usband, she had failed to save any. The late Mr. Hableton--for he
had long since departed this life--had been addicted to alcohol, and at
those times when he should have been earning, he was usually to be
found in a drinking shanty spending his wife's earnings in "shouting"
for himself and his friends. The constant drinking, and the hot
Victorian climate, soon carried him off, and when Mrs. Hableton had
seen him safely under the ground in the Melbourne Cemetery, she
returned home to survey her position, and see how it could be bettered.
She gathered together a little money from the wreck of her fortune, and
land being cheap, purchased a small "section" at St. Kilda, and built a
house on it. She supported herself by going out charing, taking in
sewing, and acting as a sick nurse, So, among this multiplicity of
occupations, she managed to exist fairly well.

And in truth it was somewhat hard upon Mrs. Hableton. For at the time
when she should have been resting and reaping the fruit of her early
industry, she was obliged to toil more assiduously than ever. It was
little consolation to her that she was but a type of many women, who,
hardworking and thrifty themselves, are married to men who are nothing
but an incubus to their wives and to their families. Small wonder,
then, that Mrs. Hableton should condense all her knowledge of the male
sex into the one bitter aphorism, "Men is brutes."

Possum Villa was an unpretentious-looking place, with one, bow-window
and a narrow verandah in front. It was surrounded by a small garden in
which were a few sparse flowers--the especial delight of Mrs. Hableton.
It was, her way to tie an old handkerchief round her head and to go out
into the garden and dig and water her beloved flowers until, from sheer
desperation at the overwhelming odds, they gave up all attempt to grow.
She was engaged in this favourite occupation about a week after her
lodger had gone. She wondered where he was.

"Lyin' drunk in a public-'ouse, I'll be bound," she said, viciously
pulling up a weed, "a-spendin' 'is, rent and a-spilin' 'is inside with
beer--ah, men is brutes, drat 'em!"

Just as she said this, a shadow fell across the garden, and on looking
up, she saw a man leaning over the fence, staring at her.

"Git out," she said, sharply, rising from her knees and shaking her
trowel at the intruder. "I don't want no apples to-day, an' I don't
care how cheap you sells 'em."

Mrs. Hableton evidently laboured