services rendered to his newspaper when he left it to
go to Melbourne, and it hangs up in my sitting room for all to see. Mr.
Gilfillan had a commission to paint "The Landing of Capt. Cook" with
the help of Portraits and miniatures of the principal personages, and
some sketches of his of Adelaide in 1849 are in the Adelaide Art
Gallery. If the number of lovers has been few, no woman in Australia
has been richer in friends. This narrative will show what good
friends--men as well as women--have helped me and sympathized in my
work and my aims. I believe that if I had been in love, especially if I
had been disappointed in love, my novels would have been stronger and
more interesting; but I kept a watch over myself, which I felt I knew I
needed, for I was both imaginative and affectionate. I did not want to
give my heart away. I did not desire a love disappointment, even for
the sake of experience. I was 30 years old before the dark veil of
religious despondency was completely lifted from my soul, and by that
time I felt myself booked for a single life. People married young if
they married at all in those days. The single aunts put on caps at 30
as a sort of signal that they accepted their fate; and, although I did
not do so, I felt a good deal the same.

I went on with daily teaching for some years, during which my father's
health declined, but before his death two things had happened to cheer
him. My brother John left Myponga and came to town, and obtained a
clerkship in the South Australian Bank at 100 pounds a year. It was
whilst occupying a position in the bank that he had some slight
connection with the notorious Capt. Starlight, afterwards the hero of
"Robbery Under Arms," for through his hands much of the stolen money
passed. In 1900, when Mrs. Young and I were leaving Melbourne on our
visit to Sydney, we were introduced to "Rolf Boldrewood," the author of
that well-known story. His grave face lit up with a smile when my
friend referred to the author of her son's hero. "Ah!" and he shook his
head slowly. "I'm not quite sure about the wisdom of making heroes of
such sorry stuff," he replied. I thought I could do better with a
school. I was 20, and my sister Mary nearly 16, and my mother could
help. My school opened in May, 1846, a month before my father's death,
and he thought that our difficulties were over. My younger brother,
David Wauchope, had been left behind for his education with the three
maiden aunts, but