12th August.—Fenton Forest.—After more than the interval of a month I resume my tale. No Arabian tale alas! but one of dull and downright reality, and I think before I tell you aught of my ‘forest sanctuary,’ it were well to let you hear how I got to it, as that was a consummation at one time very doubtful, so I must take you back to Hobarton. On the 12th [of July] the weather had cleared; a very bright morning, too bright to last, decided Fenton, and though he was extremely weak, we set off in our buggy with Flora on my knee, her nurse and a girl from the Orphan Asylum having gone the evening before, to wait our arrival at New Norfolk. I need not detail all promises to write and parting regrets.… The thing was to be done one way or other, and though I felt both ill and very nervous, from knowing my illness was only the commencement of a period of indefinite suffering, I knew too, that the effort must be made, and the sooner the better for all parties.

… We descended into what might be termed an ocean of forest, as far as the eye could reach. The Derwent was still on our right, and far between might be seen farm-houses with their naked fences closing in patches of cultivation; in some, the trees only felled, and the ground cultivated between the stumps, for it appears the process of taking them altogether out of the ground is expensive, and therefore a progressive business.