XXIV.]

Domestic Surgery.

227

so dispoged" (like the immortal Mrs. Gamp), than to be lying on the open plain in a hard frost, wondering when F—— and his cart would arrive.

The next day we returned home, much against our host's wish; and I walked all the way, some six miles of mountain road, for I could not bear the idea of riding. F led the horses, and we arrived quite safely. His first idea was to take me down to a doctor, but the motion of driving was greater agony than riding, as the road was rough; so, after the first mile, I entreated to be taken back, and we turned the horses' heads towards home again; and when we reached it, I got out all my little books on surgery, medicine, &c., and from them made out how to set my shoulder in some sort of fashion, with F's help. Of course, it is still useless to me, but I think it is mending itself; and after a week I could do everything with my left hand, even to writing, after a fashion. The only thing I could not do was to arrange my hair, or even to brush it; and though F— was “willing," he was so exceedingly awkward, that at last, after going through great anguish and having it pulled out by handfuls, I got him to cut it off, and it is now cropped like a small boy's. He cuts up my dinner, &c. for me; but it is a very trying process, and I don't wonder at children often leaving the nasty cold mess half eaten. I shall be very glad to be able to use my own knife again.

LETTER XXV.

HOW WE LOST OUR HORSES AND HAD TO WALK

HOME.

BROOMIELAW,

November 1868.

THIS will actually be my last letter from the Malvern Hills; and, in spite of the joy I feel at the hope of seeing all my beloved ones in England, I am so sorry to leave my dear little happy valley. We have done nothing but pay farewell visits lately; and I turn for a final look at each station or cottage as we ride away with a great tightness at my heart, and moisture in my eyes, to think I shall never see them again. You must not be jealous at the lingering regrets I feel, for unless you had been with me here you can never understand how kind and friendly all our neighbours, high and low, have been to us from the very first, or how dearly I have grown to love them. I don't at all know how I am to say good-bye to my dear Mrs. M, the shepherd's wife I told you of I believe she will miss me more than any one; and I cannot bear to think of her left to pass her days without the help of books and papers, which I was always

LETT. XXV.] Taking leave of my Pets.

229

so glad to lend her. I often walk down the valley to take tea with her of an afternoon and to say good-bye, but I have not said it yet. I wish you could see her parlour as I saw it yesterday afternoon-her books in a bookcase of her husband's manufacture, very nice and pretty; her spinningwheel in the corner; the large "beau-pot" of flowers in the window; and such a tea on the table !—cream like clots of gold, scones, oat-cakes, all sorts of delicacies! She herself is quite charming-one of Nature's ladies. I have given her, as a parting gift, a couple of Scotch views framed; and they hang on the wall as a memento of places equally dear to both of us.

It is a sorrow to me to leave the horses and dogs and my pet calves and poultry; even the trees and creepers I go round to look at, with the melancholy feeling of other owners not loving them so much as I have done. However, I must not make my last letter too dismal, or you will feel that I am not glad enough to return to you all. My only apology is, I have been so very happy here.

Now for our latest adventure, as absurd as any, in its way. Have I ever told you that our post-office is ten miles off, with an atrocious road between us and it? I know you will throw down this letter and feel rather disgusted with me for being sorry to leave such a place, but we don't mind trifles. here. Lately, since our own establishment has been broken up, we have been living in great discomfort;

230

Riding to the Mail.

[LETTER

and among other things we generally, if not always, have to go for our own letters twice a week. Upon this occasion F and I had ridden together up the gorge of the Selwyn rather late in the afternoon, to avoid the extreme heat of the day. When we reached the shepherd's hut I have before mentioned, and which is now deserted, I proposed to F to go on over the hills alone and leave me there, as I was very hot and tired, and he could travel much quicker without me-for I am ashamed to say that I still object to riding fast up and down slippery hills. I cannot get rid of the idea that I shall break my neck if I attempt it, whereas F-- goes on over the worst road just as if it was perfectly level. Excuse this digression, for it is a relief to me to be a little spiteful about his pace whenever I have an opportunity, and this will probably be my last chance of expressing my entire disapproval of it.

Helen was tied up to a post, and F——, after helping me to dismount, set off at a canter over the adjoining swamp on his way to cross the chain of hills beween the river and the flat where the great coach-road to the West Coast runs. I had brought the ingredients for my five o'clock tea (without which I am always a lost and miserable creature), and I amused myself, during my solitude, by picking up dry bits of scrub for my fire; but I had to go down to the river-bank for some driftwood to make the old kettle, belonging to the hut, boil. I could not help wondering how any human being could endure such

XXV.]

A lonely Hut.

231

solitude for years, as the occupant of a hut like this is necessarily condemned to. In itself it was as snug and comfortable as possible, with a little paddock for the shepherd's horse, an acre or so of garden, now overgrown with self-sown potatoes, peas, strawberry, raspberry, and gooseberry plants, the little thatched fowl-house near, and the dog-kennels; all giving it a thoroughly home-like look. The hoarse roar of the river over its rocky bed was the only sound; now and then a flock of wild ducks would come flying down to their roosting-place or nests among the Tohi grass; and as the evening closed in the melancholy cry of the bittern and the weka's loud call broke the stillness, but only to make it appear more profound. On each side of the ravine in which the hut stands rise lofty hills so steeply from the water's edge that in places we can find no footing for our horses, and have to ride in the river. At this time of year the sheep are all upon the hills; so you do not hear even a bleat: but in winter, they come down to the sunny, sheltered flats.

It appeared to me as if I was alone there for hours, though it really was less than one hour, when F- returned with a large bundle of letters and papers tied to his saddle-bow. Tea was quite ready now; so he tied up his horse next Helen, and we had tea and looked at our letters. One of the first I opened told me that some friends from Christchurch, whom I expected to pay us a visit soon, were on their way up that very day, and in fact