Only one other incident here. One dark night, towards the fall of
summer, detained by business longer than usual, we lost our way as we
walked home, distance hardly two miles. After some "dandering" about, in
order to strike the corner of Major Davidson's fence, which was as good
to us as at home, we caught glimpse of a light, which in that place we
knew must be a stranger. Then, as we approached, there were figures and
voices. Who should this be but old Liardet from The Beach, with a
section of his family, who, having an outing in Melbourne, had, like
ourselves, stayed too late, and were now hopelessly at sea, and far out
of their track in groping their way back. They offered us a share of
quarters, as it seemed useless to try the pathless forest any longer.
But we were too sure of our whereabouts to give up the game so easily,
and after some more perambulating we struck the fence.

In spite of the attractions and economies of Tempe--for that, I think,
was the name it ambitiously held--we quitted South Yarra within the same
year for a still greater bargain and temptation in the opposite
direction, where I had just then the chance of picking up, "at an old
song," the pretty cottage previously occupied by Mr. Locke, on the Merri
Creek, four miles north by the Sydney-road. Besides the presentable
cottage, there was a large, well-stocked garden, at enacre cultivation
field, and a small natural park (vulgarly, paddock), in all 46 acres,
for 50 pounds, plus 300 pounds of inevitable mortgage. I called it
Maryfield, after my parental home in Edinburgh, and revelled in grapes,
plums, and peaches, and much other country happiness. When a host of
visitors, on a bright summer day, would rather strain the narrow larder,
I used to divert the party into the garden, where they could complete
their meal, although at times with inconvenient demand, from the male
section at least, upon the brandy. When, in 1854, I re-sold "the lot" to