I had nothing to grumble about, but still the array of so much sorrow among the people round me made me wonder what failure or success lay in the future for me. Independence is so fondly sought after. Reluctantly, and with a touch of uneasiness, I heard of a place that I thought I would like. The lady was a friend of Mrs. Fargus, and the house was close by, while a smaller girl than myself would do for Mrs. Fargus' children. Then, too, I would have a little more wages. It was spoken of between the two ladies, and I was engaged to go in six weeks, when my term ended. Mrs. Mouncey was the name of the lady, and there were three in family. Mr. Mouncey had been married twice, and had one grown-up daughter by the first wife, with a son and daughter by the second wife—a boy of eight and a girl of ten. It was not a large house, and was on Victoria-terrace, facing the West-End park. From the windows could be seen the pleasure ground of the city, with its shrubs and monuments; that was its beauty spot. The West-End looked like the country yet in a few minutes one could be in the Trongate or Buchanan-street. I thought those two streets seemed the most busy, at least, with fashionable folk. Mr. Mouncey was the editor of some publication, and also wrote for some magazine. He seemed a man of independent means. They did not live in a showy manner, but they travelled a good deal. "You will have plenty of hard work," my fellow mates used to say to me, but I thought I would extract some happiness by coming to see them, and I would be gaining fresh experience.

Before I went to my new place I had an excursion to Slamannan. Glasgow, like all large cities, had its grievances and distresses in some of the dark and destitute parts. I had seen a little of both sides of the picture. I wondered at the goodness of those ladies, who went to the squalid and neglected. One had only to read the newspapers to learn that evil was not confined to the poor and degraded. Close to where I then lived the daughter of people in high rank was arrested for giving her lover poison. Her name was Madeliene Smith. So widespread was the interest felt that people chipped bits of the stone window-sill, where she passed the poison to him which caused his death. Her trial took place in Edinburgh. "Not proven," was the Scotch verdict returned. I saw a book with the whole account when I came to South Australia. I found comfort in going to see my own friends. A whole week before going to Mr. Mouncey's there was trouble in the air. A fresh gloom was over the place, as war in America was threatened, and people were rushing back from America as fast as the boats could bring them. In less than two weeks one could get to America.

We made the most of my holiday at home. I went once more to work. It was a mixed kind of position to rely on, but I determined to do my best. I found no difficulty; the mistress said, "Come along, my lass, you are welcome." I had a comfortable bedroom, and everything was convenient. The mistress undertook the care of providing and attending to the cookery, that nothing should be lost by carelessness, and there was Miss Mouncey with me to help to keep the house beautiful, and in a state of cleanliness. I could go to the same church and see my friends at Dr. Fargus'. I soon learned that Miss Mouncey was looked on as a rich woman, and that her mother's money would come to her. She had a mind of her own, and did not intend to marry. I think the condition of the homeless and uncared-for children was her special care. She would come and sit with me and tell me about the wretched little urchins she found amid dirt and disease, while the parents of the poor creatures were drinking. I confess many things seemed to me hopeless. It was depressing to hear of evil about everywhere I went. Mind and memory in moments of solitude tell me still how much I owe to the impression and influence of that sad time. In after years, when one or another would say what happy times they had when they were young, I thought "no, I would not like to be young again if this is all." I could not shut out of mind the long years that lay before me in that far-away time. In the present, all the world is behind me, and what does it matter?

Such a lot of people came to see Mr. Mouncey. Some wished to see Miss Mouncey particularly, and some she wanted to avoid. She only laughed. She was 22 years of age, fair, and accomplished, without a touch of vanity, and with the sweet name of Mary. The youngest child went to school. They liked to tell me of the good times we would have when we went to the Island of Arran, where they spent the summer months. We had family worship night and morning. By that time reading was no effort to me. I could read writing and write a little, with the aid of Miss Mouncey.

I brought a canary songbird from Slamannan to Mrs. Reily. I had no cage, but I had a strong paper-bag, and cut some tiny holes in it for air. I knew she had a cage, so I went one evening to see her and to learn how the bird was getting on. The doctor opened the door, and did not speak. He led me into a room, and there, in a coffin, lay Mrs. Reily. I flung myself on my knees beside her and cried bitterly. The doctor stood by and said, "Weep, girl, weep, for that is the first tear I have seen shed for my wife." He told me that her father, mother, and sister had come only to see what of her jewellery they could take and then they went away. He sent for the nurse, and I saw a little baby girl, which he said was all he had left. He had a good practice, and was growing rich, and, as he stood there with bent head, he looked sad and cheerless, but young and handsome. Such is the inevitable! I saw the little bird that I gave her; it was hanging in the window of the same room. My heart was full of compassion, as I remembered the beautiful face of that young wife. She was only 20 years of age. All must have courage to submit to their own destiny.