dering sadly over the question of what should
become of me when 'anything happened' to him, my father had seized
upon the idea of this Orphanage, the only institute of its kind within
a hundred miles. He had never seen the place, and knew nothing of it.
But what choice had he?

And so I became a duly registered orphan, and an inmate of St.
Peter's. The letter I took to Father O'Malley contained, in bank-notes,
all the money of which my father died possessed. To this day I
do not know what the amount was, save that it was more than one
hundred pounds, and, almost certainly, under three hundred pounds. The
letter made a gift of this money to the Orphanage, I believe, on the
understanding that the Orphanage took me in and cared for me. It also,
I understood, authorised Father O'Malley to sell for the benefit of
the Orphanage all my father's belongings on board the _Livorno_, with
the exception of the books and papers, which were to be held in trust
for me, and handed over to me when I left the institution. Knowing
nobody in the district, I do not see that my father could with
advantage have taken any other course than the one he chose; and I am
very sure that he believed he was doing the best that could be done
for me in the circumstances.

Like every other habitation in that countryside, the Orphanage was a
wooden structure: hardwood weatherboard walls and galvanised iron
roof. But, unlike a good many others, it was well and truly built,
with a view to long life. It stood three feet above the ground upon
piers of stone, each of which had a mushroom-shaped cap of iron, to
check, as far as might be, the onslaught of the white ant, that
destructive pest of coastal Australia and enemy of all who live in
wooden houses. Also, it was kept well painted, and cared for in every
way, as few buildings in that district were. In Australia generally,
even in those days, labour was a somewhat costly commodity. At the
Orphanage it was the one thing used without stint, for it cost nothing
at all.

As I was being driven to the Orphanage in Father O'Malley's sulky,
behind his famous trotting mare Jinny, I hazarded upon a note of
interrogation the remark that my father would be buried.

'Surely, surely, my boy; I expect he will be buried at Werrina
to-morrow.'

This was on the morning after my delivery of the letters in Werrina. I
had spent the night in Father O'Malley's house. Somehow, I conveyed
the suggestion that I wanted to attend