corporal punishment was out of the question; and the culprits stood tremblingly awaiting their fate till a young doctor present suggested a dose of Gregory’s powder.  His lawyer friend acquiesced, and Gregory’s powder it was.  A moment’s hesitation and the nauseous draught was swallowed to the accompaniment of openly expressed sympathy, one dear old lady remarking, “Poor children and 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 Mrs. Hood and her three children, moved to a smaller and more suitable house I had in another part of East Adelaide.  A placid flowing of the river of life for a year or two led on to my being elected, in 1892, President of the Girls’ Literary Society.  This position I filled with joy to myself and, I hope, with advantage to others, until some years later the society ceased to exist.