Life jogged along tamely, and, as far as I could see, gave promise of going to the last slip-rails without a canter, until one day in July 1896 mother received a letter from her mother which made a pleasant change in my life, though, like all sweets, that letter had its bitter drop.  It ran as follows:—­

My dear daughter, Lucy,

Only a short letter this time.  I am pressed for time, as four or five strangers have just come and asked to stay for the night, and as one of the girls is away, I have to get them beds.  I am writing about Sybylla.  I am truly grieved to hear she is such a source of grief and annoyance to you.  The girl must surely be ill or she would never act as you describe.  She is young yet, and may settle down better by and by.  We can only entrust her to the good God who is ever near.  Send her up to me as soon as you can.  I will pay all expenses.  The change will do her good, and if her conduct improves, I will keep her as long as you like.  She is young to mention in regard to marriage, but in another year she will be as old as I was when I married, and it might be the makings of her if she married early.  At any rate she will be better away from Possum Gully, now that she is growing into womanhood, or she may be in danger of forming ties beneath her.  She might do something good for herself up here:  not that I would ever be a matchmaker in the least degree, but Gertie will soon be coming on, and Sybylla, being so very plain, will need all the time she can get.

Your loving mother,

L. Bossier.

My mother gave me this letter to read, and, when I had finished perusing it, asked me would I go.  I replied coldly: 

“Yes.  Paupers and beggars cannot be choosers, and grandmother might as well keep me at Caddagat as at Possum Gully”—­for my grandmother contributed greatly to the support of our family.

As regards scenery, the one bit of beauty Possum Gully possessed was its wattles.  Bowers of grown and scrubs of young ones adorned the hills and gullies in close proximity to the house, while groves of different species graced the flats.  Being Sunday, on this afternoon I was at liberty for a few hours; and on receiving the intelligence contained in the letter, I walked out of the house over a low hill at the back into a gully, where I threw myself at the foot of a wattle in a favourite clump, and gave way to my thoughts.

So mother had been telling my grandmother of my faults—­my grandmother whom I loved so dearly.  Mother might have had enough honour and motherly protection to have kept the tale of my sins to herself.  Though this intelligence angered, it did not surprise me, being accustomed to mother telling every neighbour what a great trial I was to her—­how discontented I was, and what little interest I took in my work.  It was the last part of the letter which finished up my feelings.  Oh heavens!  Surely if my mother understood the wild pain, the days and hours of agony pure and complete I have suffered on account of my appearance, she would never have shown me that letter.