d not so much as a taste of
sugar." Probably, however, the unkindest cut of all was the carrying
away by the milkman of the stolen fruit! The cure was swift and
effective; and ever after the youth of the district, like the Pharisee
of old, passed by on the other side.

My dear mother died about 8 o'clock on the evening of December 8, 1887,
quietly and painlessly. With her death, which was an exceedingly great
loss to me, practically ended my quiet life of literary work.
Henceforth I was free to devote my efforts to the fuller public work
for which I had so often longed, but which my mother's devotion to and
dependence on me rendered impossible. But I missed her untiring
sympathy, for with all her love for the old days and the old friends
there was no movement for the advancement of her adopted land that did
not claim her devoted attention. But though I was now free to take up
public work, the long strain of my mother's illness and death had
affected my usually robust health, and I took things quietly. I had
been asked by the University Shakspeare Society to give a lecture on
Donnelly's book, "The Great Cryptogram;" or "Who Wrote Shakspeare's
Plays?" and it was prepared during this period, and has frequently been
delivered since. October of the year following my mothers death found
me again in Melbourne, where I rejoiced in the renewal of a friendship
with Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Walker, the former of whom had been connected
with the construction of the overland railway. They were delightful
literary people, and I had met them at the hospitable house of the
Barr-Smiths, and been introduced as "a literary lady." "Then perhaps,"
said Mr. Walker, "you can give us the information we have long sought
in vain--who wrote 'Clara Morrison?'" Their surprise at my "I did" was
equalled by the pleasure I felt at their kind appreciation of my book,
and that meeting was the foundation of a lifelong friendship. Before my
visit closed I was summoned to Gippsland through the death by accident
of my dear sister Jessie--the widow of Andrew Murray, once editor of
The Argus--and the year 1888 ended as sadly for me as the previous one
had done. The following year saw the marriage of my nephew, Charles
Wren of the E.S. and A. Bank, to Miss Hall, of Melbourne. On his
deciding to live on in the old home, I, with Ellen Gregory, whom I had
brought out in 1867 to reside with relations, but who has remained to
be the prop and mainstay of my old age--and