shower was over begged us to prolong our visit—it was "so nice to see someone from home." Last summer, she told us, had been the hottest for thirty years, but with that exception she had not felt the tropical heat excessive. When we came away she gave us the handgrip of the exile.
The most beautiful point within easy reach of Brisbane, commanding a magnificent bird's-eye view of the city, the bay, and surrounding country, is Mount Coot-tha Reserve, or One Tree Hill. It is only a few miles out of the town, and a friend motored us up there one afternoon. On the way we stopped to have tea at her house. In the drawing-room was a heavily carved massive upright piano. We commented on its unusual case, and our hostess told us it had been in "the Flood," and the works were ruined, but it was impossible to get them replaced in Australia. Going on to talk of the drawbacks to life in Brisbane, she said that before a storm the house would be filled with flying cockroaches and other insects, and she showed us photograph frames and book bindings riddled with small holes by the ravages of silver fish. Under her carpets were quantities of crushed naphthaline to prevent their being eaten, and a winter coat that was left hanging up by some oversight, she said, was immediately ruined. We were considerably
