While the two steamers are ploughing their way to Brisbane, the one with the boys, the other with the girls, on board, it will not be amiss if the narrative pause for a moment for the purpose of presenting the reader with an ampler picture of the singular personality of Hil.

Hilda Mannahill was the daughter of the late Samuel Mannahill, who died when she was ten years old. Three months later she lost her mother. Few men were more respected and beloved than Sam Mannahill, as he was familiarly called. He was a self-made man, who had landed in the colony in the early days, and by dint of hard work and upright dealing had become very wealthy. At his death he left behind him not only a vast fortune, which is a comparatively common circumstance, but also an honoured name, which is less so. After his wife's death the whole of his wealth passed to his daughter, Hilda, who at the time of our story was twenty-three years of age. Hilda would be best described as a jolly girl with no humbug about her. Simple in tastes, unaffected in manner, strikingly self-reliant, and as straight as a die in disposition, her inherited strength of character had been fostered and fortified at the expense of all the weaknesses of her sex, by the manner of her upbringing. Yet, withal, she was purely womanly. In appearance she was tall and fair, her figure slender but firmly-built; she was lissom in all her movements and a general air of independence, in harmony with the frankness of her speech and the directness of her gaze, hung around her. She was a large-hearted girl and no one but her banker knew of the thousands of pounds that were quietly distributed amongst the charities of the city every year: a decided eccentricity, and most directly opposed to the current method, which consists in having the name of the donor published in the leading papers, to be cabled over to England and brought at any cost under the notice of Her Majesty, in case there might be a spare title going begging. Had she wanted a title she could have had one, for it was well-known that a certain sprig of the nobility, when on a visit to the colonies, had graciously decided to make her and her fortune his own. "She is not much to look at, but her fortune is good," he had said to his friend, the Governor, who was complaining that he had given up his home and friends to spend five years penal servitude amongst those ignorant Australian savages. A few days after, therefore, the Honourable—it would be unfair to give his name—presented himself to Hilda, and was about to offer her his hand and heart, when he was stopped midway with the remark—"I am really very busy to-day. If it is a situation on one of my stations that you want, I will be pleased to mention your name to my manager, for I do not meddle with those matters myself." It is not known if he ever consulted the manager.

She now owned three large stations, besides city property and countless investments. The management of all this she had taken into her own hands on her coming of age. She then purchased Blue Gums, the handsome mansion in which we have seen her, where she shocked and scandalised Society for the moment by entertaining on her own account. Society salved its conscience by holding aloof from her for a few weeks, then thought better of it, and she was now one of the most prominent entertainers in Sydney. At Government House she was not a frequent visitor, the foppery and toadyism there were revolting to her. As she said, bluntly, "There's too much hypocrisy there for me!"

As a schoolgirl she was somewhat tom-boyish and a recognised leader in the mild forms of mischief open to the limited capabilities of young ladies' academies. Memories of an heroic pillow-fight, in which she figured as a leader, still linger among her schoolfellows. But her happiest times were the holidays spent in the rough enjoyments of Australian station life.

Life on a station is an interesting phase of colonial existence. There are stations, of course, in these degenerate days, where a great deal of style and vulgar "side" is put on; where the house-servants are in livery; the dinner is served on silver plates, in empty mimicry of a ducal mansion; where all travelling sprigs of nobility are welcomed by the proprietor (who was probably a costermonger before his emigration) to whom he is glad to introduce his daughter with the scarcely-veiled recommendation that she has fifty thousand to carry in her hand to the right man, provided he has good English blue blood in his veins and none of the inferior colonial trickle. Fortunately for Hilda, she spent her holidays on a typical Australian station, managed on Australian lines, by an Australian owner, with Australian hands. Here she became an expert horsewoman and her fearless nature had full play in its stirring daily work, of which she always took her fair share. Her bosom friend and fellow-conspirator at school was Susan Tyton, the daughter of old Tyton, the owner of the station "Cattle Downs," and the two girls invariably contrived to be there during the annual muster, in the work of which she had been known to perform the duties of an experienced stockman.

May had once listened, with vivid interest, to the following description by an old stockrider of one of her feats. He said—"I can see old Tyton now, coming out of the house, followed by the two girls, his daughter and Miss Mannahill. 'Now then, girls, if you are ready,' says old Tyton: and we bring them two of the horses. They have no ladies' saddles, no pommels to hold on to, only just a man's saddle with one stirrup, and it was a treat to see them spring into them and settle themselves down and quietly wait orders. They used to dress in short habit and leggings. The stockmen take one direction, and Tyton with his party take another, at full gallop, a pace they keep up for a mile or more. There is a big double in front of them and Tyton calls a halt, but the girls either do not or will not hear and, tightening their reins and over—up—over! they both fly the two high fences and calmly turn their horses' heads and open the gates for the others. They meet old Tyton's severe look with a smiling—'Don't be cross, we won't do it again. It was too tempting.' The old chap is too proud of them to say more than warn them not to take too much out of their horses. 'Gad!' adds the old fellow, 'I'd like some of them fashionable ladies who talk of their riding to see you two.' After a couple of hours' riding, they come across some black boys who have been keeping the cattle from going back to the hills. They now know that the outside boundary is reached. Fastened on each of their saddles is a stock whip, which each now takes off, and a few preliminary cracks are given. Fancy your town girls cracking and handling a whip sixteen feet long! After a short halt for a spell, Tyton himself gallops along the ranks and orders all to push on. That is the signal for a general shout, cracking of whips, barking of dogs, and yells from the niggers: soon there is one vast crowd of living animals in front of them. Now and then a refractory beast breaks away and rushes the ranks, but the horses are on the alert, and they soon round him in, for there is no tugging required—you merely stick to your pigskin. Hil and Susy are doing their share along the line and are about four hundred yards apart. Presently a small mob, led on by a huge black bull, charges right between them, and, followed by others, dashes back towards the mountains. The girls' horses are after them, but do not, as you may suppose, attempt to head them. They are quite content to ride alongside the leader, who, being in good forward condition, begins to blow. A signal is given, and both girls take a fierce grip of their whips, and make direct for the bull; he is nonplussed, seeing two horses coming in opposite directions and gradually slackens down until he comes to a stop, and there he stands pawing the ground, his tail erect, his eyes glistening. Like a stroke of lightning two horses pass him, and before he knows what's up he feels a couple of severe cuts across his head. This is repeated, and very soon he is glad to be allowed to turn back and go on peacefully. The girls meet and begin chatting on some outside topic, without a comment on their smart work. Gradually they draw closer to the ranks, and are once more in the line, having brought back the deserters. The big paddock, where the yards are, now comes in sight. It is recognised by some of the older cattle who have been in before, and they pull up and sniff the air, which means danger ahead, and puts the whole mob on the qui vive. This is about the most anxious time of all—to get a leader who will go easily: but should he turn obstinate they would rush the line, and the whole week's work would have to be repeated. Besides, in a mob like that, numbering close on ten thousand, hundreds would be either killed or seriously injured in their mad career. All seemed to recognise the dangerous situation, and Tyton begins to get anxious, especially as some of the leaders are snorting and shewing fight. Now it happened that that black bull and his party were one of the mobs nearest to the entrance; there was a clear run before them direct, so without consulting any one, the girls galloped into the mob, which separated before them, and got on to that bull again. A couple of smacks were enough. He was only too anxious to get out of their way, and made straight for the run, followed by his mob. The others followed suit, and the whole mob were in the big paddock. While this was going on, Tyton was a picture. He neither spoke nor moved. 'They're mad. They'll ruin all. Why, they've started the mob, the others are following. Oh, it's all right. Hurrah, we are saved! Hurrah, boys! Hurrah!' This is taken up, and even the black boys join in."

It was daring acts of this kind which had made Hilda the heroine of her own and Cattle Downs stations. Many were the tales told by the station hands of her feats of horsemanship and of the incorrigible buck-jumpers she had tamed. Moreover, she could box any man on the station. There was a certain amount of bush-romance attaching to her name, enough to have made her a legendary figure had she lived in mediÆval times. And yet, withal, she was a thorough girl of her century, educated and refined, but endowed with a masculine strength and a rigid uprightness of character. She was a genuine product of the land which gave her birth and she shared with the fullest enthusiasm in the aspirations and ideals of young Australia.