gained some knowledge of life, on its dark as well as its brighter
side. But still oftener, alas, they go hopelessly to the bad,
degenerating into billiard markers, piano players at dancing
saloons, cattle drivers, and their friends probably lose sight of
them.

Once I was riding with my husband up a lovely gulley, when we heard
the crack of a stockwhip, sounding strangely through the deep
eternal silence of a New Zealand valley, and a turn of the track
showed us a heavy, timber-laden bullock-waggon labouring slowly
along. At the head of the long team sauntered the driver, in the
usual rough-and-ready costume, with his soft plush hat pulled low
over his face, and pulling vigorously at a clay pipe. In spite of
all the outer surroundings, something in the man's walk and dejected
attitude struck my imagination, and I made some remark to my
companion. The sound of my voice reached the bullock-driver's ears;
he looked up, and on seeing a lady, took his pipe out of his mouth,
his hat off his head, and forcing his beasts a little aside, stood
at their head to let us pass. I smiled and nodded, receiving in
return a perfect and profound bow, and the most melancholy glance I
have ever seen in human eyes. "Good gracious, F---," I cried, when
we had passed, "who is that man?" "That is Sir So-and-So's third
son," he replied: "they sent him out here without a shilling, five
years ago, and that is what he has come to: a working man, living
with working men. He looks heart-broken, poor fellow, doesn't he?"
I, acting upon impulse, as any woman would have done, turning back
and rode up to him, finding it very difficult to frame my pity and
sympathy in coherent words. "No thank you, ma'am," was all the
answer I could get, in the most refined, gentlemanly tone of voice:
"I'm very well as I am. I should only have the struggle all over