AN OLD-TIME EPISODE IN TASMANIA. THE gig was waiting upon the narrow gravel drive in front of the fuchsia - wreathed porch of Cowa Cottage. Perched upon the seat, holding the whip in two small, plump, un- gloved hands, sat Trucaninny, Mr. Paton's youngest daughter, whose straw-coloured, sun-steeped hair, and clear, sky-reflecting eyes, seemed to protest against the name of a black gin that some 'clay-brained cleric ' had bestowed upon her irresponsible little person at the baptismal font some eight or nine years ago. The scene of this outrage was Old St. David's Cathedral, Hobart, — or, as it was then called, Hobart Town, — chief city of the Arcadian island of Tasmania ; and just at this moment, eight o'clock on a November morning, the said cathedral tower, round and ungainly, coated with a surface of dingy white plaster, reflected back the purest, brightest light in the world. From Trucaninny's perch — she had taken the driver's seat — she could see, not only the cathedral,
