Full of contempt and hatred for my mother, I tore her letters into tiny pieces and hurled them out the window.  Oh, the hard want of sympathy they voiced!  She had forced me to this place:  it would have been different had I wanted to come of my own accord, and then sung out for a removal immediately; but no, against my earnest pleadings she had forced me here, and now would not heed my cry.  And to whom in all the world can we turn when our mother spurns our prayer?

There never was any sympathy between my mother and myself.  We are too unlike.  She is intensely matter-of-fact and practical, possessed of no ambitions or aspirations not capable of being turned into cash value.  She is very ladylike, and though containing no spice of either poet or musician, can take a part in conversation on such subjects, and play the piano correctly, because in her young days she was thus cultivated; but had she been horn a peasant, she would have been a peasant, with no longings unattainable in that sphere.  She no more understood me than I understand the works of a watch.  She looked upon me as a discontented, rebellious, bad child, possessed of evil spirits, which wanted trouncing out of me; and she would have felt that she was sinning had she humoured me in any way, so after cooling I did not blame her for her letters.  She was doing her duty according to her lights.  Again, it was this way, grannie did not come to my rescue on this occasion on account of her attitude towards my father.  The Bossiers were not at enmity with him, but they were so disgusted with his insobriety that they never visited Possum Gully, and did not assist us as much as they would have done had my father’s failure been attributable to some cause more deserving of sympathy.

After reading my letters I wept till every atom of my body writhed with agonized emotion.  I was aroused by Mrs M’Swat hammering at my door and inquiring: 

“What ails ye, child?  Did ye git bad noos from home?”

I recovered myself as by a miracle, and replied, no; that I was merely a little homesick, and would be out presently.

I wrote again to my mother, but as I could not truthfully say I was hungry or ill-treated, for, according to their ability, the M’Swats were very kind to me, she took no notice of my plaint, but told me that instead of complaining of monotony, it would suit me better if I cleared up the house a little.

Acting upon this advice, I asked Mr M’Swat to put a paling fence round the house, as it was useless trying to keep the house respectable while the fowls and pigs ran in every time the door was opened.—­

He was inclined to look with favour upon this proposition, but his wife sat upon it determinedly-said the fowls would lose the scraps.  “Would it not be possible to throw them over the fence to the fowls?” I asked; but this would cause too much waste, she considered.

Next I suggested that the piano should be tuned, but they were united in their disapproval of such a fearful extravagance.  “The peeany makes a good nise.  What ails it?”