happy with father. What a failure I had made! My brother told me not to fret, as I had done the best I could ever since he could remember. In a few days I packed up, and in two or three weeks I was on my way to the South-East.

I GO TO THE SOUTH-EAST.

I had not been long out from Scotland before, after some experience in and around Adelaide, I found that I would get more wages in the country. So I made enquiry at a labor office, kept by Mr. Malcolm, in Hindley-street. About this time there was a great demand for good willing servant-girls. Mr. Malcolm told me that he wanted two young girls for a sheep-station in the South-East, near Bordertown. The station was called Wirrega, and was owned by a Mr. Binney. I was not well posted up in the geography of the country, and when I was told that we would go to our destination in a steamboat, the Penola, I took it for granted that it would be like going from Glasgow to the seaside. I was quite willing to go provided that he found another girl to go with me. In a day or two he sent for me to say that he had found a companion for me. She was to be the needlewoman, and I would be the laundress. Our employer paid our passage-money, and we signed an agreement to stop for a year.

We got our little trunks ready, and Mr. Malcolm came to see us off at the railway-station. We found our way to the steamboat, hoping that we would reach our journey's end that night. But, to our disgust, we had to spend the night on board. Luckily it was in the month of November and was not cold. The next day we landed at Robe. The landlord of the Robe Hotel sent on board for us, as he had instructions to take charge of us until we were sent for. We were surprised, for we thought that our journey was over when we stepped off the boat. However, there was nothing to complain of at the hotel, and our employer was paying our expenses. But we were anxious to get to work, for we had but little money, and, of course, our wages would not begin till we reached the station. It was the shearing season, and the wool was brought to Robe from all the country round. We used to sit on the jetty and watch the loaded ships going out.

We had been there for two weeks before a man called to say that he was instructed to take us girls back with him. We had been told that it would take us three or four weeks to get to the station from Robe, and that our way lay through a wilderness of sand. What we had seen of bullock-drivers made us shudder lest they should send for us to travel under their tender care.

We came downstairs to interview the man. How vividly I can see him even now. He was ragged and covered with dust. His hair was projecting through the top of his hat, and he had a whip in his hand. We asked him what conveyance we were to travel by. He replied, "In a carriage and six," meaning the bullock-dray.

At this information both of us began to cry bitterly. We refused to go, and thought of returning to Adelaide by the steamer, but my companion told me we would be put in prison if we did that. We made such a scene that the landlord and his wife came out to see what was the matter. When he learned the state of affairs he comforted us and told us he would write to Mr. Binney; so we awaited the result of his letter. A week later, on a Saturday evening, a strange-looking vehicle, drawn by wild horses, came into the yard. This was to be our conveyance. As the driver was a pleasant, respectable, married man, and promised to take as much care of us as he would of his own daughter we were much relieved in our minds, but the difficulties of the road and the savage aspect of our team still caused us dismay.

Early on Sunday morning we started, for we were told that if the horses had a whole day's rest no power on earth would get them into harness again. They had never been stabled, and as they pranced, foaming at the mouth and making the sparks fly from the cobblestones, they attracted much attention from a large crowd of onlookers. As they bounded out of the yard we held tight to the seat and said our prayers, for we thought we had not many more minutes to live.

Twelve miles of good road brought us to a small hotel called The Stone Hut. Here we halted for a few seconds, and then made a dive into a sea of wild ferns that extended as far as the eye could reach. Suddenly, without any warning, the vehicle stopped with a crash, and our driver disappeared from our astonished sight. We had struck the hidden root of an old tree. Presently he reappeared from under the feet of the horses, and congratulated us on having sufficient pluck and presence of mind to hold the reins.

After this incident all went well, and at about 8 o'clock we arrived at a sheep station, where many men were shearing and where no white women had ever been before. The shearers took out the horses and brought us some tea in a pannikin. Our vehicle was turned upside down and covered over with rugs. Under that rude shelter we spent a sleepless night.

The next day's journey took us through a wilderness of sand. Now and then a few blacks would appear from behind a hill and fly precipitately at the sight of us. About 9 o'clock that night we reached the home station, fatigued and dusty. Mr. Binney was in Melbourne, so Mrs. Binney met us and gave us a good scolding for the trouble we had caused in order to have us brought from Robe. But she was Scotch, and we were Scotch, and so our explanations were soon accepted.

When the morning came I found myself in the Australian bush. Another young girl, who was housemaid, took me with her. Her father and mother were at the station as house cooks. They consoled me by telling me that I would like being there when I got used to it. Truth to tell, I was anxious to begin my year's service, and so was up betimes. Numerous wild birds, among which I distinguished the magpie, deafened me with a bewildering clamor.

With very mingled feelings I went to the laundry. It was built of wood, but had many of the usual conveniences. The water I had to draw up from a well by a windlass.

The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Binney and five children—three sons and two daughters. In addition there were a sister of Mr. Binney, acting as governess to the children, and a Mr. John Binney, a cousin of the owner, who was manager or overseer of the station. The comfortable dwelling-house was one storey in height, and was built of stone. There were several outbuildings and a large store, where all sorts of things were kept for sale to the employes of the station. The place looked like a little village.

It was a common sight to see a man with his wife and children living in a sort of gipsy van. The husband would be employed in "grubbing," or clearing timber off the land. When the contract was completed the family would pack up their goods in the van and journey to another station. At stated times the families of some permanent employes, who lived a few miles away, would come in on horseback for their rations. Our employers, and, in fact, everybody about us, were very gentle and considerate in their dealing with us.

At first I was afraid of the blacks, of whom there were a great many about the house. They all had nicknames, and had been trained to be very useful. One morning I plucked up courage to venture near their "wurlies." I shall never forget the scene. A number of little black babies were crawling about in the wet, dewy grass, and the sunlight was glistening on their naked little backs. But the children were afraid of us, and would creep under the bushes when they saw us coming. We used all go to see their "corrobories." Sometimes they would be away for days fighting with another tribe, but no strange blacks ever came to attack them. They were fond of showing us their implements of war, of which they had a great variety. I was surprised to hear them talk in fairly good English, and sometimes with a broad Scotch accent. Even the children spoke English well.

They were remarkably agile, too. They would mount perfectly wild horses that would have succeeded in killing a white man. As soon as they were fairly mounted they would fly in the air like rockets, but, like cats, they always landed on their feet. They were splendid mimics, and used their powers of imitation to play many tricks. Some of them would go off among the bushes and imitate the hens. This would bring out the old cook with her basket. When she found the trick that had been played on her she would be very cross, much to the delight of the blacks. But sometimes they would do her a good turn. If she wanted a wild turkey she had only to tell them so, and one of the blacks would dress himself up with boughs and lie down where the wild turkeys came to drink. When the unsuspecting bird came close to what he imagined was a bush a black hand would shoot out and grab him by the leg. So, after all, it paid the cook to be friendly with the blacks.

This was an ideal place for a naturalist. The blacks used to bring in a wonderful variety of eggs, and the place was famed for its bird-life. We had many pets. In fact, what with tame kangaroos, opossums, and emus the place resembled a menagerie. I made a pet of an emu, which used to wait for me at the laundry door every morning. I dressed it up in an old pinafore, and it was so pleased that it followed me wherever I went.

In the early days the wild dogs had been a great pest. Wild cats were numerous, but no one minded them much. At the end of the laundry there was a slab hut, where they kept the beef and mutton hanging. The cats would come here in dozens when all was dark and quiet. If a light was brought they would immediately scamper off. They were beautiful creatures, partly black and partly white.

I marvelled at the bravery of the men who opened up the interior. Mr. John Binney, Mr. Clark, and Mr. McLeod were the first white men to form settlements on that great expanse of country. With so many hostile blacks around they must have had a fearful time. Mrs. Binney showed us a tree, in the trunk of which Mr. Binney used to hide from the blacks. Our nearest neighbors were ten miles away, and the Tatiara township was about sixteen miles from the station. The police had their quarters at Tatiara, which, in those days, was composed of huts. I went there once, and found only one substantial building. It was an hotel. Once in every three months a bush missionary held services in this hotel. We all went to these services, some on horseback and some driving.

The months passed on, and I grew to like the life. Everybody was busy, for there was plenty to do. The lowing of the cattle, driven in for branding, became familiar music to my ears. But, isolated as we were, and simple and rough as the life was, I could not complain of any monotony. Sometimes a hawker would visit us with a large van drawn by a team of bullocks. He would camp for days, and do a brisk trade as a general provider of the wants of the little community. He found good customers among the blacks, for they earned a little money during shearing-time.

Nor were we entirely devoid of the amusements of town-life. More than once a travelling Christy Minstrel Company came to the station. The performers would stay all night and give a theatrical show in the laundry, which I gave up to them for the purpose. From miles around the place station-hands would come to see the show.

The young girl, who went up with me and myself got on nicely together. In the light of added years I can look back now and feel grateful for the hard training I went through then and the lessons those early days taught me. Sometimes we caught glimpses of the many mysteries of the silent bush. The presence of troopers and black-trackers about the station would tell us that something unusual had happened. It might be that the dead body of a man had been found a little way from the station. A consultation of all hands would be held, and the unknown would receive a decent burial, while efforts would be made to discover his identity. When any of the station-hands died they were buried in a little enclosure near the station. If they had lived far out on the boundary of the run they were buried near their huts.

What the blacks did with their dead puzzled us. Mr. Binney insisted that they must be buried, and the dusky relatives would obey. But, shortly afterwards, the graves would be rifled, and the corpses would mysteriously disappear. I asked a very old lubra to tell me what was done with the dead, and she horrified me by replying, "Big one, cookem on sticks."

While I was there Mr. Binney sent a mob of horses to Adelaide. Some of the blacks went with them to help the drovers. They came back by water. Then it was amusing to hear them describe what they had seen in Adelaide. They called the steamboat "Big one wheelbarrow." They said that something pulled them along with "tether ropes on the big one water."