freed from it. Home! God forbid that my experiences at Possum Gully
should form the only food for my reminiscences of home. I had practically
grown up there, but my heart refused absolutely to regard it as home. I
hated it then, I hate it now, with its narrowing, stagnant monotony. It
has and had not provided me with one solitary fond remembrance--only with
dreary, wing-clipping, mind-starving recollections. No, no; I was not
leaving home behind, I was flying homeward now. Home, home to Caddagat,
home to ferny gullies, to the sweet sad rush of many mountain waters, to
the majesty of rugged Borgongs; home to dear old grannie, and uncle and
aunt, to books, to music; refinement, company, pleasure, and the dear old
homestead I love so well.

All in good time I arrived at the end of my train journey, and was taken
in charge by a big red-bearded man, who informed me he was the driver of
the mail-coach, and had received a letter from Mrs Bossier instructing
him to take care of me. He informed me also that he was glad to do what
he termed "that same", and I would be as safe under his care as I would
be in God's pocket.

My twenty-six miles' coach drive was neither pleasant nor eventful. I was
the only passenger, and so had my choice of seats. The weather being cold
and wet, I preferred being inside the box and curled myself up on the
seat, to be interrupted every two or three miles by the good-natured
driver inquiring if I was "all serene".

At the Halfway House, where a change of the team of five horses was
affected, I had a meal and a warm, and so tuned myself up for the
remainder of the way. It got colder as we went on, and at 2.30 p.m. I was
not at all sorry to see the iron roofs of Gool-Gool. township disclosing
to my view. We first went to the post office, where the mail-bags were