quietly retired, and left me alone with the proprietors of the neat little hat. I have elsewhere described the gift of some Flinders Island diamonds from poor Walter. I was to receive a parting remembrance from his wife. He had given me what was most valuable in his eyes. She presented me with what was pleasing in hers. It was a charming necklace of the smallest and most brilliantly-polished shells I have ever seen. Even then I felt the delicacy of her nature, as she said, putting the glittering object in my hand: "Give that to your daughter." I thanked her, and inquired if my lassie should wear it as a necklace. "No," replied my poor friend, "let her wear it on her back hair as the Indian women do." Ten years have passed; but I never see my daughter adorned with this pretty wreath without thinking of Maryann the half-caste.
When I parted with them, a thorough cordiality of feeling had been established between us. Knowing the moral danger of their position, I earnestly warned them of the evils of intemperance: for what seemed so friendly to them in their weary lives of objectless effort, and so companionless of sympathy, as the cup that elevates and cheers, although it blights and it intoxicates! It was needful warning. The curse had already been felt in their little homestead, for Walter had already fallen to the drunkard's stage. One evening, in May 1861, he and Jack Allen went on board their boat at the Hobart Town wharf, on their way to Oyster Cove. They had been to the public-house, and were seen in a state unfit for the voyage. After proceeding three miles, when off Sandy Bay, the boat was upset, and both Walter and his mate sank to the bottom of the Derwent.
