for a novel than description; and, if you have a firm grasp of your characters, the dialogue will be true.  With me the main difficulty was the plot; and I was careful that this should not be merely possible, but probable.  I have heard scores of people say that they have got good plots in their heads, and when pressed to tell them they proved to be only incidents.  You need much more than an incident, or even two or three, with which to make a book.  But when I found my plot the story seemed to write itself, and the actors to fit in.

When the development of the Moonta Mine made some of my friends rich they were also liberal.  Edward Stirling said that if I wanted a trip to England I should have it at his cost, but it seemed impossible.  After the death of Mr. Wren my mother and I went to live with my sister, and put two small incomes together, so as to be able to bring up and educate her two children, a boy and a girl.  My brother John had left the railway, and for nine years had been Official Assignee and Curator of Intestate Estates; and in 1863 he had been appointed manager of the new Adelaide branch of the English, Scottish, and Australian Bank.  My friend, Mr. Taylor, had helped well to get the position for one he thought the fittest man in the city.  He had lost his wife, Miss Mary Ann Dutton when on a visit to England, and at this time was engaged to Miss Harriet McDermott.  His sisters both were very cold about the engagement.  They did not like second marriages at all, and considered it a disrespect to the first wife’s memory, even though a decent interval had elapsed.  When he wrote to me about it I took quite a different view.  He said it was the kindest and the wisest letter I had ever written in my life, and he knew I had loved his late wife very much.  He came to thank me, and to tell me that he had always wished that I should be in England at the time he was there, and that he was going in a P. & 0. boat immediately after his marriage.  Although Mr. Stirling had promised to pay my passage, I hesitated about going.  There were my mother, who was 72, and my guardianship of the Duvals to think about.  I had also undertaken the oversight of old Mrs. Stephens, the widow of one of the early proprietors of The Register.  These objections were all overruled.  I still hesitated.  “I cannot go unless I have money to spend,” I urged.  “Let me do that,” was the generous reply.—­“I have left you 500 pounds in my will.  Let me have the pleasure of giving you something while I live.”  I was not too proud to owe that memorable visit to England to my two good friends.  John Taylor had put into my hands on board the Goolwa, in which I sailed, a draft for 200 pounds for my spending money, and in the new will he made after his marriage he bequeathed me 300 pounds.  I said “Goodby” to him, with good wishes for his health and happiness.  I never saw him again.  He took a sickly looking child on his knee when crossing the Isthmus of Suez—­there