Five Little Bush Girls

Chapter. Page.

I. THE CONSULTATION 7

II. “GILLGONG” 20

III. THE LETTER 29

IV. “TEDDO” 36

V. THE REPLY 42

VI. A SURPRISE 51

VII. FRANK 61

VIII. THE STORM 67

IX. ANTICIPATION 71

X. MOSMAN 77

XI. HOME AGAIN 88

XII. WILLIE 95

XIII. A SYNDICATE 102

XIV. LESSONS 110

XV. EILEEN’S RETURN 118

XVI. CONVERSATIONS 126

XVII. THE GOVERNESS 133

XVIII. THE SUBSCRIPTION 141

XIX. POETS 154

XX. GOOD-BYE TO “TEDDO” 162

XXI. INTERCESSION 169

XXII. A HERO 175

XXIII. LETTERS 180

XXIV. A NEW ARRIVAL 186

XXV. NEW PEOPLE 193

XXVI. SOME MERRY MEETINGS 202

XXVII. THE INVITATION 209

XXVIII. THE PARTY 219

XXIX. A WEEK ON THE RIVER 225

  CONCLUSION 234

“I’m just about sick of it all,” said Eileen.

“So am I,” murmured Mollie, almost under her breath.

“Me, too,” said Eva.

“An’ me, too,” agreed Doris. “I’m weal sick of it.”

“Me tick, too,” cried Baby, looking round at the disconsolate faces, and, putting two fat hands to her eyes, she cried lustily.

“Stop that, Baby,” cried Eileen, severely. “Stop at once.”

But Baby only cried the louder.

“Wait a bit, Baby. Here’s a nice piece of bread and jam,” said Mollie, and the cries ceased instantly.

“I’m goin’ to ask Mum to let’s all have bread and jam for tea,” said Doris. “I’m sick o’ old drippin’—weal sick!”

“So am I,” agreed Eileen. “Other people can have butter and jam together, while we’re scraping along with old dripping. I’m just sick of everything.”

“So am I.”

“And so am I.”

“And so am I.”

“And so am I.”

And then five very disconsolate little girls swung five pairs of very disconsolate legs vigorously as they sat in a row on the wooden verandah. At least, Baby tried to swing hers in unison with the others, but she only succeeded in giving a rather weak kick now and again, as she watched the other legs and tried to munch her bread and jam at the same time.

“Let’s count up all the bad luck we’ve had this year,” said Eileen.

“Oh, yes, let’s count,” they all cried excitedly, and instantly they sat erect, all except Baby, who still solemnly swung one leg and then the other, and hung tenaciously on to the last piece of crust.

“Go on, Eileen. Speak up.”

“First the two cows died, and one of the calves, and didn’t we have trouble with the other one?” she said with a sigh.

“And then the big horse died,” chimed in another.

“So it did, and then——”

“Old Star’s foal died,” said Mollie.

“So it did,” cried Eileen. “Old Star’s beautiful foal died.”

“Me want Tar’s foal,” cried Baby.

“Oh, stop that noise, Baby! You never let us have a nice quiet talk,” said Eileen. “What next?”

“The sheep got poisoned weed,” said Eva.

“And the dingoes came,” answered Doris.

“So they did,” cried Eileen, ticking off the events on her fingers. “That’s six. Can’t we make twelve?”

“Say that lot over again,” said Doris, “and we might think of more.” She sat down and prepared to enjoy herself listening to their bad luck.

“Yes,” answered Eileen, with hands in the air. “There’s the two cows and the calf—oh! by the way, I didn’t count the calf last time; that’s three, and the horse—that’s four; and old S-t-a-r-’s f-o-a-l” (spelling it aloud, so that Baby would not go into a fresh paroxysm of grief) “makes five, and there’s the poisoned weed and the dingoes. That makes seven. We nearly have twelve—we might think of more by night,” she went on hopefully.

“Oh! I know another—one you haven’t thought of—very near the biggest of them all,” shouted Doris.

“Oh! Doris, darling, tell us!”

“What about the haystack being burnt down?” she exclaimed triumphantly.

“Oh, yes!” they shouted; “very near the worst of all, because if the wind was blowing the other way and the house was a lot nearer the stack, it would have been burnt, too.”

“Fancy me thinkin’ of it, and you not, and me very near the youngest,” said Doris proudly, as she folded her hands complacently, with a look of self-satisfaction.

“That’s eight!” shrieked Eileen. “I knew more would come. We’ll get the twelve yet.”

“Oh, look at the beautiful sunset!” cried Eva. “Just like a big crimson lake!”

“Beautiful grandmother!” grumbled Eileen. “What’s the use of a beautiful sunset, I’d like to know? I’m just about sick of seeing the old sunset—the same old thing every day, with a few more colours dashed into it at times. I’ve seen enough sunsets to last me to the end of my days, after all the old droughty ones we’ve been seeing for months.”

“Were’s de tun-tet? Me want te tun-tet!” screamed Baby, as she clutched her fingers towards the paling pink sky.

“Yes, dearie, you’ll get it, too,” answered Eileen. “You’ll get tons of sunset if you keep on living here. You’ll get days and days and days of it, till you’ll wish the old sun would never rise again, so as you wouldn’t see him set again.”

Eva remained quietly watching the departing glory of the evening sky. Sometimes Eva got “fits of goodness,” as Eileen called them, and then she was “unbearable.” She sincerely hoped she was not going to get one now, and spoil their nice grumbling evening, for of all things that Eileen liked at times it was to grumble to her heart’s content, especially when she had an audience, so she plunged back to the theme before the “goodness” seized Eva.

“Well, we’ve counted eight. There must be more. Oh! yes—didn’t old Dave die?”

“So he did!” shouted Doris wildly. “Poor old Dave died, and didn’t Dadda have trouble fixing up about the funeral and lettin’ the policeman know, and all that?” and she folded her hands importantly again. “It’s a wonder we didn’t think of him first of all the troubles, being a man, you know. Say them all over again, Eileen, and we might think of more.”

Doris was enjoying herself thoroughly. She was five, and fat and chubby, and she swung her fat legs excitedly and held up her fat fingers to tick off the events.

“Well, cut them short this time,” said Eva, “and let’s get on to something else.”

“Indeed, it’s nice to talk about ’em,” answered Doris. “Two cows, calf, big horse, f-o-a-l, weed, dingoes, fire, and old Dave—nine bits of bad luck in one year!”

“What about Frank cutting his foot that time?” cried Eva, who was getting warmed up to the subject.

“Oh, what a bit of luck!” gurgled Doris. “Ten, ten——”

“Oh, yes!” cried Eileen. “Frank cutting his foot, and having stitches put in, and wasn’t he a cripple for weeks? That’s ten, sure enough. Fancy ten big accidents in one year, besides the drought and old hot sunsets, and dripping for butter, and long, lonely days when no one comes. I’m real sick of it all. I wish I was rich and had pretty clothes, and could travel about and have lots of fun. There’s Enid Davis, and she’s not a bit prettier or better than us, and she wears beautiful dresses and lovely silky stockings.” She extended her shapely leg. “Fancy that in one of Enid’s silks! Why, it would be a different leg.”

Then they all laughed merrily for a time, but discontent was in the air.

“I think Enid’s just lovely,” said Doris, with a sigh.

“We’d all be if we had pretty dresses like her, and no work to do. She has no right to be richer and happier than any of us. She happens to be lucky. I don’t know why ever there’s such a difference between people. If Enid wants a drive, she just has to call for the car. If we want one, it’s either the broken-down buggy, or the jolting sulky, or ‘Shanks.’ I think, if I were God, I’d have things fixed up differently.”

“Oh, Eileen, don’t say that!” said Mollie. “Don’t bring God’s name into it.”

Mollie was the eldest, and at times, for all her natural gaiety, felt her responsibilities.

“Now, don’t get sermony, Mollie. Let’s have a good straight-out talk sometimes. I do wonder why God doesn’t send rain, when the ground and all around is as black as the ace of spades.”

“I s’pose poor God’s busy,” said little Doris. “Goodness! we’re busy enough without havin’ the world to look after.”

“Yes,” put in Eva, eagerly. “Just think of all the big world He has to look after. I wonder He can manage it at all. There’s all the country and all Sydney, and all other towns, and all other parts of the world. Do you remember, when we were trying to learn geography, all the places we had to think of? To think He has to look after them all! I just don’t know how He manages at all.”

But Eileen’s shapely legs still swung vigorously to and fro, in silent protest.

“I wish we were all big men, and could go out and work and make money, and get real rich, and buy lovely homes, and—and—all that. And I wish Mamma would never have to work again, and that Frank could go away and get rich and—and—oh! anything different to this.”

They all looked up the long, white, dusty road that stood out clear and distinct in the gathering twilight, and for a time were very quiet, with rebellion in their hearts.

At last Mollie, with a bright light of resolve shining in her eyes, turned to them.

“Do you know what I’ve been thinking? I don’t know if I ought to tell you——”

“Oh, do, Mollie—do!” They all crowded round her. “Whatever is it?”

“It’s something I’ve been thinking over for three whole days.”

“Three whole days, Mollie? How ever did you manage not to tell us?”

“It’s a big plan—it might be too big, but—I think we ought to try. Come on, I’ll tell you!”

They all gathered together with big wonder-eyes and listened. And Mother, who had spent the afternoon down under the shade of the friendly bluegums on the creek, darning and patching, wondered what was keeping her little girlies so quiet up on the wooden verandah.

“You know, Dadda has a very rich brother somewhere in the world, and, of course, he’s our uncle. So, at that rate, we have a Rich Uncle!”

“A Rich Uncle,” they all murmured.

“A smart lot of good he is to us,” put in Eileen. “That’s the last we’ll hear of him.”

“Wait a bit,” went on Mollie. “I’ve been thinking we ought to write to him.”

“Write to him,” in chorus, “but we don’t know him!”

“That doesn’t matter. We’ll write to him.”

“Write to him,” repeated Eileen. “A lot of good that will do. I suppose he’d never answer the letter. Anyhow, where is he?”

“I don’t know. But I think we can find him.”

“How, Mollie—how?”

“Well, he travels a lot in Europe, but he’s in a big firm in Melbourne, and if we write there they’re sure to forward it on to him. But keep this a secret—a great big secret.”

“Oh, yes!” they all gasped.

“We’re all in it, you know. We’ll all sign our names.”

“Yes—oh, yes!” they all gasped again. “But how did you find him out, Mollie?”

“I heard Mamma and Dadda talking about him nearly a year ago. They had a Melbourne paper, with a lot about a big firm in it, and they said he pretty well owned it. Langdon and Ross is the name—Collins Street. And Mamma said what a very rich man he was, and then she sighed and said how different things were.”

“What a pity you didn’t think about the letter then,” sighed Eileen. “We might be rich to-day.”

“I think I must have thought something then,” said Mollie, slowly; “but it was only a few days ago, when I saw Mother looking so tired, that the letter flashed across my mind.”

“And I never knew Dadda had a brother,” said Eva.

“You knew you had an uncle somewhere,” put in Eileen.

“Yes, but I never thought of whose brother he was. You can know a lot of things without knowing much about them,” declared Eva, stoutly.

“Melbourne! That’s the capital of Victoria, isn’t it?”

“Oh, never mind what it is!” snapped Eileen. “Go on, Mollie.”

“The worst of it is,” went on Mollie, “he and Dadda have not been good friends since they were boys. Of course, they might not be real bad friends, but they quarrelled when they were young, and never write to each other at all, and I suppose he’s nearly forgotten he has a brother while he’s travelling all over the world.”

“Oh! dear, aren’t people a nuisance to go quarrelling, especially when one of them’s rich?” said Eileen. “I do wish he was friendly with us: he might help us. I don’t suppose Mamma and Dadda would take anything—it’d be too much like begging.”

“Well, we’ll just write from ourselves,” said Mollie. “From five little bush girls—his five little nieces that he doesn’t know—and we’ll all sign our own names.”

“Good! Grand! Splendid! Oh, Mollie, you’re a brick! Let’s start the letter straight away. Oh, Mollie! what’ll we say? I wonder when he’ll get it.”

“But I hope he don’t write and tell Dadda that his five little—little—what are we?—nieces, wrote to him,” said Eva.

“Oh, no! we’ll tell him not to,” declared Mollie. “It’ll be a hard letter to write; I’ve been thinking over it for the last three days.”

“Three days!” again murmured Eva. “I don’t know how you’ve thought of it for three days without telling us,” she said admiringly. “I’d have to have told us all straight away. Oh, Mollie, you’re real clever! I’d have never thought of our Rich Uncle.”

“Oh, Mollie, do let’s find him!” said little Doris; “let’s find him quick! He might bring us lollies and candy and—and dolls——”

“And nice dresses and books and pictures and—” said Eva.

“And pocket-money and trips,” put in Eileen.

“I hope he ain’t got poor before we find him,” said Doris.

“Oh!” There was a chorus of exclamations, while their faces clouded. “I hope not.”

“We don’t want any more poor ones in the family,” said Eileen, quickly.

“He’s not poor,” said Mollie. “We’ll all write and tell him about ourselves and the drought and the bad times, and how Dadda has to struggle——”

“Yes, how Dadda has to struggle,” repeated Eileen.

“And all about our losses—and about Mamma. What’ll we say about Mamma?”

“Say she’s a brick,” shouted Eileen, “and she’s always cheery and never gives in——”

“And she makes all our clothes,” said Doris.

“And we often know she’s real tired, and she keeps on sewing,” said Eva.

“And when I get a big woman I’m going to take care of her,” said Doris, quite carried away.

“Never mind when you’re a woman—we want help now,” said Eileen.

“And we’ll say she tries to make time to teach us,” said Mollie, “and bring us up nicely, and we’re afraid she’ll tire herself to death before we grow up, and we’d like him to write to us if he can spare the time.”

“Yes, spare the time,” repeated Eileen.

“And-and—we’d like him to come and see us——”

“Come and see us!” they repeated aghast. “Oh, Mollie! you’re not going to ask him over here, are you?”

“Yes. What else can we do?”

“But if he’s such a big, rich man, and travelled such a lot—oh, Mollie! our place won’t be grand enough, will it?”

“Yes, of course it will. It’s nice and clean, and we’ll all help to tidy it up and make things as nice as possible. And it’s the only thing to do—to ask him here, and let him see for himself how Mamma and Dadda have to work while he’s tripping round.”

“Yes, while he’s tripping round,” echoed Eva.

“He’ll have to be very hard-hearted if he sees us like this, and does not help us,” went on Mollie. “We’ll pay him back when we grow up. We don’t want to be common beggars, but we do want money now.”

“Oh, Mollie! and I never thought you used to think like this,” declared Eileen, in a low voice. “I never thought you wanted to be rich like I do——”

“It’s not for myself so much as others,” cried Mollie. “I’m not going to see Mother toiling from daylight to dark, and trying to keep nice and pleasant, and Father and Frank nearly too tired to talk when they come in of a night, and nothing but loneliness staring us in the face, when all the time we might be able to make things a little better. We’ll write that letter and post it by next mail,” she went on in a low voice. “Mother is going to see Mrs. Smith to-morrow, so we’ll write it then. But we must keep it a great big secret.”

“Well, this has been a wonderful evening,” said Eileen, “and I’m dying for to-morrow to come.”

“It’s been a wonderful, bootiful evenin’,” bubbled Doris, clasping her fat hands. “Bad luck and good together.”

“I hope it will be good luck,” said Mollie as she flew inside to set the table, for away across the distance she saw the men returning slowly from their day’s toil, while Eileen and Eva hurried off to feed the lambs, and the two toddlers trudged off to the creek to meet Mamma.

“If only we can manage it! If only we can manage it!” was the thought that filled Mollie’s mind as she hurried hither and thither from the kitchen to the dining-room. “If only Uncle gets that letter and comes straight away and fixes up things and gives us all a fresh start. If only we can manage it!”

Outside in the gathering darkness Eileen and Eva fed and petted the lambs while they laughed and talked, for a gleam of new hopes and anticipations had come to them.

Late that night, when darkness and silence had descended on the homestead, three pairs of bright eyes peered at the stars, while Mollie, Eileen and Eva talked over the wonderful letter that was to be posted by the next mail.

Up till the evening that they had “put their heads together” and planned that wonderful letter, the Hudsons had lived much the same lives as other little bush girls, although, on the whole, it was much quieter. Just at the present it was very dull on account of the drought, and also their one neighbour, with a big family, had sold out of “Wilga” Station, and gone further west, and that had put an end to the half-time school that had flourished for twelve months between the Hudsons and Jenkins. Now only a caretaker and his wife lived at Jenkin’s homestead, so the little girls were very short of playmates. Sometimes Enid Davies, from Myall, would call to see them, or they would pay a visit to her place, but as Enid was away so much they seldom could count on her.

“Besides, Enid is so rich,” Mollie would say sometimes, “although she is real nice, but I don’t like a lot of her friends.”

Already Mollie could feel the restraint of “class” in the air.

“Things are going from bad to worse,” Eileen would often grumble. “I do wish people with big families wouldn’t sell out. There should be a law to prevent it. We could have some fun and games when the Jenkins were near, and we did have some fun at school, even if it was a bit of a nuisance at times,” and then she would sigh as she thought of the little weather-board school-house, where their teacher—a bright, fresh-faced young man from the Department—had been so keen about studies and competitions and games.

It was with regret that they all bade him good-bye, although there had been days and days when they had all felt like throwing slates and books at him—days when they could not manage columns of figures or dictation or dates, and Eileen would wish the teacher “at the bottom of the sea,” or “at the end of the world” or any other far-off place.

But he had left with words of kindly encouragement, telling them not to forget their lessons, and to read and study, till such time as they could obtain another teacher; and for a while they had tried, but it was very hard to keep up anything without someone to supervise, as they all discovered, although Mother tried her best to teach them a little every day.

“What’s the good of learning old sums?” said Eileen. “We’ll never use them.”

“Oh, you never know!” Mother would say, hopefully.

“Yes, I know,” declared Eileen. “I’ll just live and die here, like I’m going on, and nothing will ever happen, and I’ll never want sums or nothing else.”

“You might get married and go away,” said Mollie.

“No, I won’t. If I do get married, I suppose it’ll be to some cockie about here, so I don’t want to know anything for that!”—emphatically.

“You mustn’t call them ‘cockies,’” said Mollie, severely. “They’re all selectors or lessees about here.”

“Well, whatever they are, I won’t marry any of them. I’ll die an old maid, or go right away and marry a rich man and have a motor-car.” Which showed that Eileen was not very consistent, and would say anything for argument’s sake.

Things had been going from bad to worse on the Hudsons’ selection for the past year. A run of bad luck seemed to have struck them, and sometimes after a long day of toil Mr. Hudson would sit far into the night, under the silent stars, smoking grimly, while he wondered how long he could stand it. Already he was deep in debt to the bank, and the loss of some valuable stock during the year had made things look blacker. He was of a hopeful nature, and determined to stick to his land through thick and thin till better times came. But to the children the good times seemed a very long while coming.

Mollie was fourteen, and had big, deep blue eyes and red-gold hair. She was bright and animated and fond of fun, and eagerly grasped any little brightness that came within her reach, and in her kind, tender way, eager to share it with others.

Eileen, with her big dark eyes and thick brown hair, was fond of luxury, only she never had a chance to gratify her wishes. Her greatest wish was to become “a fine lady,” with everything at her command.

Eva, with her nine years of experience, was somewhat old-fashioned. She desired very much to be clever, and “some day” meant to learn everything. Then came Doris and Baby, who never did much except play with dolls and sticks and tins and bottles.

A big fat porter bottle, with a red ribbon round its neck, was Doris’s pet “dog,” and she would tie a string to the ribbon and lead “him” everywhere. Although she had many favourites among her dolls, her special pet was “Rose,” a big rag doll, with a very dirty face and eyes like two “daubs of the blue-bag,” as Eileen often said. For all her dirty face and “blue-bag” eyes, she was taken everywhere, and even slept with her fond little mother. When the annual picnic was held in the little township Doris disgusted them all by rigging out Rose in the wax doll’s white muslin and pink ribbons, and carrying her to the picnic. It was a very dirty-faced Rose and a very draggled muslin frock that they found in the bottom of the buggy on their return, for, in the excitement of meeting new people, Doris had quite forgotten her treasure for the time being.

Then they had “stick” horses, which came in for a lot of care, and during the drought Doris daily placed little nose-bags, filled with sawdust (for chaff), on their heads, after she had dipped their heads into a pail of water. “’Cause the poor things are like ourselves, and get so thirsty,” she would murmur, as she ran backwards and forwards, attending to their wants.

“When God sends the rain, we’ll have nice green couch-grass for youse,” she would tell the sticks, as she laid them away for the night. There was Rattler and Robin and Tommie and Bally, and while Baby could only jog round the house on hers, Doris would scamper over the paddock.

Frank Lynton had lived with the Hudson family for the last five years. His mother had been Mr. Hudson’s favourite cousin, and on her death-bed she had given her son into his care.

“I know you will be good to him, Robert,” she had murmured. “You know, his father was a ne’er-do-well, but I’m sure my boy will not follow in his steps.”

So Frank became one of the family, and tried to settle down and do his very best, although as the years went on he knew that the land was not for him, and, try as he would, he could never build up any interest or eagerness in the work. This only made him try the harder to help and please “Uncle and Aunt,” as he always called them, for he had a great sense of gratitude, and he gave his fresh young strength and energies to help them in their needs, while all the time deep in his heart was an unsatisfied longing for something different.

“If only things would change for the better, and I could leave Uncle,” he would murmur, as he went about his work. “But I must not let them know—not yet awhile; but I’ll have to later on. I’m not going to waste my life doing things I hate.”

Then he would work grimly on, with determination on his young face. And no one at “Gillong” ever guessed the unsatisfied longings in the boy’s heart—no one but Mollie.

It came about in this way. It had been a very hot, trying day, and Frank had left home at five in the morning and returned at twilight, after mustering and drafting sheep the whole day long. He was utterly weary and worn out as he rode to the hayshed and pulled the saddle and bridle off his horse, and there Mollie met him.

“Oh, Frank! a man came down from Myall to say there’s a big draft there to-morrow. Travelling sheep were going through, and they didn’t give notice, and all the sheep are boxed, and they want you up, first light.”

“Oh, hang it all!” cried Frank, wrathfully. “I’ve been at it every day this week. It’s nothing but drafting from morning till night. I’m just about sick of the whole turn-out.”

“Yes, it is hard,” said Mollie, slowly.

“Hard! It’s deadly. A fellow might as well be dead as be tied up here, week after week, grinding his life away. I’m just sick of it.” And he threw himself on a big bale of hay.

“Oh, Frank! I’m so sorry,” said Mollie, softly.

“It’s no use being sorry, Mollie,” he answered, with a hard laugh. “A fellow has to go through it, I suppose—for a while, at any rate. But you don’t know how hard it is, Mollie, when a fellow hates the very thought of the work he’s tied to, and is always longing for something else he knows he’d be better at. What’s the use of throwing your life away in those paddocks, when there’s something else you’re dying to get at and know you’ll be a success at it? You know that there’s hundreds of people just fit for this kind of work, and could do it better than I can——”

“Oh, Frank! I am sorry; I always thought you didn’t like this,” said Mollie, “but you’re always so cheerful and so bright, and——”

“It’s the least I can do, Mollie, and I shouldn’t grumble now. I’d be a real cad if I were not grateful to you all. You mustn’t think I’m not grateful.”

“I know you are,” answered Mollie, warmly, “and I’d like you to tell me more,” she went on, hesitatingly, “if—if you would.”

For the first time in his life Frank poured out his heart and told her all his dreams and wishes.

“And I’m saving up for it this ever so long. And you know, Mollie,” he concluded, “my father was a ne’er-do-well, and if I go on up here without my heart in my work I suppose people will put me down the same, and all the time I’m out of my sphere. I’m sixteen now, Mollie, and it’s time I was at it; but here I am, and there seems no chance. Look here,” he cried, “as soon as we get rain and things are a little better I’ll tell Uncle all about it.”

The stars had come out one by one as they talked, and now the sky was a mass of flickering points, as Mollie, with a sad heart, gazed into the twinkling depths, wondering what on earth she could do to help her loved Frank, and suddenly there flashed into her mind the thought of that wonderful letter.

Yes, that would be it! She would write to that rich uncle that she knew so little of. He was rich, and he might help Frank. He might help them all. But she must never let Frank know—Frank, nor Mother, nor Father. Surely it would not be wrong to write on the quiet for a good cause like this. For three days she had thought and thought and worried, before she told her sisters of her plan.

“I’m glad you’ve told me all this, Frank, and I think you’re—you’re splendid,” cried Mollie, dashing away the tears; “and I only wish I could do something for you. You’ll have to keep on hoping and wishing, and some day something good may happen.”

“Yes, some day,” echoed Frank. “I hope so. But we’d better go in to tea, Mollie,” he said, cheerfully, “and then I’m going to bed early, to get ready for a big day to-morrow.”

Frank never knew that, long after he was asleep, Mollie went to his box and carefully examined his clothes, noting all the patched and darned shirts and socks, and wondering if he could make those last until he could go away.

“If only he could go before he has to get any more new clothes, and then he could get a nice new supply for his studies,” thought Mollie with shining eyes. “Oh, I do hope that I can manage to fix up things!”

Frank slept calmly on—the sleep of the tired, never dreaming that any factors were at work to bring him nearer his heart’s desire.

“Whatever shall we say?”

They had been trying for the last three hours, and were getting quite out of patience.

“Go on, Mollie, have another try.”

“‘My dear Uncle’—no, we can’t put ‘my,’ because he’s ‘ours,’” said Mollie, crossing out the “my.” “Just—‘Dear Uncle Henry.’”

“He mightn’t like ‘Henry,’” suggested Eva.

“No, he might rather be called Harry,” said Eileen. “Let’s leave his name out.”

“All right. Just ‘Dear Uncle’——”

“He mightn’t know it’s for him if you just put that,” cried Doris, and then they all laughed.

“All right, just ‘Dear Uncle,—You will no doubt be astonished to hear from us’——”

“No, from the five undersigned,” put in Eileen. “It’s more business-like.”

“All right—‘from the five undersigned. No doubt you do not know that you have five little nieces away up in the bush in New South Wales——’”

“Australia,” put in Eva.

“We don’t want Australia,” cried Eileen in disgust. “Yes, ‘New South Wales.’ Go on, Mollie.”

“Let me see—‘and we would very much like to meet you. We have no idea where you are now, but hope this letter will reach you.’”

“Yes, that’s right!”

“‘We live up here in the bush, and have a very quiet time’—quiet time,” she repeated, tapping her pencil.

“‘And we’re poor,’” put in Doris, “‘and would like some money.’”

“No, we can’t put it that way.”

“Well, hurry up, then, and ask for the money.”

“We’re not asking for money,” said Mollie, severely. “We’re going to ask him to come and see us, and then——”

“And then we’re hoping he’ll give us some,” cried Eva.

“No!” cried Eileen, excitedly. “We’ll trust to his generosity——”

“Oh, yes! put in ‘generosity’—it sounds so well,” said Eva.

“‘For some years Father has had very hard times,’” went on Mollie, “‘and we’re all struggling’——”

“‘But things get no better,’” blurted out Eileen, “‘worse—if anything.’”

“‘All struggling,’” went on Mollie, “‘but things are still very black.’”

“‘And there don’t seem a chance of a silver lining,’” chimed in Eva.

“Silver lining, be hanged!” said Eileen. “He’s the only hope we’ve got of a silver lining.”

“‘And as we’ve heard, Uncle, that you are very, very wealthy’——perhaps I ought to say ‘we’ve heard by accident,’” said Mollie, perplexedly; “you see, he might think Father and Mother are always talking about him if I don’t.”

“Yes, ‘by accident,’” agreed Eileen.

“‘By accident, that you are very wealthy; we’ve been hoping to meet you and tell you all our troubles.’”

“Don’t forget about the foal and the fire and——”

“Oh, shut up, Doris!” snapped Eileen.

“‘And perhaps you can set matters right for us. We don’t want to beg, Uncle. We only ask you if you could give us a loan.’ We’ll have to mention money, girls,” said Mollie; “we can’t wait till he comes——‘perhaps you could give us a loan by helping Father and Mother (who work so hard), and when we grow up we’ll pay back every penny of it. We’re all strong and healthy and willing to work.’”

“‘And we’re as clever as most people,’” put in Eileen.

“Yes, ‘and we can assure you that we would be quite clever if we got a chance, and would be all willing to take up something to make money to pay you back, if you would only let us have a loan soon.’”

“Oh, Mollie, you are clever,” said Eva, “to write all that!”

“Yes, I’m pretty good at letters,” answered Mollie. “‘If possible, we would like you to come and see us.’”

“Tell him he can have the verandah room,” said Doris.

“‘And then you could decide for yourself if you would care to help us.’”

“Don’t forget to tell him not to tell Father and Mother that we wrote,” warned Eva.

“Oh, no!” they all cried.

“‘And now, Uncle, we have a big favour to ask of you. Don’t, please, let Mother and Father know we wrote to you, on any account, because they would be fearfully annoyed. It’s because they’re working so hard and try to do their best, and are so cheerful about all the bad times, that we’re writing to you.’”

“I think we ought to write another one all over again, and tell him right at the beginning it’s a secret,” said Eileen.

“Oh! do you think so?” asked Mollie, wearily. “I wonder ought we? I’m just about sick of it. It’s about the hardest thing I ever tried.”

“Oh, it’s sickening!” declared Doris.

“Ugh!” grunted Baby.

“I’ve scribbled about a hundred already, and we’re just as far off as when we started,” said Mollie. “I wish he’d ride up this very instant and save us all this trouble.” And she looked away and sighed. “Oh, well! I suppose we’ll only have to do it. We’ll have to stick at it till we do get something to suit.”

“Yes, we’ll have to have it ready for to-morrow’s mail,” said Eileen.

“Oh, yes, it has to be done! Let’s have another go.”

They had a great many “goes” before they managed one to satisfy them, but at last they all gathered round while Mollie read the last one out aloud, and they declared that would have to do.

Dear Uncle,—

No doubt you will be surprised to hear from us. We are your five little Bush Nieces. We live away up in the North-West of New South Wales, on a selection, in a wooden house on the bank of the Gillongi Creek, and our father is your brother Robert.

“Won’t that s’prise him?” chuckled Doris, clasping her fat hands.

Eileen gave her a withering look, to command silence.

Of course we are all strangers to you, but we would like very much to know you. We don’t know where you are now, but hope this letter will reach you, and we would like you to come and see us as soon as possible.

The five of us now have a very big secret to tell you, and we hope for our sakes you will keep it. Father and Mother don’t know we are writing to you, and we never want them to know, because they would be very, very much annoyed and angry, and might think that you will think that we are beggars. But we would not think of begging; only as we are very poor, and Mother and Father are always struggling and working hard, we are hoping that you might lend us some money, and we’ll pay back every penny of it when we grow up. We are all willing to work to make money, and if we get the chance we are sure we would be quite clever. But we would like to see you and talk to you, and as we heard by accident that you are very rich and travel a great deal, we hope that you will come up here very soon. Our house is only a wooden place, but it is very clean, and we’ll all do our very best to make you happy; but we do hope that you will keep our secret.

We have a very lonely life up here. I suppose you don’t know what loneliness is, as you are so rich and travel so much; but if you woke up day after day and saw only the hot sunshine and a few pet lambs and people working hard, and no one new and fresh to talk to, and the night comes on, and there’s another day gone, and nothing done.

If you think you would care to meet us when you read this letter, we would like you to write to us to the undermentioned address, and we’ll ask the mailman to give it into our hands, as we would not like to hurt Mother’s and Father’s feelings by letting them know we wrote; and we are sure you are clever enough to fix up a way of coming here without letting them know we asked you. If we can only talk to you, we are sure we can make you understand.

If you think you wouldn’t like to meet us, please burn this letter, and oblige,

Yours very faithfully,

PS.—We give you a description of ourselves, as it might interest you.

P.S.—PLEASE KEEP OUR SECRET. M.H. E.H. E.H. D.H. B.H. (X)

P.S.—The above address will always find us. M., E., E., D., and B. Hudson.

“That ought to be plain enough,” said Mollie, anxiously. “He ought to understand just what we mean.”

“Understand? Of course he’ll understand! He ought to go and bury himself if he doesn’t,” declared Eileen, vehemently. “Why, a man with one eye and a wooden leg would understand that. I’m glad it’s over,” she went on; “it’s the hardest bit of work I ever tackled!”

And now the trouble was to square Ted, the mailman. He jogged up about four o’clock the next day, with his packhorse and mailbags, and the girls hovered round while he had a cup of tea and told all the news. Strange to say, Ted seemed to stay longer than ever that day, and Mother would persist in talking to him and asking him questions, and Mollie and Eileen were nearly distracted. There was no chance of giving him the letter while Mother was there, so they tried to get Ted away out to his horses.

“My word, your horses look well, Ted! You must feed them very well,” said Eileen.

“Yes, a mailman wants good horses,” he answered, well pleased. “That’s one thing about me, I always look after my nags. Why, I’d rather go short myself than see ’em hungry!”

“Fancy!” said Mollie.

“Yes, as long as Ted’s on the line, you’ll never see poor mail horses. I couldn’t be like some of them other chaps you see knocking round, with horses like bags of bones; I always say the gee-gees first.”

“Fancy!” said Mollie again, not taking a bit of interest in Ted’s rambling.

“Do you remember old Dave, Mrs., that used to run this mail last year? Why, he was always eight or ten hours late. Recollect?”

“Yes, indeed, I do,” said Mother, coming out to view Ted’s wonderful “nags,” much to the little girls’ disgust, for another day she would not bother.

“We’ll never get it away,” whispered Eileen.

“Let’s have a stroll,” said Mollie, as she saw Ted drawing out pipe and tobacco, preparatory to filling his pipe before he continued his journey. So the two of them strolled round the “bend,” to wait till Ted came along.

“Of all the bad luck,” grumbled Mollie. “Another day Mother wouldn’t see Ted at all, and we could have just given him the letter without any trouble.”

“It’s always the way,” sighed Eileen.

Then they heard the welcome thud of horses’ hoofs and the clink of harness and buckles as Ted appeared.

“Oh, Ted! here’s a letter we want you to post, please,” cried Mollie, “and here’s a penny for the stamp; and, Ted, don’t tell anyone at home about this, please—because—because it’s a secret, and if a reply comes, Ted——”

“Hello! what’s the game?” asked Ted, suspiciously.

“No ‘game’ at all,” said Eileen, indignantly. “It’s a business letter.”

“It’s not a boy you’re writing to on the sly, is it?” asked Ted, with a wink.

“No, we don’t write to boys,” snapped Eileen. “It’s a very important letter, Ted, and there’s nothing wrong about it. It’s—it’s for a good cause.”

“Oh! a charity affair?” said Ted. “Righto, give’s it here. I’ll post him for you all right.”

“Oh! and, Ted, a reply might come, addressed to the Misses Hudson——”

“Mrs. Hudson—your Mother?”

“No, to the Miss Hudsons—us—you know. I suppose it will be M-i-s-s-e-s, so we want you to keep it back, and give it into my hands,” said Mollie.

“Righto! give it into your hands,” repeated Ted, as he pocketed the letter. “And when do you expect the blooming reply?”

“Oh, we don’t know, Ted! It might be a week, or it might be a month——”

Ted whistled. “Whey! Righto, I’ll watch for it, and give it into your hands when it does come. You can stake your life on Teddo!”

“Oh, thanks so much, Ted! I’m sure we can trust you. And, Ted, if you don’t mind, we’d like you to take this sixpence and have a drink with it—from the five of us, because we’re all in this letter.”

“Chase the ducks!” exclaimed Ted in surprise. “Keep your sixpence, little Missie, and thank you, all the same; you’re little bricks!”

“But we’d like you to take it, Ted; we would, really.”

“We’d love you to take it, Ted,” put in Eileen.

“Run away and play,” cried Ted. “If Teddo can’t do a favour without taking drinking silver, he ought to be shot! So long; you can trust your life with Teddo.”

For the shock-headed “Teddo” was a good-natured lad, and many a one “on the line” had reason to be grateful to him.

“Thank you so much, Teddy,” they all cried. “Thanks so much.”

“That’s all right!” answered Ted, riding off. “So long.”

“So long, Teddy,” called out Eileen, and they watched him till he disappeared from view round the next “bend.”

“Queer little cusses!” muttered Teddy to himself. “I wonder what’s their little game. Nothing wrong, though, I’ll be bound.”

As soon as Teddy was lost to view the girls had misgivings.

“I wonder ought we have sent it,” said Mollie.

“Oh, well! it’s too late to cry about it now,” answered Eileen, who was also feeling a bit “scared.”

“I do hope it’s all right,” said Mollie, anxiously. “I wonder whatever he’ll think.”

“Goodness knows!” declared Eileen, solemnly, shaking her head. “I do hope he’s not a grumpy old man. What a terrible thing it would be, Mollie, if he sent it back to Mamma and Dadda!”

“Oh, dear! I never thought of that,” cried Mollie.

And then they were joined by the other children, who had overheard the last remarks, and who looked very woe-begone.

“I hope he don’t send us to gaol,” said Eva, and Doris burst into tears.

“I wish we never wrote the ole letter; I wish we never had an ole uncle.”

“Oh, he might never get it!” said Eileen, hopefully.

“Oh, I hope he does!” answered Mollie, quickly, who was beginning to get over her misgivings. “Now, no more crying; let’s laugh instead, and—remember—not one word about this! Let’s try and forget it for a week, whatever.”

“Yes, mum’s the word,” said Eileen, solemnly.

“Yes, mum’s the word,” declared Eva.

And then, led by Mollie, they all went back home, singing and laughing.

In a big private office, with oak fittings and crimson carpets, in the suite of offices of Langdon and Ross, Melbourne, a tall man, with iron-grey hair and keen, dark eyes, read the letter a fortnight later.

“Bless their hearts! Little Bush Nieces! Want a loan! Pay back every penny when they grow up! Keep our secret! Try and make me happy! Come and see us soon! By Jove! they’re original, right enough. Bless the children! Robert’s five little girls, and they’re lonely—and they think I don’t know what loneliness is, because I’ve got plenty of money and have travelled a lot. Ah! little girls, you have yet to learn that money and travel can’t always banish loneliness. Five little Bush girls!” he mused, laying down the letter, and leaning his head on his hands.

Then that very keen business man who had only just returned from the Continent, and was preparing to go off again very soon, did something very unusual for him. He sat for a whole hour, thinking! and then seized pen and paper and wrote for the rest of the morning, and his private secretary and clerk wondered what on earth had come to the head of the firm; and when the letter was finished, he sealed and stamped it, and marched down to the Post Office and posted it himself, and the big office with the oak fittings and crimson carpets saw no more of him that day, and his big sheaf of correspondence was left till the following morning.

“I don’t suppose he’ll ever get it.” For over a fortnight Eileen had been saying that. “If an answer doesn’t come to-morrow, I’ll say it’s gone astray. I didn’t think he’d get it from the moment we sent it.”

“Oh, nonsense, Eileen! We can’t expect an answer straight away,” answered Mollie.

“Straight away,” echoed Eileen. “I like your ‘straight away.’ It’s eighteen days since we posted the letter, and I’m just about sick of waiting. But I suppose there’s nothing else to do,” she added, disconsolately, as she kicked her heels against the verandah steps. “I’m sorry now that we wrote such a long letter. What we should have done was just to have written a very short note—just ‘Dear Uncle,—We are your five Bush Nieces, and we’re very poor, so please handy up some cash.—Yours respectfully,’ and then all our names. That’s what we ought to have done. But, anyhow, I suppose if he does come, the first thing he’ll want to do is to pack us off to school, to an old governess or to an old teacher of some sort. I suppose he’ll be like that big ‘Commercial’ that said we were raw.”

“That said we were what?” cried Mollie.

“Raw. I heard that big ‘Commercial,’ with the red shiny boots, who stayed here last week, say to that other traveller that we were raw material——”

“Raw material!” repeated Eva, in disgust. “What did he mean?”

“That we wanted schooling, I suppose,” said Eileen.

“Ugh!” said Eva, with her head in the air. “I’d rather be raw than be cooked looking like him. But where did he say it, and when and how?”

“Oh!” said Eileen, impatiently, “he said that we were nice children, but raw material, and it was a pity that we were running wild. That’s just what he said, and if you want to know what he meant you’d better write and ask him. I do hate saying word for word what people have said, and after today I’ll never do it again. I suppose Uncle will say the very same thing—that is, if he comes; and, of course, I don’t expect him. I don’t expect to ever hear another word about that old letter, and I expect to live here to the end of my days. I suppose I’ll just grow up and go into long dresses and put my hair up, and—and go on till I’m thirty and forty and fifty and sixty, and then die here, just working about a bit, and feeding lambs, and watching the shearing, and seeing the wool go away, and never go for a trip myself, and then die.”

She looked so dismal and drew such a forlorn picture of herself that Mollie burst into laughing, for Eileen had fits of the blues and grumbles in the one instant, and the next was flying round the house in high good temper, the gayest of the gay.

Every mail day now they watched for Teddy with wild eagerness and suppressed excitement, but Teddy came and Teddy went in the same old way, handing out letters that didn’t “count,” fishing out papers and telling scraps of news, and riding off again without gladdening their hearts.

But an eventful day arrived, when he lingered longer than usual over his cup of tea; when he strapped and buckled and unbuckled the pack-saddles, and fixed and arranged the mail-bags until the coast was clear, and then across a great stack of canvas bags he beckoned to Mollie.

“Here,” he said, as he whipped a letter out of his pocket; “here you are, and don’t say that Teddo failed you.”

“Oh, Teddy!” murmured Mollie, growing almost faint with excitement—“at last!”

“Yes, at last, right enough,” answered Teddy, “and I hope it brings you luck,” he said as he rode off.

Mollie stood with the precious letter in her hand, almost too dazed to speak. She must tell the others and get them all away together—away down in the bed of the creek, under the big gum tree, where all their picnics were held. They must all get away together, where no one could hear them, and she must not open the precious letter till the others were with her.

Mother was lying down reading the paper, and the men had gone out again, so she called softly to the others, who came out with curiosity stamped on their faces. Mollie beckoned and pointed to the road down the creek, and then with her fingers on her lips to denote silence she held up the magic letter.

“Sh! No noise, creep out quietly, and not a word!”

Once out of the house and garden, they scampered as fast as they could down the track to the creek, Eva making up the rear with Baby, who puffed and stumbled; but not a word did she utter after that warning glance of Mollie’s.

“Oh, Mollie, it’s come!” cried Eileen.

“Yes, it’s come,” she answered, “and I’m afraid to open it.”

She looked at the stamp, she looked at the address again, and turned the envelope over and over. “I wonder whatever is inside it. I do wonder what he says.”

“Let’s see the writing,” said Eva; so the letter was handed round to the circle.

“Go on, Mollie, tear it open,” said Eileen; and Mollie ripped the flap of the envelope.

“Oh, what beautiful thick paper!” she murmured.

Doris looked eagerly to see if any money fell out, but there was nothing—only thick sheets of paper.

“Are you all ready?” asked Mollie.

“Yes, we’re ready,” they answered, clustering round.

“Very well, then——”

She smoothed out the pages and cleared her throat.

“‘My dear little Bush Nieces’——”

“Oh, dear! does he say that?” asked Eva.

“Yes. ‘My dear little Bush Nieces.’”

“Oh, well! it’s all right, then?—go ahead, Mollie,” cried Eileen. “It sounds well to start with—go ahead and see what else he says.”

And then Mollie read right on—

My Dear Little Bush Nieces,—

Pleasant surprises are the best things in the world, for they wake a person up thoroughly and make him think of people and things that he hasn’t thought of for years, and add a new zest and interest to life; and your letter is one of the most pleasant surprises, if not the very best, I have ever received.

Chorus of “Oh’s!”

I shall be delighted to meet my little unknown bush nieces.

Another chorus of “Oh’s!”

But first of all I must assure you that I shall keep your secret for ever if you wish, or until such time as it pleases you to release me from secrecy.

“Oh! isn’t he nice?” gurgled Doris, while all the others clasped their hands in delight.

Far from wishing to burn your letter, as you suggest, I shall keep it as one of my treasures.

Chorus of “Oh’s!” again.

I have not long returned from the Continent——

The letter dropped from Mollie’s hand at this, but she picked it up hastily.

“Where’s the Continent?” asked Doris, eagerly.

“Oh, any old place!” said Eileen. “Go on, Mollie.”

and as soon as I overlook matters in connection with my firm, I shall be ready to pay a visit to “Gillong”——

The letter fell again while they all gazed at each other.

“Here! He’s coming here?”

“Goodness me, he’s coming!” gasped Eva. “I hope he don’t tell.”

“Don’t tell?” echoed Eileen, scornfully. “Didn’t he give his word?”

In the course of a week or so I shall write to your father, but don’t be afraid, my dears, that anything I say shall arouse suspicion. I am going to be as smart and as clever as my little Bush Nieces and concoct a letter that will make everything right. Thank you so much for your offer of happiness; you will find me a willing subject to take all you offer in that respect——

“Oh, dear!” cried Eileen; “and we haven’t any to offer him!”

“Yes, but we promised we would,” said Eva. “Whatever will we do?”

“I didn’t think he’d come,” moaned Eileen.

“He can play with Rose sometimes,” declared Doris, making a great concession.

“Play with Rose and ride the stick horses——” commenced Eileen, witheringly; but Mollie gave her a warning glance.

“Yes, Doris, we’ll all do our best.”

“Oh, dear! I wish we had a gramophone,” sighed Eva, “to play for him.”

“I suppose he won’t stay long,” said Mollie, hopefully, “and he can talk a lot of the time.”

“What a pity the creek wasn’t up, and he could go fishing,” said Eva.

“Yes, and sail boats,” continued Doris.

“Tail boats!” echoed Baby.

“Sail fiddlesticks!” snapped Eileen. “Go on, Mollie. What was the last?”

“Let me see—ah——”

in that respect. And so you are often lonely? Well, I don’t wonder, as you seem quite isolated; but I think you will find as you go through life that a great, great many people are lonely, even when everything seems prosperous and bright; so you must not despair on that score, and perhaps things will change for the better before very long, and brighter days may be in store. What a great, great deal we will have to talk about when we meet! And re the little loan——

“Did he send it?” asked Doris, jumping up.

“Sh! Go on, Mollie,” from Eva.

which you are so anxious to pay back when you grow up. Well, we shall arrange that, too, and for the present, adieu, my newly-found nieces. With love and good wishes to Mollie, Eileen, Eva, Doris and Baby, from Your affectionate Uncle, Henry Hudson.

“Oh! isn’t it lovely?” gasped Eva.

“Bosker!” agreed Eileen.

“Bueful, bueful,” gurgled Doris.

“It’s just splendid,” said Mollie, with shining eyes. “Three cheers for Uncle!”

They all joined hands and danced wildly round Baby, who had fallen asleep on a heap of bushes in the shade of the gum tree.

“And to think that he’s coming! In about another week’s time Dadda will get a letter from him to say he’s coming,” cried Eileen. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! I’m that excited that I feel silly. It’s the only excitement we’ve had since old Dave died. But it’s lots better. Oh, dear! oh, dear! it’s just grand! I won’t know whatever to do to put in the time till Dadda’s letter comes. And I do hope we’re not about when he gets it,” cried Eileen. “Oh, dear! whatever will he say? I do hope that he won’t guess that we’ve been writing. I do hope that Teddo never splits. Do you know what I’ll do when he comes? I’ll give Teddo a whole pound to spend as he likes, and I’ll ask him to take it. Oh, dear! I wish we had about a dozen rich uncles, and we’d never see a poor day again! Hooray!”

“Hooray! Hooray!” shouted Eva and Doris, till Baby woke up, looking silly and stupid, blinking in the sun.

“Clap hands, Baby,” shouted Doris, and Baby clapped away while she yawned and woke up properly.

“Do you know what you’re clapping for?” asked Doris. “Well, it’s because our rich uncle’s coming, and we’ll all be rich by-and-bye,” and then she hoorayed at the top of her voice again.

“I wish I could go to sleep and not wake up till the next letter comes. Oh, dear! it will be so hard just going about in the same old way, knowing what we know,” said Eileen. “We’ll have to be awfully careful. I know I’ll be dying to talk about it, and to sing and laugh and shout and hooray when Dadda and Mamma are about. I’ll be glad when the other letter comes, so as I can give way to my feelings.”

“So will I,” said Mollie. “It will be hard to pretend we know nothing.”

And hard it was, and they often had to get away by themselves to talk the matter over and wonder and surmise, and give three cheers for Uncle.

The letter had come at last. Ted was late, and they were all waiting for him as he rode up to “Gillong,” and when he fished a thick, square envelope out of his pocket, and handed it to Father, Mollie and Eileen thought their last hour had come.

“It’s it,” whispered Mollie, and she turned and fled, with Eileen close at her heels. They couldn’t face the ordeal yet. Later on they would be called to listen to the wonderful news, but even a brief respite was welcome.

“Oh, I hope they never guess!” said Mollie, anxiously.

“Guess? How can they?” asked Eileen, scornfully; but, all the same, she, too, was anxious.

“What on earth is this about?” said Father, as he tore the envelope open; and then he gasped. “Harry! From Harry! Good gracious! Vera, Vera,” he called to his wife. “Look at this—a letter from Harry!”

“From Harry?” cried Mother, in amazement. “Harry?”

“Yes, Harry! Wonders will never cease! It’s the last thing in the world I expected.”

“What on earth does he say, after all these years?”

Then they both read the letter.

“And he’s coming here? Coming here? Well, wonders will never cease!” cried Mother. “Coming here! Dear, dear! just when things are at their worst, with the drought on and not a decent thing to give him to eat.... But fancy writing after all these years!...”

“What does he say there, again?”

Mother read aloud:

It’s wonderful how memories of the old days come back to one, and I would very much like to see you and Vera again, so if you can put me up for a week or so I shall be delighted to come. I know you are suffering from a very severe drought up there, but I trust that that will not make any difference, as I have to go away again shortly, and wish to see you and the children before I commence my journey.

I have about a week to spare, so I hope you can put me up for that time. We will have much to talk over when we meet. I suppose I can go by coach from the nearest township, and please don’t go to any trouble on my account.

And there was very much more in the same strain that Mother read with exclamations of wonder and amazement.

“Well, it’s the last thing I’d have thought of!” declared Father.

“It’s next week he means to come,” cried Mother. “Why, we’ll have to wire him.”

“So we will,” said Father. “I suppose you can manage it all right?” he asked. “About fixing up things?”

“Oh, yes! we’ll manage it,” said Mother, cheerfully. “I must let the children know. Won’t they be surprised? I suppose they hardly know they have an uncle,” and she called aloud, while Father marched off to the stable, marvelling at the wonderful news, and already building castles in the air.

The five children were together at the usual gum tree meeting ground when they heard the call, and they looked at each other in dismay.

“Look surprised, Doris, do you hear, when Mother tells us. We must all look surprised, and, for goodness sake, ask questions—somebody and everybody. It doesn’t matter what they are, as long as we’re talking, and let’s all look astonished. Oh, dear! it’s dreadful!” wailed Mollie.

“Yes, we must all help,” declared Eileen, staunchly. “Everybody must ask questions and ask all sorts of things, so as it won’t look funny.”

“If only we didn’t know, and didn’t have to pretend!” wailed Eva.

“If we didn’t know, there’d be no surprise,” answered Eileen, “for there’d be no letter, no uncle, or anything.”

“Come on, we’d better run,” said Mollie; “there’s Mother calling again. Come on, let’s run, and we’ll be out of breath when we get up, and it won’t be so bad then if we don’t ask questions straight away.”

And then they took to their heels, and Baby was puffing like a pair of bellows when they reached the house.

Presently five breathless little girls stood in front of Mother, who was looking very pleased and important, as she smiled at the open letter in her hand.

“I have a very, very big surprise for you, my dears. We’ve just heard from your uncle in Melbourne, and—and you’ll hardly believe it—but he’s coming to see us next week!”

They never remembered quite how they got through it. They only knew that for a space there was dead silence, and then a Babel of voices as they all asked questions together, scarcely heeding Mother’s replies. They only knew that they had come through the ordeal all right, that they had all acted their parts well, and that Mother had never guessed; and as Mollie noted the look of pleasure on her Mother’s face, she was repaid for all her anxiety about the letter she had worried over so much.

Then they all commenced to work and clean up the house for Uncle. They scrubbed and scoured and polished and shone, till every door-knob looked like burnished gold and the window-panes gleamed like diamonds. They swept up all round the house and garden and away outside the gate, till there was not a speck or a straw or a leaf to be seen. Dear me! the house was like a new pin, and the little room on the end verandah was transformed. The washstand out of Mother’s room was put there, and snow-white curtains on the little iron bedstead, and the strip of carpet that Mother always kept away in case of emergency was spread on the floor. A snowy cloth was on the little wooden dressing-table, and a glass vase waiting for the day that Uncle would arrive, when it would be filled with pepper leaves and berries, as there were no flowers left.

They all helped; even Baby was found going round with bits of rag, polishing the already shining door-knobs, or busy, with a saucer of water and rag, “washing” the floors; and Eva and Doris even took the broom down to the bed of the creek and swept up around the favourite gum tree, and threw away twigs and sticks and bushes off the path, and did all in their power to make things spick and span for Uncle.

They all laughed and sang and shouted and talked a lot those days, now that they could speak openly of Uncle’s coming.

“I hope we never have a secret again as long as we live,” said Eva.

“So do I,” said Eileen. “I hope it’s my first and only one. Why, I feel years older since I’ve been keeping this one.”

“I’ll have no more,” declared Doris.

“Me, too,” said Baby, looking solemn.

“Oh, well! anyway, the worst is over,” said Mollie, cheerfully.

“I don’t know whether it is or not,” declared Eileen, dubiously. “I don’t know how we’re all going to face Uncle, knowing that he knows what he knows, and we’ll all have to look so innocent, and pretend things—oh, it will be awful!——”

“Oh, yes!” agreed Eva, “I believe my face will burn off with shame.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” declared Mollie, stoutly, although she, too, was quailing at the thought of the ordeal.

“Oh, but the pretence!” said Eva.

“Well, it’s for a good cause,” answered Mollie. “Why, look how bright Father and Mother have been since they got that letter. Oh, whatever we do, we must never let them know! We’ll just have to act again, and pretend for all we’re worth, when Uncle comes.”

“Oh, we’ll face it when the time comes—never fear!” said Eileen; “but the thought of it is worse than—worse than——”

“Castor oil,” said Doris.

“Yes, castor oil,” agreed Eileen, as she couldn’t think of anything worse at the moment.

The great day arrived at last, and they were nearly sick with excitement. Everything was in readiness. The pet lambs all had new red strings round their necks, the stick horses had been “fed” early, and were tied up with narrow strips of bright blue print; the porter-bottle “dog” had a new ribbon, and Rose was decked out in her best finery; so nothing remained to be done but to wait.

Father had borrowed the station buggy and driven to Bragan Junction to meet him, and they knew they would soon hear the “top-top-top” of the horses’ hoofs on the creek bridge.

“My, but ain’t he a swell!” said Old Joe, as a tall man, dressed in grey, alighted from the buggy at the gate.

Old Joe had been with the family for years, and so was privileged.

“My! but ain’t he?” gasped Eileen, unconsciously lapsing into Joe’s style.

Mother had hurried forward to greet him, and for an instant Mollie’s heart sank. How could they ever approach this tall, stylish man, who looked so smart and alert, and so well groomed from the crown of his hat to the sole of his boot; and to think that they had written to him and asked him to come! Dear me! he was the smartest and most business-like man she had ever seen, and he looked rather stern and severe, too, although his eyes lit up with a smile as he shook hands with Mother.

They wished for an instant that he was just the ordinary, every-day, common or garden variety kind of a man; but it couldn’t be helped—they’d have to face the inevitable.

And then he glanced towards them.

“And these are your little girls, Vera?”

“Yes; come along, children, and meet your Uncle.”

They all came forward bravely, and were introduced to their new uncle; and he was a real “sport,” and never let on that he had even heard of them before. He asked their names and ages, as though there were no such thing in the world as a letter. They soon gained courage, and returned his smiles.

“I suppose you are real little bush girls?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eye.

Mother answered, “Yes, real little bush girls,” and then they laughed outright, because they knew what he meant.

Oh! all the talk there was at “Gillong” that night! Long after the children had gone to bed the two brothers sat out on the verandah and talked of many things, while the kindly moonlight cast a glamour over the parched, dried earth, making the white road gleam like a silver band.

It wasn’t until the second day that they had a chance of a confidential talk with Uncle, and then they had a meeting at the usual meeting-ground—the old gum tree, and sat round, solemn and important looking.

“Well, children, we had better discuss this proposition of a loan.”

The children looked more important and solemn than ever.

“Oh, yes!” said Mollie, anxiously; “of course, we don’t know much about money, and all that, but we do know that we want it badly.”

“And about how many hundreds do you think you will require?” Uncle was enjoying the meeting immensely.

“Oh, dear! we don’t know—do we, Mollie?” asked Eileen, anxiously. “You see, we don’t know much about it.”

“You see,” put in Mollie, eagerly; “Mother and Father and Frank have to work so hard, and have so much worry, and we’re always having such bad luck, and we thought if we only had more money things would be ever so much easier——”

“Yes, money can oil the wheels,” agreed Uncle.

“Yes, oil the wheels,” repeated Eileen, “and there are plenty of rusty ones about here.”

“Yes, things are about at a standstill,” said Mollie, “and of course it would have to be to Father you would lend money, and I suppose he won’t want to take it, because he’ll think it will be such a long time before he can pay it all back; but we will pay you back—in time; but, of course, we can’t let Father know we mean to pay. We’ll work and work till we pay back every penny. In about two years’ time I’ll be able to go out as ladyhelp, and if Eileen could get some education she could go out as governess later on, and we’d both save up to pay you back. Oh, Uncle! you don’t know how we’d save and scrape, if we can only get money now——”

“And I have three pet lambs that I’ll sell when the drought breaks,” said Eileen, “and that will be a help towards it.”

“And Dadda gave me old Jennie’s foal, and I’ll sell it when it grows up,” said Eva, eagerly; “and then I’ll go out to work, too.”

“You are clever little girls,” said Uncle, gravely. “Don’t you think you would rather be something else than ladyhelps and governesses?”

“Oh, yes!” cried Mollie, “but we’ll do anything to make money if you will only help us now.”

“Yes, and later on I might be an actress,” said Eileen, calmly.

“Would you like that?” asked Uncle.

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind! It would be an easy way of making a living, and I’d have plenty of fun and chocolates, and pretty dresses.”

“Some day I’d like to be a rich lady,” said Doris, “and I’d give all little girls a real nice time.”

“Me be pitty lady,” said Baby.

And then they all laughed.

“Uncle, we want to thank you for writing to us, and thank you for coming. You’ve made everything brighter already, and Mother and Father are so much happier-looking since you came, and they don’t seem to be always thinking of the old drought and hard times and debts——”

Uncle let them go on, for just then he couldn’t speak. But by-and-by he turned to the little group of upturned faces, and addressed them very quietly.

“My dear little children, you have thanked me, and now I wish to thank you.”

“Thank us!” they exclaimed.

“Yes, for many things.... Later on you will understand, but I’m very glad you sent me that letter, because I may be able to do some good for your Father before it is too late. I think you may safely leave the matter with me. I managed that letter to your Father all right, didn’t I?”

“Oh, yes, Uncle—beautifully!”

“Well, leave this to me, and don’t bother your young heads about repaying me. I’ll see to that. Father and I will fix that up....”

“Oh, Uncle, you are good! But we will feel so mean if we don’t pay you something,” blurted out Mollie.

“No, don’t you worry about money and debts. Be happy, careless children as long as you can.”

It was very quiet up at the house the next afternoon. Mother and the children had gone down to see the overseer’s wife at Jenkin’s old place. The children liked the overseer’s wife; she always made nice little hot cakes when she saw them coming, and she always had some English papers with big pictures in them, and she had boxes of sea-shells that she let them play with every time they went. They always knew just what was going to happen. First she would come out and welcome them all—and she was nice and plump and had rosy cheeks and nice blue eyes—and then when she had a little talk she would introduce the papers to the children, and then the wonderful sea-shells, which they never got tired of admiring, and they would empty them out and run their fingers through them, and wonder when they would go to the wonderful far-off beaches and play with the glistening shells and stones. They almost forgave the overseer’s wife for not having any children for them to play with, while they played with the shells. And then she and Mother would talk such a lot, that they would try and make believe that it was just as good as having the Jenkins back.

Only Mollie was at home, and she hurried about her work and set the table for tea, darkened the dining-room to keep it cool, and then, with one last look round, she hurried out and tied her shady hat on.

“Now everything is ready, I’ll slip down and tell Uncle.”

Mollie had another secret, and it was harder to tell and try and fix up than the letter.

Then down the track to the river she sped.

“I do hope he’ll understand it all,” was the burden of her thoughts as she sped on, lest her courage should fail her. Down under the oak trees Uncle was reading a book, and he looked round with surprise at Mollie’s flushed face.

“Oh, Uncle! I want to talk to you. I’ve got a lot more to tell you, but I couldn’t say it when the others were about.”

Then she poured forth Frank’s story into Uncle’s listening ear.

“And, Uncle, he goes about his work when his heart’s not in it, and people up here will be saying that he’s slow and dull, when all the time he’s not in his right place. He’s a round peg in a square hole, or a square peg in a round hole, or some such thing, and he’s helping to fight the drought and do the work he hates, and never complains, because he says he’d be a cad if he did, and all the time he’s dying to be an electrical engineer. He’s saving his money, but he doesn’t get much wages, and I believe he’ll be too tired whenever the time does come for him to go away—but if he only has a chance, Uncle—a chance while he’s young and dying to get to work, he’d be clever; I’m sure he would.”

Mollie’s cheeks were flaming now, and her eyes were shining again.

“He’s never told anyone but me, Uncle—and I’ve thought about it ever since. When I see the big Brown and Smith boys going about here and thinking they’re smarter than Frank—because they never think of anything else, and only live for land and stock—I get that wild, Uncle, to think that Frank might never have the chance to show them how smart he could be—but you won’t tell him I’ve told you, because he would be so annoyed. I want you to pretend you’ve found out for yourself and give him a chance, Uncle—or tell him you will later on. Oh, if he only knew that there was a chance of his getting to his loved studies, and a chance to make a name for himself later on, this work wouldn’t be half so hard, because he’d have something to live for—and if you will help him, Uncle, tell him soon, please,” Mollie rattled on; “tell him to-night if you can, because there’s a big sheep draft to-morrow, and I know he hates them, and if you tell him it will help and cheer him through the heat and dust of the day.”

“Well, well, Mollie, you’ve given me something to think about. So Frank wants to be an electrical engineer, does he? Well—well——”

Then Uncle gazed away into space, and sat so long silent that Mollie became anxious.

“It’s awfully mean of us to trouble you so much, Uncle, because you have money—but—but you’ll never be sorry for helping Frank—and——”

“Well, well, Mollie, so that’s his dream, is it? I had dreams, too, when I was a youngster, and I had no one to help me. I’m rich now, but my dream has never been realised—but—the boy must have his chance; we must get the square peg out of the round hole—and we must do it soon!”

“Oh, Uncle!” was all Mollie could gasp, and then almost before she was aware of it she had thrown her arms round his neck and kissed him; then sped away through the trees towards home, with a great, singing gladness in her heart. And Uncle, left alone, threw his book down and gazed into space.

“God bless you, little Mollie,” he murmured. “You’re smoothing the way for others. Frank must have his chance; I knew he was out of his groove here—and I’ll tell him to-night to cheer him—through the heat and dust of the day.... Ah! Jean! Jean! if only you’d been true and cheered me through the heat and dust of the years!”

Late that night, when the moon was shedding its glory over the Gillong garden, and glinting on the shining pepper leaves, Mollie stole out to where she saw a figure pacing to and fro among the moonbeams and shadows.

“Oh, Mollie! Mollie! Mollie!” cried Frank; “you’d never guess what’s happened! My dream’s coming true—at last! Uncle Harry is going to send me away after Christmas to learn the engineering! What do you think, Mollie—he said he knew I was out of my groove here, and he’s sending me off next year! Oh, Mollie! Mollie! I can’t believe it’s true.”

The boy’s voice was jerky, as he told the wonderful news.

“To think it’s nearly all over, Mollie—all the tons and tons of work that I’ve hated! Oh, Mollie! I’m glad you came! I felt I couldn’t wait till morning to tell you.”

Loyal little Mollie commenced to tell him how glad she was, but she burst out crying and told him between her sobs how much they would miss him.

“You’re the only brother we’ve ever had, Frank, except little Jim, and we hardly remember him.”

For little Jim had come and gone like the glint of a star, and only a little white cross on his tiny grave under the wilga tree in the paddock told that a little life had been kindled for a space, and was then wafted to its long home. But deep in the mother’s heart was a wild abiding desire for her only son that not even the presence of five little girls could quite banish.

“It’ll be so lonely without you, Frank. I don’t know whatever we will do—we’ll all miss you always.”

Then Frank tried to comfort her.

“But I’ll come back sometimes, Mollie, and when I’m rich you must all come and live with me. Oh! and I’ll write to you often, Mollie, and you must try not to miss me too much, because I’m going to work hard and get on, and then——”

For to Frank everything seemed possible, once the great desire of his heart was about to be gratified, and Mollie did her best to try and think of the good times ahead.

All day long the air was thick and murky. All day long there were signs of a gathering storm. Great big banks of fierce, sullen clouds began to bank up in the afternoon, and far-off, ominous sounds of thunder were heard. At first it was a mere growl, and the edges of the great jagged clouds were illumined by lightning. By-and-bye the thunder grew louder, and cruel forked and chain lightning began to play in the heavens.

The children wandered round the verandah and looked at the sky, and wondered and wondered again would it rain.

“I believe it’ll be the end of the drought,” said Mother, hopefully. Eva had a rug ready to cover her head when the thunder grew louder, for she was terrified of storms; and Baby and Doris would squeal that they were frightened.

Mollie and Eileen, too, hung in the background, blinking at each flash and sincerely hoping that it would soon be over. Old Joe was in his element, and talked volubly to Mother and Uncle.

“I said all along it’d break this way, same as the ’82 druith. There’s the same bank of clouds down west, and another storm abrewin’ over ’ere. They’ll meet directly, and there’ll be the deuce of a smash. Shouldn’t wonder if the creek ain’t up to-night——”

“Oh, Joe! wouldn’t it be lovely?” chimed in the children.

“An’ it’s more’n likely she will be. I recollect the time the ’82 broke. Why, all the rivers and creeks and gullies and gilgies and swamps were runnin’ mountains high!”

A low moaning sound reached their ears, and they looked at each other in alarm.

“Oh, Joe! what’s that?” asked Eva, creeping up to him.

“It’s the wind. It’s comin’ this time, right enough. Got the windows closed? She’s comin’ strong,” said Joe, who dearly loved a storm, and had no fear of even the “dizziest” chain lightning, much to the little girls’ admiration.

“I wonder will it hurt us, Joe?” asked Eva.

“’Urt you? ’Ow could it ’urt you?” asked Joe, with fine scorn. “Just you watch the lightning play up in them clouds directly; it’ll be real pretty.”

But already Eva’s head was enveloped in her rug.

“Sakes alive! you’ll be smothered before it’s over!” cried Joe.

The moaning sound grew louder and louder, and the leaves began to tremble and the branches to sway, while great flights of bush birds winged their way hurriedly away to the east.

“Look at ’em!” cried Joe—“same as the ’82!”

At last, with a sudden gust of fury, the trees were tossed and bent before the weight of the gale.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear! I wish the others were in,” cried Mother anxiously, and then away across the paddock Father and Frank were seen coming at full speed. They pulled the saddles and bridles off their horses and turned them loose, and then rushed into the house as a blinding flash of lightning lit up the gathering darkness.

“Ah, here we are!” cried Frank’s ringing voice, for ever since the evening that Uncle had spoken he had been a different Frank, and his laugh rang clear and gay on every possible pretext. For such is the power of a gleam of hope.

How the storm raged and tore! Clap after clap and flash after flash! Away in the distance a tree was heard to crash to the ground, and then great drops of rain began to fall, banging on to the iron roof as though they would come through. Then it fell in blinding sheets, and fairly danced on the hard glazed ground.

“The same as the ’82,” said Joe again, as he lit his pipe; “all the creeks’ll be down in the mornin’, and we’ll have to move them sheep,” he went on complacently.

Sure enough, when morning came, the creeks and gullies were roaring with thick, muddy waters, and thousands of frogs were croaking lustily. And what a time the children had, wading through the muddy streams, and finding all the ruins of the trees that had fallen, and making “ridey-horses” out of the great branches that had once reared themselves so proudly in the air. For the rain had poured steadily all night, and the cruel drought was ended.

“Well, of all the things that could ever happen, this is far and away the best, and I’ll never grumble again,” said Eileen. “To think we’re all going to Sydney for a holiday. Oh, it’s nearly too good to be true! When did he tell you, Mamma?”

“Only last night, and I shouldn’t have told you so soon, for I know you’ll do nothing but talk about it for the next month; but I couldn’t resist telling you,” said Mother.

Uncle had left that morning. He had changed his plans, and had stayed longer at Gillong than he had intended, and before he left he had made Mrs. Hudson promise that she would bring the children down to Sydney for the remainder of the summer.

“I will take a cottage,” he said. “You all need a change of air, Vera, and will come back with renewed energy to cope with bush life.”

And at last Mother had consented.

Oh, the preparation and excitement at Gillong for the next few weeks! Mrs. Grey, the overseer’s wife, came down and insisted on helping. She brought with her a sheaf of fashion books and patterns, and cut out little frocks of the very latest design, and took them home and ran them up on her new machine. She also helped and gave hints about everything, for she had spent a good deal of time in Sydney. And, oh! the questions she was plied with by the eager children!

“Do you get sea-sick going to Mosman?” asked Eva. “Because that’s where Uncle’s going to take the cottage; and it’d be terrible if we were sea-sick every time we went to town.”

“I’m dying to see the crowds and crowds of people,” said Eileen. “But it’ll be hard not to talk to them. Up here people would think you funny if you didn’t speak to them, even if they are strangers.”

“I wish we could take the sticks,” sighed Doris.

“Pretty sights they’d be!” said Eileen. “You couldn’t ride them down there. You’ll be able to ride boats and trams instead.”

So the stick horses were laid away, rolled up in paper, till their little owners returned.

Already Eileen felt quite the “lady,” as she was fitted for her new frocks, and talked nothing but Sydney.

“Did you hear we’re going to spend the rest of the summer in Sydney, Teddy?” she remarked, carelessly, to the mailman, as he drank his tea.

“In Sydney?” gasped Ted. “Bli’ me, I never heard a word about it.”

“Yes, we’re going the week after next,” she replied, coolly, as though going to Sydney were the most usual thing in the world. “Mamma and all of us, and later Dadda and Frank are coming for a while.”

“Bli’ me!” gasped Ted again. “The bloomin’ family’s going! Well, this is news! I suppose that’s why I’ve been carrying so many parcels for you lately,” he said, a light suddenly dawning on him. “Where are you goin’ to stay down there?”

“Oh, Uncle’s taking a cottage!” put in Eva.

“Oh, that big swell cove that was staying here? Bli’ me, your luck’s in!”

“We’ll tell you all about it when we come back, Teddy,” said Doris. “And I’ll bring you home sea-shells and all sorts of pretty things.”

“Right you are, little ’un!” said Ted, as he finished his tea and commenced to fill his pipe. “I’ll tell you what you can get me, if you don’t mind—some real good sorts of straps; you know the sort,” he said, turning to Eileen, “same as them I strap the bags on with. Last time I sent to one of them Sydney firms they sent bad buckles. Here, I’ll give you the money now,” and he pulled out a pound note.

“Oh, Teddy! it’ll do when we come back,” said Eileen, not taking the proffered note. “They won’t be near that much.”

“No, take the note now and give us the change when you come back. ‘Pay as you go’—that’s Teddo’s motto.”

And every mail day Teddo’s list of requirements grew bigger, until it seemed as though the pound note would not meet them; and Eileen would jot them in her little notebook.

“You see, you know me, and know just what I want,” he would say, apologetically.

“I’ll tell you what I would like,” he said one day after he had fixed and patted and arranged the mailbags ever so many times—“a tie like that your Uncle used to wear; sort o’ black with little silvery streaks in it.”

“Oh, but, Teddy, that was real dear!” said Eileen, quickly.

“Oh, I don’t mind price!” he answered; “when Teddo sets his heart on anything, he don’t mind paying up.”

“Righto!” said Eileen, making a note.

So the time flew away, and one day, to their surprise, Enid Davis dashed up in the big new car from the station.

“Why, we thought you had gone for the summer,” said the children, in amazement.

“No, we’re home for a month or so,” she answered, “and I felt a bit lonely, so I popped down here.”

“Oh, well! I’m afraid we won’t be company much longer,” said Eileen, as she straightened herself in her chair and put on the “real lady style,” as Mollie said afterwards.

“Why—how is that? I love coming here,” answered Enid.

“Oh, we’ve decided to spend the rest of the summer in Sydney!”

“Oh!” Enid looked astonished, but was too polite to say so. “That will be nice,” she went on.

“Yes, it’s just as well to enjoy yourself while you’re young,” said Eileen, calmly. She always felt a bit jealous of Enid’s fine clothes and pleasant times. “Our Uncle is going to the Continent later on, and he is anxious for us to spend a little time with him in Sydney.”

“Oh, yes! Dadda met your Uncle at the railway, and said he was such a nice man.”

“Yes, we think a lot of him,” answered Eileen. “So your Dadda met him?” she asked, eagerly, for she was glad to know that Enid’s father had seen their nice Uncle.

“Yes, they had dinner together just before the down train left, and Dadda said he was sorry he was not at home while your Uncle was here, because they could have had some nice chats.”

“Oh, Uncle was kept pretty busy chatting with us,” answered Eileen.

But Mollie hastily added that it would have been real nice for the two men to have met often.

“We’re going back to Sydney in about six weeks’ time,” said Enid. “Perhaps we’ll meet down there.”

“Yes, if we’re not too busy sight-seeing,” put in Eileen.

“Oh, we’d love to see you!” said Mollie.

“Yes, we’d love it,” chimed in Doris, as she stroked Enid’s pretty silky dress. “And I’ll give you some pretty sea-shells if you haven’t got any.”

“Oh, thank you, Doris! I’d love to have some if you can spare them.”

They talked on for an hour or so, and Enid rose to go.

“So it’s next week you’re going?”

“Yes, Monday, and this is Friday; so we haven’t much time,” said Mollie.

“I’m glad she knows we’re going,” said Eileen, as the car hooted away.

“Oh, Eileen; you’re not a bit nice to Enid!” said Mollie.

“I always think she’s showing off,” put in Eileen.

“Well, she’s not, then. It’s you that’s jealous,” replied Mollie.

“Jealous? I don’t think!” snapped Eileen.

The next day Mr. Davis called and asked to be allowed to send his car to take them to the railway on Monday, as Enid had told him of their anticipated trip, and, to the children’s delight, the car was accepted.

“Won’t it be beautiful,” screamed Eileen, “to be bowling along in that grand new car, and won’t the people at the railway look? I’m sorry I said that about Enid now, because I’m sure she asked her Dadda to lend it.”

And so on Monday a car-load of merry, excited young people, and Mother looking pleased and excited, too, were bowled away to the big iron horse that was to land them in the wonderful city.

“I never thought it could be so nice,” said Eileen.

“I never thought there were so many people in the world,” said Eva. “Why, we must have seen millions and millions and millions to-day!”

“The sea was just lovely this morning. I could watch it all day long. We’re going out again the first moonlight night,” said Mollie.

“I gave de ole organ man two pennies while you was away,” said Doris, “and he played all the choones I liked best.”

“And I gave a penny to the old blind man near the Savings Bank,” said Eva.

“And I bought a dear, darling little duck of a lace collar for sixpence,” said Eileen, displaying it.

“Oh, I wish I’d saved my pennies for one,” said Doris, regretfully.

“Never mind, you enjoyed the music,” said Eileen, consolingly.

“Yes, but it’s all over now, and you’ve got the collar and I haven’t got anything.”

Every evening they met and talked over the events of the day. They had been in Sydney a month, and were enraptured with all they saw. They had quite run out of a stock of adjectives. Everything was lovely, or beautiful, or great or grand! They had gone to the beaches and gathered great bags of shells. They had dipped in the surf and shouted with glee as the big white-topped waves dashed over them. They had gone to the garden and gallery, and Zoo and picture shows over and over again, and could go through the whole programme cheerfully again, till Mother remonstrated with Uncle.

“You are spoiling them. Let them stay in and play in the garden,” she said.

But Uncle only smiled. He knew the months of loneliness those little girls had put in in the country, and was determined to give them a feast of enjoyment.

“I think Mosman must be the dearest place in all the world,” Mollie would say, as she gazed at the pretty homes nestling in their well-kept gardens.

Their cottage was only about five minutes’ walk from the ferry, and when nothing better was on they would race down the hill and watch the boats come in and go out, and talk and wonder about all the people. They became quite familiar little figures on the Mosman wharf—the five of them together—as they sat and criticised and compared notes.

They grew quite familiar with the postboy, and told him all about Teddy, and made him wish he was a country mailman.

“It’s a wonder you don’t ride round with your letters,” said Eileen.

“Ride round? I’d like to see a horse climbing these steps and hills. It’d have to be a different horse to any I’ve ever seen,” answered the post-boy.

“Oh, yes, of course!” said Eileen. “I’d forgotten that. You see, up where we live there’s no hills or steps. It’s all as flat as—as the verandah here.”

“I wish you’d bring some of your land to Mosman,” grinned the post-boy.

They became quite friendly with the tradesmen, too—the baker and butcher and milkman.

“It’s so funny to have you all coming here,” confided Eileen, “because up the country we bake our own bread and kill our own sheep, and old Joe milks the cows.”

They grew to know the people in the post office, too, as they would call in occasionally to see if a country letter happened to be delayed or missed in the sorting. At first the officials glared at them, but by-and-by they came to know the merry faces of the bush children, and only smiled at their questions.

They had only been a week in Mosman when they chummed up with the little boy next door.

“I wonder who our neighbors are,” Mollie had said the day after they had arrived and finished unpacking. “I’d love to talk to them.”

“Would you?” asked Mamma. “Well, we’ll have to wait a while. Sydney people are different to country; they know so many people that they mightn’t have time for more friends.”

“There’s a real nice-looking girl in there I’d love to know,” said Eileen, “and if she doesn’t soon speak I’ll speak to her.”

“And we want to know the little boy,” said Doris.

A few days later Doris and Baby spoke to the little, well-dressed boy, as he was coming down the steps on his way to school.

“Dood-day,” said Doris.

“Day,” said Baby.

“Good-morning,” said the little boy, politely.

“We’se your new neighbors,” said Doris.

“Yes,” said the little boy.

“And we’se been waiting for you to speak to us. Don’t you speak to new neighbors?”

“Oh, I don’t know!” said the little boy. “I want to speak to you, anyhow.”

“Did you always live in Sydney?”

“Yes, all my life.”

“Wasn’t you ever away up in the country, ’undreds and ’undreds of miles?”

“No, never!”

“Well, that’s where we live.”

“Do you?” gasped the little boy. “Oh, do tell us all about it,” he went on, eagerly, and he listened and asked questions till he found he was late for school, and jumped up and seized his books.

“Oh, dear, I’m late! Whatever’ll teacher say?”

“Oh, leave ole school!” said Doris, quickly, “and come and play with us.”

“I can’t. But I’ll come in after school, if Mamma will let me.”

“Oh, yes, do! Good-bye—good-bye.”

Then a friendship sprang up, and little Willie spent most of his time with his new friends. He could listen for hours and hours about the horses and sheep and rabbits, and he asked such funny questions that the children would scream with laughter.

“Oh, Willie! you ought to come up with us, and see it all,” they said one day. “It’ll be all pretty and green now, and you could learn to ride.”

“Learn to ride!”

Willie closed his eyes for sheer joy at the thought. Would ever such good luck come his way?

“Oh! I wonder could I?” he gasped.

“’Course you could!” said Doris. “I can ride ole Brownie when she walks slow.”

“Sometimes Mamma lets me ride on the baker’s cart up to the Spit Junction, but it’s only very seldom,” he added with a sigh, “and I have to walk back.”

“Our horses are better’n the baker’s,” said Doris.

“Oh, lots!” said Eva; “an’ you’d soon learn to ride on ole Brownie.”

“Oh, dear! do ask Mamma to let me go. Let’s beg and beg and beg, all of us,” pleaded Willie.

“All right, we’ll all ask,” they promised.

After that he haunted them like a shadow.

“Ask yet?” he would say a dozen times a day.

At first his Mamma wouldn’t even listen to it. What! let her little boy—her little Willie—go up to that outlandish place hundreds and hundreds of miles away: oh, she couldn’t hear of it! And Willie was heart-broken.

“Why, there’s no doctor within miles of your place, is there?” she asked Eileen.

“No, we don’t want doctors; nobody ever dies up there.”

“Nobody ever dies?” echoed Marcia, Willie’s sister.

“No. We’ve seen more funerals since we came to Sydney than we ever saw in our lives. And I believe Mamma only saw about three funerals up there, and she’s been there for years and years!” said Eileen, proudly.

“Dear me! However does that happen?” asked Marcia.

“Well, you see there’s hardly anyone up there, so I suppose that accounts for some of it,” went on Eileen.

“Oh, well! no thanks to them for not dying if there’s no one there,” said Marcia, disdainfully. “I thought there might have been hundreds of people living to be about a thousand.”

“Oh! but those that are there don’t die—well, hardly ever, except old Dave and a few more I know of,” went on Eileen. “And if a lot of old people I know keep on living for a long time yet, they’ll very likely be about a hundred when they do die.”

But this argument did not move Mrs. Taylor in favor of Willie’s going. One day Willie came in with a very determined face.

“I know what! If Mamma doesn’t let me go, I’ll run away!”

“What! Run away to sea?” asked Eva, eagerly.

“No, run away to the country, up to your place, silly!”

“It’s too far to run,” said the practical Doris.

“’Course, I don’t mean to run all the way. Whoever heard of such a thing?”

“Well, dat’s what you said,” persisted Doris.

“Ugh! just like a girl. If you were a lot of boys now, you’d run away with me—just to show ’em that you’re not afraid of anything. I mean to clear out and walk up to your place, and when I’m gone Mamma might be sorry she didn’t let me go with you in the train,” said Willie, almost on the verge of tears; “and I might starve and die on the track,” he went on, with tears of self-pity welling into his eyes.

“So you might,” agreed Eva, mournfully.

“You just might,” said Doris, ready to cry; “and we’d never see you again, and you’d never see us,” she went on, bursting into tears; “and the dingoes might come and eat you up.”

At that Baby cried, too.

Then Willie grew grave. “I’ll tell you what!” he said, suddenly struck with a bright idea. “Go and ask Mamma while you’re both crying. Quick—don’t leave off! You cry real hard, Baby!”

And up the “next door” steps the two young rascals went, and cried copiously when Willie’s mother opened the door.

“Why, my dears, what is wrong?” she asked, in dismay, as she drew them inside.

“We—we—wa-nt—Willie,” sobbed Doris.

“Want Willie!” echoed Baby, and cried out loudly.

“But he’s not at home, my dears. Isn’t he in at your place?”

“Ye-es, but we wa-wa-nt him up the country with us, an’ if you do-do-don’t let him come, he’ll—he’ll run away to sea,” went on Doris, getting mixed up in her story; “an’—an’—die on the track—an’—an’ the dingoes’ll eat him all up.”

Then Baby roared real genuine tears of distress.

“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Taylor, “he’d never do that, would he?”

For she saw through their conspiracy and guessed that Willie was waiting next door, all impatience to hear how his two little champions got on.

“Ye-es, he’s goin’ to run away soon,” went on Doris.

“An’ he’ll die!” shrieked Baby.

Then Willie’s mother talked quietly to them. “Well, well, we’ll see about it. Perhaps I’ll let him go with you, after all.”

And then, because Willie’s Mamma had a sense of humor and guessed that her small son was waiting to hear the news, she kept the little girls for quite a time, and gave them lollies and dates, and they quite forgot about Willie waiting to hear the answer.

Willie met them with a very angry face when they trudged up their own steps ever so long after.

“It’s a wonder you ever came back,” he said, sarcastically. “Did you forget I was waiting? What did she say? Quick!”

“She said, she said——”

“Go on! what did she say?”

“She said p’raps, an’ she’d see. An’ I think she means to let you come.”

“Is that all she said, all the time you were in there? ‘P’raps, and she’d see!’ A lot of sense there is in that! Didn’t she say anything else, Baby?”

“She gave us lollies.”

“Oh, hang the lollies!” cried Willie, in despair. “Did you cry when you got in there, or did you chew lollies?”

“But she means to let you come, I do believe, Willie,” said Doris, earnestly.

“Oh, yes, Willie! If she said perhaps and she’d see, I think she means to let you go. Another time she wouldn’t listen to us,” put in Eva.

“Yes, I believe she means to let me go, too,” said Willie, hopefully. “Oh, if I could only go, I’d stay there months and months!”

“You might get lonely,” said Mollie, who had just come in.

“No, I wouldn’t get lonely. I’d never get lonely if I stayed there all my life,” said Willie. “And I might stay there all my life, too. I might grow up a big man up there, and I might never come back.”

“Might never come back?” asked Eva.

“No, I might stay there and help your father with the horses and sheep, and after a while I might buy your place.”

“No, you won’t!” said Doris, stoutly.

“All right, then—but I might, all the same,” he went on under his breath.

“I’ll tell you what!” cried Eileen. “Let’s get Mamma to go in and ask your Mother while she’s thinking about letting you come.”

“Oh, yes! let’s ask your Mother to go in right away,” cried Willie.

So Mother was persuaded to go and ask, and in the end she won the day.

A great friendship had struck up between Eileen and Marcia. Eileen admired Marcia’s dainty dresses and ribbons and hats, and took to copying her. And then they commenced to go out together to little tennis parties, for Marcia had many school friends who had musical evenings and little entertainments, and she always asked Eileen to go with her, and Eileen enjoyed them all immensely. It was nice to sit in the beautiful drawing-rooms and lounges and have ices and salads and coffee handed to you, and to be asked all kinds of questions about country life, and to be considered someone wonderful because you could ride so well, when up the country they took it as a matter of course. And Eileen, like many another girl, began to wish that this kind of life would last for ever. Marcia was kept very busy at school, and had many studies. She was very keen on physical culture, and perhaps some day would become an instructor. She would come in and give demonstrations in Hudsons’ drawing-room or kitchen, and have them all twisting and turning furiously, trying to manage exercises that she could go through so gracefully.

Then one day an idea came to Mrs. Taylor. Why not ask Eileen to stay with them, while Willie went to the country? So the question was put, and it was agreed that Eileen would remain for a few months with Marcia.

They were all back again at Gillong. All except Eileen and Frank, for Frank had gone to Sydney early in March, to commence his studies; and they were all glad of Willie’s company, for he filled up to some extent the blanks left by Eileen and Frank.

After their splendid holiday they were all glad to be back again, for the ground was covered with a carpet of greenery, and there was plenty of water in the creeks and gullies, and the children raced up and down the banks and shouted for sheer gladness and lightness of heart. Mollie would mount her horse and canter away across the paddocks, singing as she went, for hadn’t everything gone well lately? Frank had his darling wish gratified, and Mother and Father looked so well and happy because their burdens were lightened. Uncle sent them cards from every port; and she would recall Uncle’s last words as he stood on the deck of the big ship that bore him to England (for they had all gone to see him off):

“Good-bye, Mollie, dear; and the next time I go I hope you will be with me. It is you I thank for this reunion; and, remember, Mollie, it is through you that Frank has got his chance while he is still young and keen—God bless you, little girl!”

After that she felt she could never be very unhappy again, and she would think of a time that might come when she would stand on the deck of a big out-going ship and plunge away through the rollicking, dancing waves, out past the Heads, where the snow-capped breakers foamed and tossed and tumbled, and away o’er the trackless ocean, till wonderful new lands were reached!

Willie declared that the country was the best place in all the world, and he would never, never, never go back to “old” Sydney again!

“Pshaw! I hate all the rows and rows and rows of houses, and no big paddocks and no mobs of sheep or horses, and I hate all the old cart-horses now, the old baker’s and butcher’s and milkman’s, and I hate all the cab-horses, and all the horses in Hordern’s and Lassetter’s vans, and I hate the trams, and I hate everything in Sydney! I wish Mamma would come up here and live!”

“What a pity we couldn’t get a nice little house built in the little paddock for your Mother,” said Eva.

“Oh, yes! wouldn’t it be grand?” cried Willie. “Or a tent would do.”

“A tent?” cried Eva, in disgust. “Oh, no!”

“Yes, we lived in a tent for weeks once at Narrabeen.”

“Oh, but that’s different! That was picnic-like.”

“Well, we can make it picnic-like up here,” declared Willie, “and Dadda could come up when he gets his holidays.”

“Oh, no, Willie! they could never live in a tent up here,” said Eva, decidedly. “It’s real different to Narrabeen.”

“I don’t see any difference,” declared Willie, “except there’s no surf. That’s the only difference. Besides,” he added brightly, “we could be nearly always at your place. We needn’t spend much time at all in the tent.”

Just now Willie was more in love than ever with the country, for they were to have a short shearing at Gillong while the days were still warm. It would be only for a week or so, but Willie had visions of snow-white sheep being driven away from the woolshed, of great thick fleeces being tossed on the wool-table, and all the noise and excitement and bustle of shearing time. And perhaps he could drive the sheep up from the paddocks to the yards sometimes, and he was looking forward to a real good time.

Willie was perfectly happy. He was actually driving sheep from the creek paddock to the woolshed, all by himself. Mounted on old Brownie, he rode slowly backwards and forwards behind the sheep.

“You’re sure you know your way, Willie?” Mr. Hudson had asked.

“Know my way?” repeated Willie, with fine scorn. “’Course I do. You’ve only got to ride across the bridge and turn down the creek, and round the bend, and round ’em all up and drive ’em back to the slip-rails, and let ’em through, and you’re there,” he went on, jauntily.

“That’s right!” answered Mr. Hudson. “Of course, you can’t get lost. You can’t get out of the paddock, anyhow, only by the slip-rails. But mind you don’t get ‘bothered’ like some new chums do, and ride away from the place you want to go to.”

But Willie wasn’t afraid. He had set off whistling blithely. He’d let them shearing fellows see how he could drive a mob of sheep to the yards, even if he were only a city boy! The sheep were scattered about in all directions, so he rounded them up quietly and “headed” them towards the creek. He had gone much further down the swamps and gullies than he ever had before, but he didn’t notice that as he whistled and shouted to bring the sheep scampering up from the bends. After driving them along slowly for some distance he “hit” the creek, and suddenly discovered that the bends and turns seemed unfamiliar; but he kept on steadily, trying to keep down a rising fear.

“We’ll soon come to that old leany tree,” he said aloud, although he began to have a horrible fear that he was getting lost. The next bend was still unfamiliar, and then a panic seized him. Where was he? Off the track? And with no chance of finding it again. He wondered if he were going the right way, and a wild desire seized him to race up to the front of the mob and wheel them back. He just didn’t know where he was. He had twisted and turned so many times while mustering. It was all very well for the Hudsons to say there was no chance of getting lost in the creek paddock. There was. Why, he was lost now. He didn’t know whether to let the sheep go on or turn them back; he didn’t know exactly where he had brought them from, and where he had “hit” the creek. Then, like most other new chums, he completely lost his head. Here he was, out in the big paddock, with not the slightest idea where to turn; and the worst of it was, they wouldn’t give him a thought till all hours, as he was supposed to drive the sheep slowly, and perhaps he’d be miles and miles and miles away by then—perhaps he’d be dead! What a fool he was to come alone!

He pulled up and stared at his surroundings. Nothing but blue-grey gum trees everywhere, with a monotonous sameness about them. Nothing whatever to guide him. Just the same all round, and the sheep were beginning to camp now that it was growing warm. He was sorry he ever saw them. He never saw such silly old things as sheep! He was sorry he ever came out into the silly old paddock. Where was he? Why, every place looked strange and new! Yes, he was lost—lost—lost! and he put his head down on the pummel of the saddle and burst into tears. Why did he ever leave Sydney? He wished now that he was alongside the G.P.O. clock; he wished he could see a big, friendly, blue-clad policeman, to point out the way. He wished they had policemen up here in these silly old paddocks, to show a man the proper track, and he wished—oh, he wished he’d never come alone! If he lived to be a hundred thousand years, he’d never come out like this again! Here he was, under the blue sky, surrounded by blue gums and acres and acres of grass, and he might stay here all night, and perhaps they’d find him dead in the morning! Of course, they’d be sure to find him dead! He wondered what his mother would say when she heard of her poor little Willie, and then he commenced to sob. He wondered whatever Dadda would say. He wondered would he give up his office work for a time, and would he wear a black band round his arm; and what would all the other men say when they saw Dadda going in so pale and quiet every morning. He could just imagine them all getting together and speaking of poor little Willie, who got lost in the bush, and how he was found—dead! And then suddenly a wild fear seized him. Supposing the story should come true—supposing he were out all night, and the dingoes did come! Oh, horror! He wished he had never seen the horrid old country. If ever he got back to dear old Sydney again, he would never, never leave it. No! not for a million thousand Hudsons, or a million thousand horses and sheep and dogs, or a million thousand paddocks! Sydney was the best old place in all the world. No getting lost there! No chance of it with million thousands of people to ask the way! If you were in the least doubt you simply had to just ask the first person you met, and they’d give you all the information you needed. Good old Sydney! Oh! what would he do?

Just then he heard a whip crack. Oh, joy! Away in the distance, through the trees, he saw Big Tom from “Myall” riding slowly towards him. His heart gave a great bound. Saved at last! Safe again! But he must never let Tom know he’d been afraid. He must never let him know that he’d been crying. He liked Big Tom because he called him Bill sometimes, and treated him like a man. So he slipped from his pony and dashed his hands and face into the water and slipped his handkerchief under his hat, as he had often seen the men do on the hot days; and he was glad to have it flapping round his face in case Tom might notice the tell-tale tears.

Then he mounted hurriedly and shouted to the sheep, and began to muster them up again; and, lo! there was the “leany” tree, and the old familiar bend not twenty yards off from where he had been hopelessly sobbing! and there, just round the bend, Gillong was in sight; and he could even see Doris and Baby playing out on the flat. All within cooee of him all the time! Dear me! All his worrying for nothing! What would they say if they knew? But he would never, never, never tell them!

And so no one ever knew that Willie had given up hope that fine morning, and thought he was lost for ever in the creek paddock.

It was three days later.

“Oh, do let us bring the sheep in from the Gums paddock!” cried Willie. “We can drive them up—really we can. You’ll come, won’t you, Eva?”

“Yes, I’ll come,” cried Eva, who was getting much more fond of the outdoor life. “We’ll just show them, Willie, how smart we are, and that we can bring them in; and it’ll save sending a man.”

“All right,” said Mr. Hudson. “Off you go!”

“And we’ll take Gussie,” said Willie.

“All right, please yourself, but he’s no good. He knows no more about sheep than a kitten.”

“All the same, he’s a nice dog,” said Willie to himself, as he and Eva and Gussie started off.

They found the sheep down in the far corner of the paddock, feeding quietly.

“Now, then, come along,” said Willie, “and get your woolly coats off,” and he tried to whistle and called to Gussie, and soon had the sheep heading towards the gate.

“Easy, isn’t it?” he cried to Eva, who had been picking the pretty feathery grass.

“Oh, yes! the easiest thing in the world,” she answered back.

“I’d love to be a drover,” said Willie. “Sometimes I’d like big mobs of cattle, especially when they all broke away and I’d have to gallop after them. And sometimes I’d like mobs of sheep, too, especially when I had good dogs. I think I’ll break Gussie to be a real good sheep-dog, and have him for one of my best when I grow up.”

“But he’s no good. Dadda says he’s not, and he ought to know; and he said if he lives to be a hundred he’ll never be any better.”

“Hah, rubbish,” said Willie, with all a new chum’s self-assurance. “I’ll bet I could break him in. Here, Gus, where are you?” For Gussie had disappeared, but presently came rushing up from the creek, barking and yelping.

“Here, Gusso, good dog,” cried Willie.

But Gussie was frisky, and scampered round barking and yelping.

“Lie down, you fool!” shouted Willie. But, like a streak of lightning, Gussie was off after the sheep that were just nearing the gate, rushing in front of them and turning them back to the creek.

“Here, Gussie, Gussie, Gussie. Here, boy, come back here, you black animal!” shouted Willie, excitedly, as he and Eva raced after the dog. “Here, Gussie, Gussie, lie down, you brute!”

Away went Gussie, yelping excitedly and sending the sheep helter-skelter back to where they’d been driven from.

“Let’s open this gate, Willie,” cried Eva, who was hot and flushed. “That’s what we ought to have done first, and then they’d have rushed through. Let’s open this fool of a gate, and we’ll have to round them up again.”

They tugged and tugged and shoved and sighed and grunted, but all to no purpose. The springs were broken, and refused to budge.

“Come on, shake it again,” said Eva, but all to no purpose.

“Oh, damn the gate!” cried Willie.

“Oh, Willie!”

“Yes, damn the gate, and damn the dog, and damn the dashed old paddock!”

“Oh, Willie, you’re swearing! Swearing!” cried Eva, aghast. “I never thought you’d swear. When you came up here you wouldn’t think of such a thing.”

“Well, I’ll think of it now, and I know hundreds more, too. All men swear,” answered Willie, with two red streaks in his cheeks. “All men swear, and I’m going to, too. I’m not going to be an old ninny.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Willie!” said Eva.

“Well, I’m not, then. I’m not a bit ashamed, and another thing, I wish you’d stop calling me Willie. It’s nothing but Willie, Willie, Willie, all over the place. Willie’s an old woman’s name. It’s just like an old woman with half a dozen kids.”

“Willie, I’m shocked at you. I never thought you were so—so—ugly.”

“Well, I don’t care if I’m ugly or not. You call me Will, if you want to call me anything—not Willie, or little Willie, any more.”

“And I’ll tell them at home that you swore, too.”

“Tell ’em; tell ’em anything you like. Anyhow, it’s not a real swear—nothing to what I’ll say when I grow up.”

“I hope I don’t see you when you grow up, if that’s the kind of man you’re going to be.”

“Ugh! you’re not a sport. You’re not a sport’s boot-lace,” continued Willie, assuming a lordly air.

“I wouldn’t be anyone’s boot-laces,” answered Eva, disdainfully. “And—and I’ll never come out with you again. You’re a rude boy!”

“Oh, a rude boy, am I?” mimicked Willie. “If you were a man I’d fight you.”

“Yes, I suppose you would,” said Eva, still disdainfully. “That’s what you’ll be, I suppose, when you’re grown up—a fighter, and a drinker, and a smoker, and a swea——”

Just then a whip cracked in the distance, and they turned in dismay.

“Oh, Willie, the sheep! I do hope Gussie hasn’t killed them.”

“Great snakes!” shouted Willie. “Let’s after them,” and away they scampered, forgetting their anger for the time being.

Away across the paddock the sheep were coming slowly towards them, driven by Big Tom from “Myall.”

“Hello!” he cried in his loud, hearty voice. “I thought you were supposed to be taking this lot to the shed.”

“So we were, Tom; but Gussie chased them away from the gate, and we’ve been trying ever since to open the old thing,” announced Willie, importantly.

“And is it open now?”

“No. It refused to open,” said Willie, with all his manners laid on again.

“Refused to open,” chuckled Tom under his breath. “All right,” he cried, cheerily, “you two get behind this mob, and just walk along slowly, and I’ll fix up that gate in one act. I’ll take this mongrel with me,” he continued, as he tied his whip through Gussie’s collar. “No use of three new chums being together,” and he rode off.

The children had time to get cool again, and Willie was a bit ashamed of his outbreak; and, another thing, supposing Eva did tell at home, they might send him back to Sydney. They might pack him back by the next mail. Good gracious! that would be dreadful, just when he was learning to ride well and knew all the dogs and horses—and—right in the beginning of the shearing, too! He didn’t want to go back to Sydney for months and months yet. He must try and conciliate himself with Eva somehow.

“My word, this is a pretty paddock, Eva.”

“Yes,” answered Eva, shortly.

“Real nice flowers down there, too. Nice yellow ones.”

“Yes,” answered Eva.

“I’ll get you a bunch if you like—a great big bunch, and—I’ll tell you what—I’ll carry them home myself.”

“Oh, I think it’s too hot!” said Eva, languidly. “They’d all fade.”

“Do you think so? What a pity!”

He didn’t know what else to say for a time.

“I’ll tell you what; I’ll come back when it’s cool, if you like, and get you a great big bunch.”

“No, thanks, give them to your boot-laces, if you want to gather some,” said Eva, coolly.

“Give ’em to my boot-laces?” echoed Willie, blankly.

“Yes, you’ve got such a lot to say about boot-laces,” answered Eva, hardly knowing what to say.

“Oh, sport’s boot-laces!” said Willie, with a light suddenly dawning on him. “I didn’t mean anything nasty, Eva. I often say that. Goodness me! it’s a great Sydney saying. Why, I often tell my mother she’s not a sport’s boot-lace, and she don’t care a bit. Why, she wouldn’t care if I called her a sport’s boot-lace every day,” he went on, hardly knowing what he was saying in his excitement to get on a friendly footing again. “No, my mother wouldn’t care one bit——”

“Now, then, you two—don’t go mooning there; round ’em up,” shouted Tom.

And then Willie rushed off, and Eva, too, woke up, for what a time they’d get when they reached the woolshed if the sheep got away again. Why, they’d be laughed at, and it was a terrible punishment to be laughed at.

They were received with a cheer at the woolshed, and hailed as the “amateur drovers,” and Tom never told how he came to the rescue. He was what Willie would term a “sport.”

For the next few days Willie was anxious, wondering if Eva told. But things went on in the same old smooth way, and he grew content.

On the third evening Eva found a great big bunch of yellow flowers on her table, and she guessed who was the giver and the reason why they were sent. So she accepted the peace offering.

There was a conspiracy at the homestead. Great whispering and talking and planning among the younger set. Great fossicking among old tins and gardening implements; and then, one fine day, a party of four set off to the river, down to the Rocky Bend. It was nearly a quarter of a mile to the Namoi from the Gillong gate, and they all trudged across the track, each carrying bulky parcels. Down at the river Willie turned and addressed the company in a pompous voice:

“Yes, I believe there’s gold here—any amount of it. Why, look at them rocks—they’re shining again! I bet we’ll knock gold dust out of ’em before long.”

“Oh, Willie!” they all gasped. “Do you really think so?”

“’Course I do. It’s a wonder all you people never thought of it before. Why, there’ll be a gold-field on your place yet,” he went on, with his eyes shining. “Yes, a great big diggings, and I’ll be the one that found them.”

“Oh, Willie! wouldn’t it be lovely?” they all shrieked.

“Wouldn’t it be great,” he went on, “to have monster big diggings and crowds and crowds of people and miners’ huts and tents and all that up here, all through me finding out a gold-field——”

“Oh, Willie!” they all shrieked again.

“Why, look at that sand there! Why, there’s gold in it, sure enough!”

“Oh, Willie! however’ll we set about getting it out?” cried Eva.

“We’ll fix it up,” said Willie, confidently. “We’ll get it out somehow. I’ve seen chaps in pictures with old dishes, and they wash the sand and strain off the water, and the gold dust’s left behind, or something like that. Anyhow, we’ll have a try at it.”

“Oh, yes, let’s try!” they cried in chorus.

Then the four of them set to work with little dishes, and scooped up sand and washed and strained the water off, and looked very important, indeed.

“We’ll ex—ex—periment,” said Willie.

“Yes, we’ll ’speriment,” said Doris.

“Periment,” said Baby, as she swung an old tin pint wildly in the air.

They worked patiently for an hour, without results, and then Doris shouted out that she had found some.

“Where, Doris, where?”

“Look at this—it’s a lot shinier than the other.”

“I believe it is,” said Willie.

“I believe it is,” echoed Eva.

So they emptied it on to an old tin tray to dry, and set to work again with a will. By-and-by the others shouted that they had struck gold, too, and more shining yellow sand was poured on to the tray.

They looked round for Baby, but she was busy building sand castles and wells and filling them up with water from the old pint. She made dozens and dozens of trips to the water’s edge, and filled the old pint to carry back to the wells; and as the pint was leaking, there was only about a quarter left when she reached the wells. But Baby didn’t care. The more trouble she had, the better she seemed to like it.

“Look at her,” said Willie, in tones of disgust. “A smart lot of good she’d be on a gold-field! Let her build her old castles and her old wells—a smart lot of good they’ll do her!” Then he went on working harder than ever.

“Do you know,” he cried a minute later; “I believe there’s another way—chopping up rocks and stones, and getting it out like ore or something. Let’s try it.”

“Oh, yes, let’s!” cried Doris, who was getting tired of this slow old way. “There’ll be more fun chopping up rocks than washing old sand.”

“And we’ll send the ore away to Sydney for some of them chaps to look at and tell us what it’s worth.”

“Oh!” they cried in the one breath. “Won’t that be grand? Let’s start chopping.”

“Wait a bit, there’s only one tomahawk,” cried Willie. “Let me go first, ’cause I thought of it,” and he slashed with a will into the shining rocks, and before half an hour great blisters had risen on his soft hands.

“Let’s have a hit at it,” cried Eva, and she took the tomahawk and bashed into the stone. Then they heard the thud of horses’ hoofs up on the bank, and Eva dropped the tomahawk and looked up as Big Tom rode to the top of the bank.

“Hullo! making mud pies?” he cried, as he dismounted.

“Ye-es,” shouted Willie, and they all exchanged telegraphic glances. They mustn’t let Big Tom into the secret. They mustn’t let anyone know until gold was discovered, and those wonderful Sydney men had examined it and told them what it was worth. Then they would tell their wonderful news, and then the rush to the gold-fields would begin!

“Yes, the sand’s lovely down here,” cried Eva.

“Oh, lovely!” said Doris.

“Lovely!” echoed Willie.

“Lubly tand!” cried Baby.

“Nearly as good as the sand on the beaches, eh, young man?” said Tom, as he came down the bank.

“Ye-es,” said Willie, as he made a sign to Eva to sit on the tomahawk, and she hastily hid it in the sand and then sat on it.

“Yes, it’s nearly as good,” went on Willie. “I mean I believe it’s better, Tom; it’s real yellow, and the beach sand is white.”

“Oh, this is richer sand than yours!” said Tom, as he stooped down to the water’s edge and took a long drink.

“Richer?” cried Willie, looking round at the others. Had Tom guessed there was gold lying about in the gleaming sand?

“Yes,” chuckled Tom, “richer. It’s like yellow butter and white butter—which would you rather have?”

“Oh, the yellow, Tom!” they cried, quite relieved, for now they knew that Tom didn’t mean anything about gold when he said rich, and their secret was still safe.

“Why, Baby’s got the best castles of the whole lot of you!” said Tom, surveying Baby’s buildings, “and wells and roads and all.”

“Oh, yes, Tom!” they all agreed. “We’ve only been fooling.”

Then Tom sat on the sand and talked. Another time they would have liked talking to Tom, but to-day they did want to go on with their prospecting. At last he rose to go, and Willie accompanied him up the bank, and stayed there till Tom was almost out of sight, and then he dashed into the work again.

“Hello! is this where you are?” a fresh young voice called out from the top of the bank, and they glanced up to see Mollie’s laughing face. Oh, dear, dear! what bad luck! They didn’t mean to tell Mollie, and now they’d have to, because she’d wonder what they were working so hard at and why their hands were blistered. In fact, she’d ask all kinds of questions, and here she was coming down the steep bank! What a sickening place it was! They couldn’t even have a secret to themselves. First Tom, and then Mollie. The river was miles and miles long. Why ever didn’t they keep away from the Rocky Bend just for that evening?

“Here, Mollie, you promise not to laugh at us?” cried Willie, sturdily.

“Of course I won’t laugh,” said Mollie.

“And promise not to tell?”

“No, I never tell, either. But what are you doing?” and she commenced to sink down on the sand near the wonderful tray.

“Mind the specimens!” cried Willie.

“Specimens?” cried Mollie.

“Yes, we’re mining—gold-mining!” said Willie, stubbornly.

“Oh, playing mines?” said Mollie.

“No, not playing, either. We’re serious. We think we’ve struck a patch, and we’re going to work——”

“And later on,” chimed Doris, “there’ll be tents and huts and camps, and hundreds and thousands of men here, minin’.”

Mollie laughed gaily.

“There, I said you’d laugh, and you promised not to,” said Willie, in disgust.

“Oh, I couldn’t help it!” cried Mollie. “Who ever heard of such a thing?”

“Because they’re all too silly to see it,” cried Willie, hotly. “Why, any fool with common eyesight would know that there was gold in this sand and in those rocks!”

By-and-by Mollie grew serious, and listened.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said at last. “Why don’t you ask someone?”

“Ask someone?” said Willie, witheringly. “Who’s to ask?”

“Why, old Joe; he was years and years and years on the gold-fields when he was young.”

“So he was,” cried Eva.

“Oh, Mollie! was he?” cried Willie. “Oh, he ought to know!”

“Yes, let’s ask him,” cried Eva.

“Oh, let’s!” gasped Doris, “quick as ever we can. Let’s hurry home and ask him before he has his tea.”

“No, you don’t!” cried Willie. “I’ll ask him, ’cause I found the gold and did all the work. I’ll do the asking.”

“Yes, we’ll wait till after tea,” said Mollie, “when he’s smoking. Let’s all go over to the stable and ask him.”

“Oh, yes, let’s!” agreed Doris again.

It was nearly sunset, so they hurried and gathered up their treasures—the “gold dust” and “specimen ore”—and trudged off home; and after tea a deputation of five waited on Joe, who listened attentively, and then with the aid of a kerosene lantern examined the specimens.

“So you think you’ve struck gold in the Namoi River, eh? Gold at the Rocky Bend? Why, there’s no more gold in that sand than there is in my foot!”

But some dreams die hard, and Willie and his little band still worked away at their gold-field. Teddo was again pressed into the service, and one day posted a small tin of “dust” away to Willie’s father, to be examined by an expert, and the verdict came back on very official looking paper—“Just ordinary sand from the river-bed.”

Eileen had been overjoyed at the thought of staying in Sydney, and she commenced school duties with a will. She was almost a beginner in many of the subjects that Marcia was proficient in, but she was naturally bright, and soon acquired a knowledge of everything.

On Saturday afternoons they played tennis, and on Sundays they had long walks, and Eileen used to write home glowing accounts of how she spent her time.

But learning music was her one trial.

“It’s such a good chance,” Mrs. Hudson had said, “for Eileen to get a good foundation.”

So the young visiting teacher at the College had Eileen placed on his list, and after a few lessons he marked her down as a “non-trier.”

Up the country she used to play by “ear” on an old piano that had long since seen its best days, and now scales and such like were doubly trying.

“No, Miss Eileen, not that way. Wrong! Wrong!” the teacher would cry, impatiently, as wrong notes were struck or hands were placed in the wrong position; and Eileen, who simply hated the humdrum, hammering exercises, would grow sullen and wade through the rest of the lesson.

Things reached a climax after about a month of lessons.

“No, Miss Eileen, you’re no better now than when you commenced. It’s agonising to have to listen to you. No time, no expression—you simply have no ‘soul,’ no ear for tone, no——”

But Eileen turned on him with flashing eyes. “No soul,” “No ear,” rankled in her mind.

“I’ve got as much soul and as much ear as you have!” she cried. “You think yourself, with your old music, don’t you? Well, let me tell you that there’s plenty of cleverer people than you that don’t know a note of music, and if I can’t play I can do lots of other things—yes, I can!—and I’d like to see you up the country, trying to ride a horse, and see where your ‘soul’ and ‘ear’ would come in.”

She banged up her music and jumped up from the piano.

The teacher was simply petrified. To be spoken to like that by a little country girl! Preposterous!

“Really, Miss Eileen, you forget yourself.”

“No, I don’t,” answered Eileen, “but I’m just sick to death of ‘soul’ and ‘tone’ and ‘finish’ and ‘melody,’ and all the rest of it, and I would just like to see you up the country on a horse—and not old Brownie, either!” and she marched out of the room before the time was up.

“Really, a most extraordinary girl,” murmured the teacher, as he sat there and waited for his next pupil. He was only newly appointed to the teaching staff, and did not have the knack of imparting sympathy and enthusiasm to his pupils.

“I hate that old musical box,” said Eileen that evening to Marcia.

“What old box?” asked Marcia, perplexedly.

“The music teacher, with all the musical letters to his name,” went on Eileen, calmly.

“Why?” asked Marcia, opening her eyes very wide. “I think he’s beautiful, and he has such glorious dark eyes.”

“Ugh! dash his old eyes—they’re as silly as the rest of him. He sits there goggling and screwing and beating time like an old—old Jack-in-the-box,” concluded Eileen.

“Oh, Eileen! I don’t believe I can ever take another lesson from him,” laughed Marcia. “I’ll laugh when I see him ‘goggling and screwing’——”

“Yes, and bending down when the music’s soft, and sitting up straight and flapping his hands when the music’s loud. Ugh! it sickens me; I’m sorry I commenced to learn.”

“Oh, Eileen! you are funny,” laughed Marcia again. “And all the girls think he’s lovely; why, I’m just dying to tell them what you’ve said, only it might get back to his ears.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter!” said Eileen, with her head high in the air. “I told him this morning what I thought of him.”

“You—told—him—this—morning—what—you—thought—of—him!” gasped Marcia.

“Yes,” answered Eileen, and then she detailed the conversation.

“And you left him before the lesson was over?” cried Marcia.

“Yes, I left him sitting there, gasping.”

“Oh, Eileen! you are brave; I’d never have done it. I’m real nervous at my lesson.”

“Pshaw! I’m never nervous, and I’m never going to be, either. I mean to be an actress some day, you know, and it won’t do for me to be nervous. Thank goodness, actresses don’t have to know music, and if I have a dozen children I’ll never let one of them learn a note unless they want to. Playing by ear’s good enough for me, and it’ll be good enough for my children.”

Then Marcia went off into another peal of laughter. “Oh, Eileen, I wish you’d stay here for ever!” she cried. “I’ll miss you dreadfully when you’re gone. But I do wish you’d try hard at your music.”

“Oh, I suppose I’ll have to! But I’m more satisfied now that I’ve said all that about ‘soul’ and ‘ear.’”

About a week later Eileen got a most unaccountable fit of home-sickness. She had received long letters telling her about the clover paddocks, and the dew glistening on them first thing in the morning, and how fat the horses were; and all of a sudden Sydney grew distasteful.

Sitting at her desk, the thought of those long green stretches would come to her; the thought of the green-clothed gullies, with the children racing up and down on their ponies; the thought of the big blue gums along the creek, waving long brown strips of bark wildly in the wind, and the big fire of myall logs burning brightly in the Gillong dining-room at night, and the gleaming white frost on the corn cobs in the cultivation paddock shining under the rays of the wintry sun. And one day she put her head on the desk and burst into tears. She wanted to be there straight away. After all, there was no place like home, and she wanted to go right up and mount her horse and race all over the paddocks. The teacher was astonished.

“But there’s nothing to stop you from going home, is there?” she asked kindly.

“N—no!” blurted Eileen, “but I didn’t want to go until now, and it just came on real sudden, like a bad tooth-ache, and I couldn’t help c-crying. I’m—I’—m not coming back to school any more. I’ll get ready and go straight home.”

There was consternation in the Taylor household when they heard of Eileen’s resolution.

“No, I’ve been real happy with you, Mrs. Taylor, and I’ll miss you all dreadfully, but I’m real home-sick—you know, I think country people suffer from home-sickness,” she went on apologetically, “and I just can’t wait another day. Every time I hear the thud of a horse’s hoof it makes me lonely, and you’ve all been real kind—and—I’ll always like you—but—all the same, I must go home.”

Mrs. Taylor just knew how she felt, and helped her to pack up, and was as kind as her Mother, and Marcia was almost heart-broken.

“You must come back again as soon as you can, Eileen. Oh, dear! I won’t have half the fun now that you’ve gone. No one to talk to about people and the music teacher or anything else.”

Then Mrs. Taylor fell to worrying about Willie. She wondered was her little boy home-sick, too, and didn’t like to say; and she wrote him a very long letter, and told him to be sure and come straight away if he felt like it, and how she thought he ought to come home now in any case, and how she missed him. And the heartless little Willie, when he received it, grunted and said, “Just like a woman!” Then he sat down and wrote her a long letter to satisfy her, and to let her see “once and for all” that her little boy was not in the least home-sick, or even likely to be.

And one afternoon Eileen boarded the North-West train, and with many promises of letter-writing and much fluttering of pocket handkerchiefs and farewell messages she was whirled away to the far North-West Bushland.

And the same train that brought her home carried Willie’s letter back to his Mother:

My Dear Mother,

I am very, very happy up here, and I am not at all home-sick like Eileen is, because you see I am kept pretty busy. Mr. Hudson doesn’t know how ever he can get on without me again. I am a great help to him. Every evening I bring in the cows and pen up the carves. They are little beauties—five spotted ones and a rone, and a red. If he was a foal they would call him bay, but they don’t have bay carves—only red, so you will know that whenever you are talking about them; but foals are bay, not red, and they’d all know you came from Sydney if you started calling them the wrong names. I am a good rider now, and I can yard sheep and drive horses and do thousands of other things. Tell Dad not to go troublin’ about getting me into an office later on, because I mean to take a job of handy man on a station—that is, if ever I leave here again. Mr. Hudson calls me his handy man, and I am sure I am a great help to him. It wouldn’t be very nice of me to leave him when I am such a help, and, besides, I’m not a bit home-sick. If you feel you want to see me very bad you ought to come up here. It isn’t so very far—only about 420 miles from Sydney; and if you are a good sleeper you can go to sleep just after you leave Sydney and wake up just before you get to the last station here, and you wouldn’t know you’d been travelling all the time, so you wouldn’t feel a bit tired.

I hope you won’t be writing for me to go home for a long time yet, as I want to spend the winter up here, and then the spring, because thousands of birds will build their nests in the bush trees, and I want to see the young ones, and it will be very hard luck if I don’t see them after coming all this way; and I want to see the everlasting daisies all over the paddocks, and I am sure you will be nice and kind and let me stay; and I wish you were here now to have a good old roll in the clover—it’s great! I’m sure Dad would like it, ’specially if he had his old gardening suit on, and it don’t matter if it gets covered with green.

The shearing was great. I wish we could have months of it. There is going to be another one in the spring, and I’m going to be tar-boy and general useful in the shed, and Mr. Hudson is going to pay me some wages. I told him not to bother, but he says he will; so I’ll send you a check when I get enough to make one, and you ought to have a trip to the mountains with it. I wish you were up here to see me working.

Well, Mother, I have written you a nice long letter. Excuse any mistakes in spelling and grammar and stops, but I don’t think there’s very many, because I’ve kept singing out to Mollie and asking her how to spell a lot of words. I don’t think I want much more schooling. I think a man can make plenty of money without, and it’s no use spending money on books when you don’t want ’em.

I hope now that you will know that I’m not home-sick. I don’t think boys do get home-sick much, ’cept when their hungry; and with love to you and Dad from your loving and grateful and happy son, WILLIE.

P.S.—Love to Marcia. I nearly forgot her. A man does soon forget his sisters when he’s away from them. Tell her I’ll take her home a present when I go—a kangaroo or emu or some sort of bird. Yours truly, WILLIE.

Willie’s mother, when she received this, shook her head and said, “Well, well, I suppose I had better let him stay; he seems so happy, but I do wish he missed me a bit,” she added with a sigh.

“He’s too young yet to understand things,” laughed Dad, as he re-read the letter. “So Willie’s just got into double figures, and he thinks he has had enough schooling, and wants to start money-making. Well, well, boys will be boys,” and he pocketed the letter to show to some of his cronies at the Club, while Mother spent the best part of the morning hunting for it to show it to Auntie Grace, never dreaming that it had already gone the rounds of the Club, where it had raised many a hearty laugh, as seasoned business men recalled again their lost youth and young ideas.

Eileen’s head was craned far out of the train as it drew into the station, where Teddy, with a broad smile on his face, was waiting for the mail and any stray passengers.

“Anyone here to meet me, Ted?” she asked as she bounded out.

“You have to come with me in the sulky,” answered Ted.

“Go with you? Oh, I say, I am disappointed!”

“That’s a nice greeting for a man!” said Teddy.

“Oh, Teddy, I didn’t mean anything against you!” she declared, “but, you know, I was looking forward to seeing some of them, and what about my boxes?”

“Logan’s van’s comin’ over to-day, and it’ll bring them.”

“Oh, dear! oh, dear! I do hope it gets there to-night. I’d hate my boxes to have a night out on the roads, and there’s some pretty things in them, too.”

“I suppose he’ll get there,” said Ted, cheerfully.

“Oh, I’m not so sure about that. Don’t you remember when he was bringing that case of porter over, and he broke into it, and had a whole day and night on the road, and lost a good many parcels, too?”

“Got many traps?” asked the good-natured Teddy.

“Only three, but one is so small you’d hardly count it, but it’s pretty heavy,” she went on, doubtfully, “and then there’s another big one, but it’s as light as anything. It’s that light you’d hardly feel it, and the other—well, the other’s a bit solid.”

“Let’s see the little one,” said Ted; “we might stow it in.”

“Oh, Ted, you’re splendid!” gushed Eileen, as she hurried him along the platform. “There it is—the little heavy one, and there’s the big light one I was telling you about; just lift it, Teddo, and see for yourself how light it is.”

“It’s light, right enough,” agreed Teddy, as he glanced down at the waiting sulky. “I think I could hoist this big chap on to the back.”

“Oh, Teddy, if you only could!” gasped Eileen. “I’m sure Logan’s old van will be late coming over, and I do want to unpack as soon as I get home.”

“Well, keep your eye on them mailbags, till I come back,” ordered Teddy, as he hurried off with the big light one; and Eileen sat on the wooden bench and watched him rope it on to the back.

“There’s no doubt Teddy is good,” she thought, “and I’m glad now that I brought him that tie instead of spending the money on that check ribbon for myself that I felt I wanted so badly; but I couldn’t get them both, so I am glad now that I decided on the tie for Teddo.”

“You’ve got it fixed on beautifully,” she said, as Teddy hurried back to get the mail and the second box; but he was too important, and hurried to answer her as he rushed round, strapping on boxes and bags.

“All aboard,” he called at last, and Eileen climbed up on to the seat beside him.

“Oh, it’s lovely to be back again. Teddo!—just lovely, and everything looks so big and so wide and so breezy, and there is such a lot of space, and I bet they’ll be glad to see me at home again.”

“My word, they will!” agreed Teddy, “and so you got lonely down there?”

“Yes, real lonely. I just couldn’t stay a day longer. Goodness me, Teddo, I just felt inclined to take to my heels and run and run till I got here, and I just felt that I loved everything and everybody up here. Why, I believe I’ll fairly kiss the old cows and hug the pet lambs and dogs and chickens when I get home, and—but what’s the matter, Teddo?”

For Teddo had gone off into a fit of laughter—he was so hugely entertained.

“And before you’re home a week you’ll be sick of them all,” he said at last.

“Indeed, I won’t,” she answered, indignantly. “I’m much older than when I went away you must remember, Teddy, and I see things in a very different light,” and she sat up very straight.

“Yes, you’re a few months older,” guffawed Teddy, “but, all the same, you’ll always have a hankering after Sydney—all women and girls do. I bet the first hot day that comes next summer you’ll be wanting to get back to that there surf and the boat trips and all the rest of it; and you’ll take to your heels then and never stop running till you get there.” And then he laughed again till he nearly rolled out of the sulky.

“Really, Teddy, it doesn’t take much to amuse you.” said Eileen, and so they talked and argued all through the drive, while Teddy pulled up at the different mail-boxes, which were sometimes boxes nailed on a tree, or a kerosene tin sitting on a stump and secured there by a long nail. Papers and letters were thrown in and sometimes a parcel or a pound of butter or a loaf of bread, for Teddy acted as a general shopper at the little railway township. Then the horses would trot along again through the fresh clover that flicked, flicked, flicked against their hoofs, and filled the air with a crushed fresh smell of greenery, and Eileen drew in long, deep breaths and said it was “lovely.”

“Cripes!” said Ted, as he turned the horses sharply, and wheeled back to a mail-box off the road.

“Oh. Ted! Whatever are you turning back for?”

“Forgot to leave old Payne’s tobacco,” said Teddy.

“Oh, never mind it this time!” pleaded Eileen; “let him smoke tea-leaves or bark, or anything; why, it’s ever so far back!”

“No, I promised I’d fetch it,” declared Teddy, stoutly, “and a promise is a promise, even if it’s only made to old Payne,” and Teddy looked quite pleased with himself after this statement, while Eileen sat back in a resigned manner.

At last the little bridge near the homestead came in sight through the trees, and Eileen shouted aloud for joy.

“Thought you were going on the stage down there?” said Teddy, giving a parting shot.

“Oh, that’ll come later on!” said Eileen, loftily. “I’m too young yet. I want a little more home life before I leave for the stage.”

Then Teddy made a grimace and murmured under his breath.

“Stage!—I don’t think!”

There was shouting and commotion when the sulky drew up at the gate, and Eileen sprang to the ground. Then a babel of voices filled the air as everyone tried to speak at the same time.

“Oh, I am glad to see you all again!” Eileen told them over and over, and Mother actually had tears in her eyes, though she couldn’t for the life of her tell you why.

And Doris and Baby, with fat, happy faces and the roses of winter on their cheeks, danced round the new-comer.

“I have a little new pet lamb; you can have a nurse of it if you like when you have had a wash.”

“Oh, thank you, Doris, but I don’t think I will this evening!”

“And dere’s dear little puppies over at de shed,” volunteered Baby.

“There’s Willie, and goodness me if he’s not riding! Doesn’t he look funny?” shrieked Eileen.

Willie overheard the remark, and looked daggers at Eileen. Then he dismounted and walked slowly up to her with a great stockwhip wound round his arm.

“Good evening, Eileen; how did you leave them all in Sydney?” he asked, coolly.

“My goodness, but you do look funny!” answered Eileen. “You are different; why, your Mother wouldn’t know you—you’ve grown that tall, and you’re getting fat, too, and fancy you being able to ride!”

“Oh, it doesn’t take a fellow long to learn that!” he answered, carelessly.

“I’ve got some nice presents for you from your mother,” said Eileen.

“Presents?” gasped Willie, with his eyes lighting up and his grown-up manner completely gone.

“Yes, a pair of stockings and a muffler and some tooth-paste and scented soap.”

“Ugh! Presents. I don’t call them presents,” said Willie, in tones of disgust. “Anything else?”

“What did you think I’d have?” asked Eileen, hotly. “A motor-car or a carriage and pair?”

“Come off,” said Willie, “I thought you might have a cricket bat or a football, or something that would be of some use and fun to a fellow, instead of old tooth-paste and old scenty soap; none of the men up here use scenty soap, I bet.”

“No, and it might be all the better if they did,” flashed Eileen; “and, another thing, I think you’ve got real spoilt since you came up here, with your stuck up, grown-up airs, for a kid of your age.”

“Oh, come in Eileen, before you two start fighting!” said Mollie, with a laugh.

“Fighting!” echoed Willie. “Pshaw, I wouldn’t fight with a girl!”

They all met again before teatime, and chased round with the pet lambs, and climbed the fence of the calf-pen, and gazed at the little calves, and tried to coax out the chickens from under their mother’s wing, where they were nestled for the night.

“They’re such little beauties,” said Mollie. “Little fluffy golden ones and speckled and snowy white and brown, and some are real black.”

“Oh, the darlings!” said Eileen; “I’ll see them all in the morning.”

“An’ tometimes we ’as fosts in de mornin’s,” said Baby, clasping her chubby hands; “no fosts in Tidney?”

“No, you darling,” cried Eileen, “it’s as mild as butter down there. Oh! but I’m glad to be back again, for all Sydney’s niceness, and I’ll never, never, never grumble any more at the bush or the quietness or the work or anything else. I’m never going to grumble again as long as ever I live.”

“Oh, dear!” gasped Doris, shaking her head solemnly and looking in wonder at Eileen.

“Oh, dear!” said Eva, in tones of surprise.

“Oh, dear!” cried Mollie, in mocking tones of unbelief.

And “Oh, dear me! whoever is talking?” cried Willie, in sarcastic tones.

Baby’s teeth were stuck fast in some toffee that Eileen had brought her, so she could not say anything.

A governess coming! What, a governess coming just when things were at their best. Just when the paddocks were green and the horses were rolling fat, and everything was free and easy, and everyone felt inclined for fun and gaiety and jollification. A governess coming to keep them in musty old school, and make them study dry old books and lessons and figures. They never thought Mother could be so hard-hearted and so cruel and so mean.

“And I’m just sick and tired of old school. I got enough of it in Sydney to last me a lifetime. I did think I would be free from it now and get a rest at home,” sighed Eileen.

“I wish there were no such things as governesses,” wailed Doris. “Governesses and old school!”

“I ’ate old tool!” roared Baby.

“Oh, dear, sometimes I wish I was dead!” went on Doris.

“A smart lot of good being dead would do you,” snapped Eileen.

“Goin’ to school’s worse nor bein’ dead sometimes,” said Doris.

“It’s not so bad if you learn your lessons,” said Eva, who was rather glad of the idea of the governess, but daren’t say so in the presence of the others for fear they’d laugh at her.

“Who wants to learn old lessons?” cried Doris. “I want to play all day and feed the chickens and watch the little ducks in the water, and catch crayfish and bully-frogs, and there won’t be any time for all that with a governess—boo-hoo!”

“It’s sickening,” declared Mollie, looking away over the green paddocks; “there’s always something turning up just when things are going good.”

“Don’t you like her coming, either, Mollie?” asked Eva, breathlessly.

“No,” answered Mollie, “not just yet. I want to ride and ride while the horses are fat. I don’t want old school and lessons any more than you others.”

“Oh, why didn’t you tell Mother that?” cried Eileen, breathlessly; “she might have listened to you. She thinks you are so sensible.”

“What’s the use of talking?” snapped Mollie. “She’ll come, no matter what we say.”

“And I’ll bet she’ll be old and scotty and prim and particular,” said Eileen.

“Yes, and wear glasses, and will always be losing them, and will hardly ever smile, and read a lot,” said Eva.

“Yes, dry old books—all about good people that were never in the world at all,” finished Eileen, “and expect us to be like them. She needn’t think she’s going to make me like any of her old good people in books.”

“Nor me, either!” said Doris.

“Me, eder!” said Baby.

“And I bet she won’t be able to ride!” went on Eileen, “and knows nothing about bush life.”

“And I bet she don’t like little ducks and chickens,” put in Doris.

“I wonder what will she be like, and what’ll her name be,” said Mollie.

“I bet she’ll be tall and thin!” said Eva.

“Oh, sure to!” said Eileen. “I can see her now, getting round with her head in the air, turning her long nose up at everything,” and then Eileen walked round, sniffing contemptuously, and they all laughed merrily.

“Dear, oh, dear! I do wonder what she’ll be like!” said Eva, sobering up.

“Who?” asked Willie, who just then came through the gate.

“The new governess,” they cried in one breath.

“What! heard any more about her?” he asked, eagerly.

“No, we’re just wondering——”

“Ugh! Just wondering—just like girls; that’s all you’re good for—wondering.”

Then there was an uproar, and five pairs of feet chased him round the verandah, and five pairs of arms imprisoned him.

“You’re always wondering yourself,” they cried, “and you’re too conceited to let on.”

“Yes, ’course he is, ’course he is.”

Then Willie set to wondering in real earnest, and he bet she’d be cross as two sticks, and wear ugly old dresses and couldn’t understand a fellow liking sheep-mustering, and drafting and all that, and he bet she’d never go for a swim in the river with them, and he bet she’d never fish, or if she did catch one she wouldn’t be able to take it off the line, and she’d be calling all over the place for him to do it, and she’d always be wanting him to put the bait on. Well, she needn’t get calling for him, for he just wasn’t going to stand it; if a fellow went fishing, he was going to fish and not go baiting a line for an old governess!

“Yes, and I’ll bet she’ll hate country life,” declared Eileen, eagerly.

“Of course she will,” echoed Willie. “She won’t know a thing about it. I say,” he went on, growing brighter, “we might have some fun with the old party”—(for Willie was sadly deteriorating in his manners lately); “yes, we might have some fun, you know, if we get her mounted on old Nigger and teach her to ride——”

They all laughed again, at the spectacle of the governess on Nigger.

“And I’ll crack the whip behind old Nigger, and, gee-whizz, won’t he go?” roared Willie, and the five other little sinners joined in the laugh.

“We might have some fun yet,” they agreed, hopefully.

“Yes, leave it to me,” went on Willie. “I’ll see to that. I didn’t come all the way from Sydney to shut myself up in old school. We’ll have some fun right enough.”

“But she might be nice,” said Eva, timidly.

“Nice?” echoed Willie. “Nice? What are you talking about?”

“I’ve often read of real nice governesses,” went on Eva.

“Read?” said Willie, scornfully. “Yes, you might read about ’em, but you seldom see ’em. No, they might live in books, but not in life, and don’t you forget it!”

“Oh, dear, it’s a hard life!” sighed Eileen, “just when things seemed to be going right, too; but it’s no use wishing or expecting or hoping for things to go right, because they never will.”

“No, they never will,” echoed Eva.

“No, dey never will,” agreed Doris.

“Never, never, never,” said Willie. “A fellow just thinks everything is goin’ on great, and something comes along to upset him.”

“Yes,” they all agreed, eagerly.

“Like the day I rode Dandy,” he went on. “I was that glad about it because I was goin’ to have him for my hack, and then he must go and get a stake in his leg that very night! Oh, it’s no use wishing for anything, because you never, never get it!”

“No, never!” they all agreed, mournfully.

“Oh, my goodness me, here comes the mail! There might be a letter about her.”

Then there was a general scatter and excitement. Sure enough there was a thick, important looking letter from the College for Mother, and they all crowded round her while she read it.

Her name was Miss Gibson, and she would arrive at “Gillong” on the following Wednesday.

“And here it is Friday now! Oh, dear!” they cried, in consternation. “Let’s make hay while the sun shines.”

They all rushed madly round for the next few days, trying to crowd all the outdoor life they could into their lives. One would think to see them that their school-days would begin at six in the morning and not end till six in the evening, so eagerly did they snatch up every minute and spend it outside.

“There’ll soon be old lessons and figures to take up all our time,” they would say, mournfully; and then set to enjoying themselves with a will.

“On Saturday and Sunday I’ll get up at 5 o’clock,” said Willie, “and ride all day. Yes, I’ll ride till it’s dark. I’ll let her see that she can’t keep me in all the time!”

So they all nursed a grudge against the governess who was coming into their lives.

“I’ll let her see that Saturday and Sunday belong to myself, and I’ll hardly as much as say good-morning to her on them days. I’ll let her see! And, another thing, I’m not going to ride about with her if she wants to learn to ride, so you need never ask me to. If she wants to learn to ride you can go with her—Mollie or Eileen.”

“Oh, dear, how very kind you are!” answered Eileen. “It’s not so long since you learned to ride yourself, and I heard about the day old Brownie nearly threw you.”

“Nearly threw me,” echoed Willie, in fine scorn. “I simply slipped off her, because she would go round one side of the fence when I wanted her to go the other. I wasn’t going to let her best me, so I just slid off and let her go on her own, and I caught her afterwards and took her back and rode her round the way I wanted her to go. She didn’t best me.”

Just then Eva burst into tears.

“Whatever’s wrong?” they asked, anxiously.

“We’ll—we’ll never have time to—to—go down to the bend and gather the mushrooms, and—and—I do love mushrooms!”

“We’ll have time, silly,” answered Willie. “You leave it to me; I’ll see that she gives us time to gather mushrooms.”

He stalked off with the air of a conqueror.

Down the long flat road bowled the buggy that was bringing the governess from the station, for Father had gone over the night before to meet the train; and now the children, in a state of wild excitement, were grouped together, and wondered. Even Willie let all his eagerness and excitement be seen. Just for the moment the grown-up, careless, sang froid manner that he usually adopted was quite cast aside, and he was a little, eager, natural boy again.

“I’ll bet you anything that she’s lame and’ll wear glasses,” he said, looking round at the others. “There you are now. I’ll bet before I see her.”

“Oh, sure to be!” they agreed. “Oh, dear! I wish she wasn’t coming. If only she wasn’t coming, wouldn’t it be lovely?”

The buggy drew up at the gate, and Mother went forward to meet the newcomer.

“By Jove, she don’t look bad!” cried Willie, as he peeped through the dining-room window.

“Why, she looks real young,” cried Mollie.

“She’s just like a girl,” cried Eva.

“What’d you expect her to be?” asked Willie, “a bloomin’ old man?”

“Oh, but I mean a real nice young girl!” explained Eva.

“Just you wait a bit,” he replied.

“Oh, she looks real nice!” said Eileen.

“Ugh! looks are nothing,” grunted Willie, who was somewhat disappointed at all his predictions coming to nothing. “Wait till she starts teaching, and see if she looks so pretty then. She’s got her best manners on now.”

“And what a pretty hat,” said Mollie.

“Oh, lovely!” agreed Eileen, “and a real pretty dress, too. Look, she’s taking her dust-coat off!”

“Oh! who wants to see her old dress?” snapped Willie, who felt somewhat out in the cold.

“They’re coming in. Let’s all go out the back way,” and off they scuttled.

Later on they were all introduced, and Miss Gibson was so bright and friendly and took such an interest in everything that they found themselves quite drawn to her. Even Willie said grudgingly, in his most grown-up way, that “she wasn’t half a bad sort, and if they carried things out properly they might knock out a good many holidays.”

They took her out to see the pets, and she asked their names and seemed to know all about pet lambs and even chickens, and she could actually ride. Then when they found out she used to live in the bush when she was a child they took her to their hearts straight away.

“Yes, I am a real bush girl,” she smiled, “but I’ve been in Sydney for the last four years, teaching at College. I just used to long for the bush, and the horses and the rides, and the wide, free, open spaces, and solitude when you wanted it, and to get up early and watch the sun rise, and then to watch the stars twinkle into space, and then just to gaze and gaze at the sky until there seemed nothing else in the world but yourself and the starshine.”

“Really, it was wonderful,” the children declared, “to think that a nice girl who knew all about the bush and who knew pet lambs and could ride had come to teach them, and to think that they had had all their trouble and worry for nothing, thinking and wondering about her.” Eileen said it would be a lesson to her, and she would never, never worry again.

So five very happy little bush girls went to bed that night, with the suspense of the last few weeks quite gone from their minds. And Willie, too, was quite jubilant.

“Anyhow, it’s better than having a cross, prim old dame that won’t let a fellow have a joke,” he said, as he lit his candle in the hall, “and we’ve only got to work things all right and I’ll bet we’ll get plenty of holidays. One thing, she can’t expect a man to be always stuck at school.”

And so school life commenced, and went on very smoothly, although now and then the children felt it a bit irksome, for they had been used to so much freedom that it was something quite new to have to answer bells and keep rules and silence in school hours, and sometimes they simply longed to tear out over the green paddocks just in the midst of a history or geography lesson. Their minds would wander away from names and dates down to the clover patch or to the river bend or some other well-known patches, and as soon as school was over they would rush off with wild hurrahing and run wild for an hour or two.

Miss Gibson, though kind, was firm, and insisted on good work and attention, and sometimes, as much as they liked her, they would get together and discuss her, and then perhaps they would come in and find her chatting brightly with Mother or helping her to make scones and cakes, and all their ill-feeling would vanish, for Mother looked so much brighter and happier since the governess came, and they would rush off to see if they, too, couldn’t help.

Sometimes in the afternoons Miss Gibson would let them off an hour earlier, and would take a walk with them. She had sometimes noticed traces of discontent in her little charges, and wished to imbue them with the love of Nature.

“Do you know, children,” she said one day, “I really don’t think you realise how well off you are.”

“Well off?” echoed the children, for they were in a discontented mood that day, and nothing seemed to go right.

“Yes—well off. Just think what you inherit. Those vast wide spaces, and the great blue dome of the sky for a roof, the beautiful sunbeams, or at night the silver-specked vault, and at your feet a great, green velvet carpet fit for kings to walk on.”

“Dear me, that sounds beautiful!” cried Mollie. “I often think we’re lucky, but I can’t think things like you.”

“Tell us more,” begged Eva, who regarded it as a story, and she linked her arm through Miss Gibson’s.

Miss Gibson laughed merrily.

“Very well, dear. Did you ever think what a world of wonder we live in?”

“Oh, that’s all right when you’re rich and travel about!” said Eileen. “You’re sure to see a lot of wonderful things then.”

“Why, my dear, they surround you.”

Eileen looked round. “I don’t see anything so very wonderful.” Eileen was in the mood for argument.

“Look at those lights and shades down in the gullies; look at those twinkling little golden clover flowers. Look at the sunlight flickering on those great snow-white gum trees; and later on this evening we will watch the sunset, with all its glorious colours that artists rave about and try in vain to seize for their canvas. Think of all the beauty and wonder of the seasons, the coming and going, the birth and bloom and fading and decaying and silence and rest of our wonder world. We ought to all try and keep young at heart, and enjoy and love the big open book of Nature that is flung open all around us. Think of the glorious moonlight nights and the beautiful glowing sunrises, or that pearly glimpse we get of the world just before dawn, when it all seems wrapped in mystery. I want you to become lovers of Nature, and you will never be quite lonely. Think of the joy of watching tiny leaflets and buds opening into beauty and watching and tending their growth. Think of the wonders along the river banks, where the wild ducks dip and glide and dive, and the dear little fluffy ducklings, with bright, beady eyes, fluttering about in the water, imitating their elders. Don’t you ever think what a grand thing it is to have your sight, just to see all the beauties around you?”

“Ye-es,” said Eileen, somewhat reluctantly; “it is all beautiful and wonderful.”

“Yes, it is so,” they all agreed.

“Dear me, it’s nice to think about it,” said Mollie. “You do make everything sound nice, and you make one glad to be alive and living in the country. Let’s have lessons outside sometimes, Miss Gibson,” she went on. “Oh, I’d love it!”

“So would I!” and “So would I,” they all shouted.

“Very well,” answered Miss Gibson, delighted to see them so enthusiastic. “We shall have lessons outside sometimes, and excursions to the river and different parts of the paddocks, and in the years to come you will look back with pleasure on those Nature studies, I am sure. Why, you might all develop into writers or artists or poets if you will only open your minds to the beauties about you.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed Eva. “If I could only be an artist!”

“I want to be a poet,” declared Doris.

“And I’d love to write,” said Mollie.

“I’d like to be all,” declared Eileen, “and I might be some day once I start and put my mind to things.”

“I don’t think,” jeered Willie. “It’s as much as you’ll manage to be one of ’em.”

“I’m goin’ to write poetry,” declared Doris.

After that the children grew most enthusiastic, and were always bringing in specimens and plants and leaves, and watching butterflies and ants and calling each other to watch the sunsets, and discovering new beauties in everything. But one day Mother said they were carrying things too far, when Doris came home sopping wet and her boots and socks caked with black mud; and Eva nearly as bad, for she had just pulled Doris out of the creek, where she slipped in while trying to catch a little wild duck that was playing at the water’s edge.

“Such a little beauty!” cried Doris, as she dragged her socks off. “I wanted it for spessiman.”

“You’d better leave ‘specimens’ alone,” said Mother, “if you can’t manage any better than that.”

“Yes, I better leave ‘spessmans’ alone a bit,” agreed Doris, as she shook her socks, for she generally agreed with anyone.

“Of course, you can gather flowers and plants,” said Mother, relenting somewhat, “out in the paddock, where you’re safe.”

“Yes, out where I’m safe,” echoed Doris.

“It’s a wonder you ever left the country, if you are so very fond of it,” said Eileen one day to the governess. “You tell us to like it, and yet you went away to Sydney,” she went on, somewhat defiantly.

Miss Gibson paused a while, and then said slowly:

“It was compulsory. My father was once a very wealthy man, but a big smash came, and I was obliged to earn my living, so I went to a City College, and——”

“Oh!” they all murmured, “we are sorry.”

“What was the smash—a motor-car?” cried Willie, eagerly.

Miss Gibson smiled.

“No, Willie; speculations and other things.”

“If it was a motor-car I’d never ride in one again,” declared Eva.

“Oh, dear! it must be awful to be real rich once and then get poor,” said Eileen. “I don’t know how you stand it.”

“It is hard for a while; but, after all, there are some things better than money.”

“Name them,” said Eileen, in mock despair.

“While we have health and strength and capacity for simple enjoyments left, we can never be unhappy long, and work is a great tonic.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed Eileen. “It’s a funny old world, and you seem as happy as anyone, although you were rich once and have to earn your living now. It wouldn’t suit me.”

That evening Eileen called a meeting, and they all talked in low tones.

“We ought to get up a subscription for her.”

“Oh, yes, let’s!” cried Doris, clapping her hands. She always loved anything fresh or exciting. “Let’s get it up quick!”

“Has anyone got any money? A subscription’s no good without money.”

“I have two shillings,” said Mollie.

“And I have ninepence,” said Eva; “it’s all in pennies, but I don’t suppose that makes any difference.”

“Not a bit, and I know Baby has sixpence. You’ll let us have your sixpence for nice Miss Gibson, won’t you, Baby, darling?”

“Ess,” said Baby, solemnly.

“That’s right, and I have one-and-ninepence——”

“And I have two-and-six,” cried Willie, as he rushed off and brought it back, balancing it on his fingers. “I did mean to buy a big knife with it, like old Joe’s,” he said, as he handed it to Eileen, somewhat reluctantly, “but you can have it.”

“Don’t give it if you’d rather not, Willie,” said Eileen, quickly.

“Yes, take it; I might be rich myself some day, and then get poor, and I’d like someone to get up a subscription for me.”

“Yes; and, besides, you can always get the loan of old Joe’s knife,” said Eileen, consolingly.

“Yes; and, besides, the very next half-crown I get I’ll buy one with it, so I suppose a fellow can wait a while,” he said, trying to appear cheerful.

“You’re leal dood,” said Doris.

“Perhaps you ought to only give half,” said Eva, “because you see you’re a visitor here, and oughtn’t to give so much as us.”

“No, half a crown or nothing,” said Willie grandly; “besides, I’m the only man that’s giving, so I ought to give most.”

“How much have you got, Doris?” asked Eileen.

“A penny,” she said, handing it to her.

“Is that all? Where’s the threepence you had last week?”

“I let it fall in the creek the day I chased the duck.”

“Oh, dear, dear, you are careless!”

“And de oder sixpence I give Teddy to bwing me lollies wif.”

“No wonder you were so pleased about a subscription when you had nothing to give. Let’s count how much we’ve got.”

And they all got slates and pencils and added up the sums.

“What do you get?” asked Eileen of Willie.

“Seven and seven pence,” answered Willie.

“Yes, that’s right. What a pity we couldn’t make it eight shillings.”

“Suppose we ask old Joe,” said Eva.

“Oh, no, Miss Gibson mightn’t like it. Now we’d better write out a little speech.”

“Oh, yes, let’s,” cried Doris again. “What’ll we say?”

She sat back in her chair and prepared to enjoy herself.

“We’ll write it out real nicely, and you’ll paint flowers round it, won’t you, Eva?”

“Oh, yes, do,” shrieked Doris; “roses and pansies an’——”

“Oh, no, they’re too hard,” said Eva. “Nice green leaves and berries, I think—nice red berries.”

“Oh, yes!” they all cried.

“Yes, yes,” shrieked Doris, “green leaves and wed berries,” and she clapped her hands loudly.

“You do the writing, Mollie, and we’ll all sign our names,” continued Eileen.

“Yes,” shrieked Doris again; “but what about Baby?”

“Oh, I’ll hold her hand,” said Eileen.

“Lovely,” cried Doris, subsiding again into her chair.

So Mollie set to work to write out a speech, and they all tried to help her, and after a lot of trials and a few fights they managed one.

“Let’s hear it,” said Eileen, and they sat down while Mollie read aloud.

Dear Miss Gibson,

Your six pupils wish you to take the enclosed money as a little present, because we are sorry that you were once rich and lost so much money, and hope you will soon be rich again, and that you will always be very happy.

YOUR FOND PUPILS.

“That’s all right,” said Eileen.

“No, there’s another word for ‘take,’” said Willie; “it would sound better. Let’s see, what is it now?—oh, I know!—‘except’—yes, except the money.”

“No, not ‘except,’” said Mollie. “‘Accept,’ I think.”

“Anyhow, there’s only the difference of a letter or two,” answered Willie, “and it sounds better. Put one of them in and chance it.”

“Oh, no! we’ll have to look it up and make sure,” said Mollie with a sigh, “and if there’s anything I do hate doing it’s looking up a dictionary.”

“Oh, bother the dictionary—I hate ’em, too!” said Willie.

“And so do I,” agreed Eileen; “but we’ll have to look for it.”

They got the dictionary and hunted till they found it.

“Ah, ‘accept’—that’s it!” cried Mollie.

“Anyhow, I was pretty near it,” said Willie, well pleased.

“Now, write it out to-night, and to-morrow Eva can paint it.”

“Oh, dear! I wish to-morrow morning was here,” said Doris, who hated waiting.

So to-morrow morning Eva rose bright and early and painted a spray of very bright green leaves and very bright red berries on the card, and called them to put their names on it. Willie came first, because he was in a hurry to have a ride round the paddock before school time. He hurriedly seized a pen and ducked it into the ink.

“Let’s sign, and get away,” he said, importantly.

“Oh, do be careful!” said Eva.

“Careful? Who’s not careful, I’d like to know,” he answered, and just then a great big blot of ink splashed on the page.

“Oh, look what you’ve done!” cried Eva, almost in tears.

“Oh, bother the old card!” cried Willie, in a temper, and then there was a battle-royal.

“I knew you’d blot it. There! it’s all spoilt now, and I’ll have to do another one.”

“What did you call me for? You knew I was in a hurry. I’m sorry I signed my old name now. Why didn’t some of the others write it for me? I haven’t got time for fooling about writing on old cards.”

“You’ve got as much time as any of us, and you’re real ugly—that’s what you are.”

“Oh! ugly, am I? Well, I’ve got plenty of mates, and I’m sorry I gave my half-crown now.”

“All right, then; I’ll tell Eileen what you said, and she’ll give it back to you.”

She jumped up to run off and find Eileen.

“No, you don’t!” cried Willie, now ashamed of himself. “You know I didn’t mean it. Just like a girl—running off to tell tales, and pretendin’ you think a fellow means what he says; here, let’s see if we can’t fix it up. I’ll get the loan of old Joe’s knife, and we’ll scrape the blot out.”

“No, that wouldn’t do.”

“Well, what about wiping it up with blotting paper?”

“No, no good; it would all smear.”

“What about painting something over the blot—some more leaves or something?”

“No; they’d look silly down there.”

“Well, what about painting a big butterfly over it, flying up to the berries, eh? That’d look grand.”

“No, I’ll have to do it all over again.”

“I’m real sorry,” said Willie. “I wish I could paint, and I’d do it for you. Square dink, I would!”

“Oh! never mind; I’ll do another to-day, and we’ll sign our names to-night, and we’ll have to give it to her to-morrow.”

“Righto!” said Willie, as he marched off.

Meanwhile Eileen had been very busy thinking. She actually hadn’t slept much the night before for thinking. Seven-and-sevenpence wasn’t much to give Miss Gibson. If she only had some more! If she could only make some money; but there was no way—yes, there was just one way that flashed into her mind as she tossed about in bed. Tomorrow Mr. Smith, the butcher from Bragan Junction, would call for killing sheep. Supposing she sold him Ronald, her big pet lamb. He would be sure to give fifteen shillings to sixteen shillings for him, and she’d give ten shillings of it to Miss Gibson. Yes, that’s what she would do. She didn’t care if Ronald were a pet and if she’d miss him. He’d only go out to the paddocks after a while, and get mixed up with the rest of the flock, and very likely be sent away to Homebush, or perhaps he’d be killed at home for their own table later on. Ugh! she couldn’t bear to think of that! No, the best thing to do would be to sell him to Mr. Smith. She’d be brave, and she’d see Mr. Smith the first thing to-morrow, and she’d tell him that she had a big fat lamb for sale. She’d be real business-like, and she’d take the money, and then she’d get away somewhere quickly, where she couldn’t see Ronald being driven off with the other sheep. She knew it would be dreadfully lonesome for a while without Ronald, but—she didn’t care. She would sell him.

So when Mr. Smith came she was the first to see him.

“Yes, Mr. Smith, father’s down in the gums paddock, but I have a fine big fat pet lamb I want to sell.”

“Righto!” said the genial butcher. “How much?”

“Oh! er—about sixteen shillings.”

“Let’s have a look at him.”

Eileen led the way to the little back paddock, where quite a flock of young fat sheep were grazing.

“That’s him with the red ribbon round his neck.”

“Righto! I’ll give you sixteen bob for him. I’ve got the silver now, and I’d better carry him down to the gums and put him with the others there. Them pets don’t like leaving home, and—but what’s wrong?” For Eileen was crying fit to kill herself.

“I—I—don’t think I can let him go.”

“’Pon my goodness, don’t take on like that! What! don’t want to sell him?”

“N-o—o. I wanted the money to give to—to—someone for a sub—a subscription, but—they’ll have to do without.”

“Righto, little woman; I won’t take him, but he’s prime,” said the butcher, casting a regretful glance at the fat lamb. “But, listen! Let me give something towards that subscription,” and he drew out a handful of silver. “Here, take five bob. I don’t want to know what it’s for. I’m not curious, but I want you to take it because I’m sure it’s a good object.”

“Oh, it is, it is!” cried Eileen, “but I can’t take your money, Mr. Smith. I’d feel too mean.”

“You must. I’ll be hurt if you don’t take it. There you are, real hurt, and I don’t wonder at you not being able to sell the pet; but all the same, I’d ha’ liked to have had him,” he said, as he mounted his horse and cast another regretful glance at the prime lamb. “Good luck to you, my girl!” he shouted as he rode off.

Eileen stood gazing at the five shillings.

“Oh, dear! I’m a great big baby—that’s what I am, and I don’t know how I’m going to tell the others. Supposing I don’t tell them. But I’ll have to; they’ll want to know where I got the five shillings. Supposing I say it was given to me in secret. Oh, no, that would never do! They’d always be asking me about it. Supposing I say I picked it up. Oh! but that would be too mean—I must let them know about the nice butcher. It wouldn’t be fair to him if I didn’t. No, I’ll race up and tell them now—now, while I feel I can. I’ll just take to my heels and run and tell them as soon as I get up there.”

She was as good as her word, and ten minutes later an excited crowd had gathered round a hot, flushed Eileen, who told them hurriedly of the good kind Mr. Smith.

“Ain’t he lovely?” said Doris, admiringly. “He’s a nice kind man, and I’ll pway for him to-night. We’ll all pway for him.”

“Do you mean to say you meant to sell Ronald? I don’t know how ever you could think of such a thing,” cried Eva.

“Oh, well! you see I couldn’t when it came to the time,” said Eileen. “I just tried my best to, and I couldn’t.”

“And I shouldn’t think you could,” said Eva, in tones of finality.

“But of course he’ll have to go some day,” said Mollie. “Still, all the same, I couldn’t bear to see the butcher carrying him off to kill him,” she continued, quickly.

“Me, either.”

“Me, either.”

“Me, eder,” they all chimed in.

At last the list was finished, and Mr. Smith’s five shillings was entered “from a kind, unknown friend,” and the next step was the presentation.

“You’re the boss of the show, Eileen; you give it,” said Willie, “and you’ll have to make the speech, too.”

“Oh, dear, I don’t know whatever to say!” said Eileen, nervously.

“Go on, there’s nothing to be frightened of,” said Willie, bravely. “You’ll have to think of something. You always say you’re goin’ on the stage: this will be practice. Go on, let’s hear you before you go on the stage,” and he stuck his two thumbs in his leather belt and marched round the room.

“Oh, dear! I suppose I’ll have to say something,” said Eileen. “Let’s see, now,” and she walked round and round and rehearsed speech after speech.

“How’ll we give her the money?” asked Willie, all of a sudden.

“I never thought of that,” said Eileen.

“No, of course you didn’t. It takes a man to think of those things. It’s a good thing for you I’m here. Why, that’s the very first thing you should have thought of.”

“No, not the first,” said Eileen.

“What, then?” he demanded.

“Collecting the money, of course.”

“Oh, any fool would know that!” answered Willie; “so you’re not so smart as you think.”

“We’d better put it on a little tray,” said Eva.

“Or a little bag,” said Mollie.

“Oh, no, loose! Let’s have it loose,” said Willie, “so’s it’ll look a lot and we can hear it clink.”

“Do you think so?” asked Mollie. “I think we ought to have it in a little purse, like a purse of sovereigns.”

“Only, of course, it won’t be sovereigns,” said Eileen. “You have a little muslin bag, Mollie—just the very thing.”

“So I have—just the very thing,” and she ran off to get it. “You can see the money through it, too; it will be just right,” she cried, as she returned with it.

“Here, let’s put it in,” cried Willie, and he stuffed the silver and copper in. “It’s real nice and fat, too. My word, she’ll think she’s getting a fortune,” he went on, delightedly. “Good thing I thought of the bag.”

“You thought of the bag?” cried Eileen, in sarcastic tones. “Why, you wanted it given up loose, all scattered over a tray.”

“Anyway, only for me you wouldn’t ha’ thought anything about how you were going to give it to her and you’d ha’ been scooping it up out of your hands and very likely letting it fall all over the floor if I hadn’t spoken about it, so there!”

After a great many more arguments and a great deal of talking, everything was decided on at last.

That evening, while Miss Gibson was sitting quietly correcting exercise books, the deputation waited on her, and she received the surprise of her life. In they marched, with Eileen at their head, who made a sweeping bow, and the others tried to follow suit. Baby was so much taken with the proceeding that she kept on bowing and ducking for the rest of the evening. She bowed to each and every one of them. She marched off to the kitchen and bowed to old Joe, till he asked her if she had turned silly, and she bowed to all the pictures and chairs; and, in fact, enjoyed herself immensely.

“Dear Miss Gibson, we wish you to—to——”

“Accept,” whispered Mollie.

“Accept this little token—a little picture and a small bag of money, which we wish was much bigger, and all our good wishes,” said Eileen, with another sweeping bow.

“Really, children, this is a surprise—a little picture and a bag of money——”

“Yes, you see, ’cause you lived in the country once——” began Doris, while all the others chimed in to explain matters.

“And we all hope you’ll be rich again some day, and if you put the little bag of money in the bank it might be a help in years to come.”

“Yes, and, besides, we might all be real poor ourselves some day, and have no one to help us,” chimed in Willie.

“And we all like you very much for telling us all the nice things about the country, and we’ll never forget you,” said Eva.

“And if you’d rather buy lollies, ’undreds and thousan’s, or anything you like with it, you can,” said Doris.

Then Baby returned from the kitchen, where she had visited Joe, and bowed solemnly to them all, and sent them into shrieks of laughter.

“So I have an unknown friend?” said Miss Gibson, reading the list.

“Yes, it’s Smith, the butcher at Bragan Junction,” cried Willie. “Didn’t know he knew you, did you?”

“Willie, stop at once!” cried Eileen, and then she told the story to Miss Gibson; “and he doesn’t know who the subscription’s for, or nothing about it; it’s just because he’s kind that he gave it, and he wasn’t a bit inquisitive, and if ever I get real rich I’ll send him a nice present,” she continued.

So the evening passed merrily away, and Miss Gibson was much touched by the evidence of kindness and thoughtfulness on the part of the children, and the little picture, with its vivid green leaves and bright berries, was put away among her treasures.

All the children got the writing craze at “Gillong.” They all wanted to be poets or authors, and there was one continual scribble. Papers and books and slates were covered with little scraps of verses, till Mother declared she could never read another bit of poetry.

Sometimes Eileen would come along with fourteen verses of very much the same kind of jingle, and ask them to listen and criticise.

“Oh, you said all that before!” Willie would say, in disgust—“away up there in the third verse.”

“Yes, but, Willie, don’t you see it’s put in different words, and you have to keep saying the same thing over—only a little bit different to fill up.”

“Ugh! you’re a sickening old poet; you’d make a fellow tired.”

But Eileen was not daunted. Only lately she had taken to looking very important, and had kept quiet about her work, but, all the same, she scribbled like grim death.

“Some day she’ll come in with about a million verses and make a fellow listen to them,” Willie would grumble.

Sure enough, one day she came to them with a fat note-book, and asked them to listen to the very best she had ever written—quite a gem, she considered—so they all sat down to hear it:

There were about eight more verses in this strain, and then it went on:

“Butterflies wing? What’s that?” asked Willie.

“Oh! that means they fly; a poet can say anything, and it’s all right.” Then she went on with about twenty more verses.

“Beautiful!” cried Doris, clapping in ecstasy.

“Very nice, but too long, I think,” said Mollie.

“Oh, I don’t think so!” said Eileen. “I’m going to send it to one of the Sydney papers. It’s as nice a bit of poetry as ever I read in my life.”

“Are you goin’ to give it to a paper?” asked Doris.

“Give it? No; they’ll have to pay me for it, and pretty well, too, or I won’t part with it.”

So the precious MS. was sent away, and Eileen waited with what patience she could for a reply.

Then all the others became keener than ever on writing. Doris tried to compose, but she couldn’t make the lines “fit,” and would get in a rage and tear up the paper, and she nearly drove them all crazy asking how to spell words and getting them to help her.

“Oh, do leave it off—you’ll never be a poet! You don’t even know what words go with each other,” said Willie one day when she was begging his help.

“Oh, come on—help me! It’s all about pwetty bluebells and daisies and my dolly——”

“Hang the bluebells and daisies and your old doll!” answered Willie.

“You’re real ugly; you’re stopping at my place, and you won’t help me,” said Doris, in a temper.

“All right, then; go on.”

“I love my little Dolly.”

“I do, I do, I do,” chimed in Willie.

“No, that won’t do,” called out Doris. “I love my little dolly, I do; I love her so; and she is nice and pwetty——”

“As everyone must know,” said Willie.

“Oh, yes! beautiful. ‘As everyone must know.’ Write it down, Willie.”

And Willie wrote down the first verse.

“She plays with the bluebells down along the crick.”

“And she’ll tumble in the water if you give her a good kick,” quoth Willie.

“Oh, Willie! You’re nasty. You mustn’t say that about Rose.”

“All right, then. Go ahead.”

“Down along the crick,” repeated Doris, “where the daisies and the bluebells——”

“Grow so very thick,” added Willie.

“Beauful!” she cried again.

“There, that’s two verses,” said Willie; “that’s enough for one day. All good poets never make more than two verses in a day.”

“Don’t dey?” said Doris.

“No, and you ought to leave it alone now for a week, and you’ll be a real good poet when you start again.”

“That’ll be beauful!” she cried again, clapping her hands.

Eva used to write a lot about sunsets and moonbeams, and fleecy clouds and brilliant birds. She used to use the dictionary a great deal those days, finding out big words to make her poems sound grand. She always called them poems, and she would copy them out neatly and paint little sprays of flowers round them, and would only occasionally let them be read. Mollie tried poetry for a time, but soon gave it up and dashed into prose, and wrote nice articles and essays.

“There’s more sense in yours than all the rest put together,” said Willie. “It’s a lot nicer reading than old poetry.”

Meanwhile Eileen waited for a reply about her precious MS.

“Not in yet?” she would say, as she scanned the paper every mail day.

“Oh, you might have to write a lot before you get it in print!” Mollie would say.

“There’s no doubt about mine,” Eileen would answer.

One day a big envelope came, and Eileen tore off the wrapper, to find “Not suitable” in big letters across her cherished manuscript.

“I’ll never try again,” she cried, almost on the verge of tears. “They’re a mean, horrid old lot, those paper people. I’m sure it is as good as the old stuff they print. It’s just because I’m not known.”

They all tried to console her. In fact, Willie went so far as to say he’d call and see those paper chaps when he went back to Sydney, and give them a bit of his mind. Although he did not like Eileen’s poetry, he was very loyal, and sympathised most heartily with Eileen.

“I’d like to chop every one of ’em up!” said Doris. And so by degrees Eileen’s keen disappointment wore off.

Just a week later there was great shouting and commotion over the page of a Sydney daily, for there was one of Mollie’s articles in cold print, with her name (“Mollie Hudson”) shining at the foot. Oh, the joy and excitement!

“How ever did you think of it, Mollie?” and “Oh, it’s beautiful!” came in choruses, for the little article, entitled “The Old Picnic Tree,” breathed of the fresh air of the paddocks and the leafy shade of an old gnarled, knotted tree.

“Mollie’s a writer, Mollie’s a writer,” they all shouted, dancing round her; and then they had to have a half-holiday in her honour, and spent the afternoon at the old tree that she had written of; and they had billy tea and nice little hot cakes that Mother had made in honour of the occasion. They spent a wild, happy time, weaving fancies and romances about the time when they should be all famous.

“Perhaps we’ll all be real rich and clever when we grow up,” said Eileen. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if the five of us were all writers or artists or musicians, or something of that sort, and had nice big studios and plenty of money, and—and—have a real grand jolly life.”

Of course, they all agreed with her, and thought perhaps things might turn out in that fashion; and then Willie said that he “might very likely beat them all—he didn’t speak much about what he was going to be,” he said, “but, all the same, he might surprise them all some day; so they needn’t be too surprised if he, too, became rich and famous.”

“Oh, tell us all about it, Willie!” they begged.

But he said he hadn’t quite finished thinking things out; but, all the same, they needn’t be too surprised if they heard of him later on being very famous! Then he tried to look very important, although until that moment the thought of being famous had never entered his head.

Then the shades grew long in the paddock, and they all scampered off home to the welcome glowing fire of myall.

In an office in Sydney a man looked forward eagerly to the arrival of the mail from the North-West, for an eager enthusiast would write in glowing terms of the bushland. Miss Gibson would take her writing tablet to the paddocks, and write quickly page after page:

My Dear Basil,

We are in the depths of winter, and you know what winter in the country can be like at times. Well, it is just delightful. The clover spreads far and wide like a great green velvet carpet, up and down the gullies and away across the paddocks. The deep tints of the clover, the vivid green of the crowsfoot and wild carrot mingle in a study of lights and shades, while the little blue flower of the crowsfoot and the golden one of the clover vie in scrolling floral effects on that vast green carpet. How I revel in the wealth of sunshine out here in the paddocks, but as evening draws in the chill air rises, and I hurry back home through the clear cutting freshness, and there a glowing fire awaits one. When the evenings are dull or rainy I sit there and gaze into the glowing, gleaming coals, and you never saw such beautiful, haunting colours as you see among the myall coals!—one can weave all kinds of fancies. Great sheafs of snow-white ashes fall silently on the hearth, like snow-white pall, and then I take the poker and stir up the glowing heart of the fire again, and amber and red lights gleam among the dancing flames. Some people think that I must have a very lonely life up here, but I assure you that the time simply flies.

I often gather the children round the fireside and tell them stories, and just to see their eager faces is payment enough, for, do you know, it always seems wonderful to me to watch the growing mind of a child and hear their impressions of life, etc.? And I have been trying to instil into them a love for and a very big interest in the beauties and wonders of nature; for in after years, if empty and lonesome days will come (as they too often come), they will have something to fall back upon, and perhaps find solace in, for it is wonderful how keen a joy we can find in the out-of-door pursuits if we have a love for and an appreciation of the beauties of nature.

And, oh, those glorious moonlight nights we have up here in the winter! Why, it is quite vivid. Trees and shrubs stand out clearly, and their shadows stand out blackly under the rays of the serene silver moon that swings high in the sky. Everything is transformed by the kindly rays into things of beauty, and sometimes I stand and gaze away across the paddocks bathed in the silver light and marvel at the stillness. And, do you know, as much as I love those moonlight nights, they make me feel lonely? I just don’t know why—only that it has that effect; and sometimes I almost welcome a rainy night, when the rain drops beat a wild tattoo on the iron roof, and I draw up my chair to the glowing fire and sit there and dream.

I am looking forward to the spring-time. I have promised to paint a big picture representing the Springtime in the North-West for old Professor Dawson, and I am all eagerness to begin.

Till then, adieu, for it will not be long ere “the whole world will wake and sing.”

They were all under a shadow at “Gillong.” Teddo was leaving the line. Teddo, whom they remembered as long as they remembered anybody, was going to leave the district. His contract had run out, and a new man would soon take over the coach line, and a coach and four would take the place of Teddy’s sulky, for many passengers were travelling by the new railway line, and were clamouring for better accommodation than Teddy’s line of vehicles. Miss Gibson had hinted pretty plainly that there was to be no holiday in connection with Teddy’s departure.

“I do certainly think we ought to get a holiday the day he leaves,” said Eileen.

“Yes, indeed, he has been a good friend to us,” sighed Mollie.

“Yes, Teddo’s been a good friend to us,” agreed Eva.

“Yes, Teddo’s been a weal good fwiend to us,” echoed Doris.

Then Baby burst into tears, and said that she wanted Teddo to “tay wit dem.”

“I’ll never forget that letter,” said Eva.

“And how well he kept the secret,” said Mollie.

“And how he never even as much as hinted that he had a secret,” went on Eileen; “never by a word or a look did he ever mention that letter.”

“No, he can’t be beaten,” said Mollie. “We’ve got a lot to thank Teddo for. Fancy asking a new man to post a letter like that and keep our reply!”

“It couldn’t be done,” said Eileen, in tones of finality. “And to think we can’t get a measly holiday in honour of his going.”

“What did Miss Gibson say?” asked Eva. “Did you ask for one, Mollie?”

“I didn’t exactly ask,” said Mollie; “but I mentioned something about it, and she said we had too many holidays; that she only taught about half the time she should, and that birthdays were always coming along, and that there was to be no more holidays or no more birthdays till the end of the year.”

“End of the year!” they all echoed in amazement.

“Why, it’s only August now, and my birthday comes in September,” declared Eileen.

“And mine comes in November, an’ I’m goin’ to have one whether she likes it or not,” said Doris, on the verge of tears.

“What! no more holidays?” asked Willie, as he came in. He always came and joined the group when he thought there was anything extra on.

“No, dere’s to be no more birthdays or no more excuses for holidays till the end of the year, and it’s only de middle now!” cried Doris.

“Oh, dear! and mine’s at the end of this month!” cried Willie, “and I suppose she won’t let me have one, either. Jolly hard on a fellow when he comes all the way from Sydney, and don’t get a holiday on his birthday.” He looked very glum.

“I’ll tell you what!” cried Eileen, excitedly. “I’ll give up my birthday for Teddo—there you are! Surely we can get one day between now and the end of the year, so we’ll beg off one for Teddo.”

“Oh, Eileen! will you?” they all cried. “That’ll be lovely!”

“That will be great!” said Willie. “But I’ll tell you what—mine comes sooner than yours, so I’ll give mine up. There you are!”

“Oh, Willie, you’re splendid!” cried Eva. “Do you really mean it? True?”

“Of course it’s true. We’ll all go to old school on my birthday, same’s if it was just any other day,” he said, stoutly.

“‘Oh, no, Willie!’ I said first, and perhaps when it comes to the time you might be sorry and want yours,” said Eileen. “You can ‘cry off’ if you don’t want to give yours.”

“No, I won’t cry off,” said Willie, stoutly. “I’ll stick to my word.”

“You’re grand, Willie,” cried Eva.

“I didn’t think it was in you,” cried Eileen. “Here, shake hands.”

They all solemnly shook hands, and Willie felt quite a hero.

“Oh, you don’t know me yet,” he said, cheerfully.

“An’ p’raps, after all, you might get yours given to you just the same, Willie,” said Doris, hopefully.

“No,” answered Willie. “I won’t take it. I give up all claims to it. It’s only fair to give Teddo a day when he’s leaving the district.”

Then he marched out of the room, and felt like a martyr for a good cause.

After all, they got the holiday, and the funny part of it was that Teddo wasn’t there until the evening; so they played all day, and prepared a big tea in Teddo’s honour for the evening. Just all the children and Teddo were present, and speeches were made and toasts were given till Teddo was almost in tears and wondered whatever he had done to win such regard from the assembly.

“Good luck to you, Teddo! Wherever you go you will carry all our good wishes with you, and may you never lose your kind heart,” cried Eileen.

“Never forget that five little bush girls are in your debt, Teddo,” cried Mollie. “We’ll never forget you.”

“Good old Teddo!” cried Doris.

“Good luck to you, Teddo—all your life!” said Eva.

“I’ll let oo take my ole dollie, Teddo, if oo like,” said Baby, as she solemnly held her spoon in the air.

“Bless your little heart an’ soul, Baby,” cried Teddo. “I wouldn’t take it from you for the world. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’ll send you a beauty from Queensland.”

“Oh, dood Teddo, dood Teddo!” chuckled Baby; “send me a pitty noo dolly.”

“We’ll all miss you dreadfully, Teddo,” said Mollie. “There’ll be no one to tell us all the news on mail days now.”

“And no one to tell us when the little Smith girls down the creek have new dresses,” said Eva.

“Or no one to tell us about the buck-jumping horses at the station,” said Willie. “Ugh! it’ll be a bit off without you.”

For Teddo had always brought along a little fund of news for each one.

“By Jove, Teddo, old man, we will miss you!” went on Willie. “We’ll hate coach days to come, and not see you rattling down the road. It won’t seem the same at all without you. Good luck, wherever you go!”

They all cheered Willie’s speech, and then Teddo rose to his feet.

“I’m not much of a hand at a speech,” he said, “but I must say a few words and thank everyone of you for the nice things you have said. I think the five of you are the nicest little girls in the world, and Willie’s one of the nicest chaps, and wherever I go I’ll never forget you. It was real bosker of you to give me this spread, and Teddo never forgets old friends—never. I’ll always remember the lot of you; and I’m not much of a hand with the pen, but I’ll write you all a letter from Queensland—you see if I don’t!”

“Me, too, Teddo,” said Baby.

“Ess, you, too, Baby.”

“Oh, do, Teddo, do!” came a chorus of voices. “We’d love to get your letters.”

“Yes, I’ll write, right enough. Teddo don’t make promises to break them.”

There was great cheering then, and cries of “Hear, hear.”

“We know that, Teddo—we know that,” came the chorus again.

“And I say again that I’ll never forget you,” he went on, “and I hope you’re always happy and contented and get on real well all your lives.”

They filled the room with shouts and cheering when Teddy finished his speech, and Willie waved a big handkerchief and shouted, “God save the King”; and then Mother, Dad and Miss Gibson came in, and Teddo’s health was drunk in lemon syrup by all. After some more talking, he bade them all good-bye, and rode through the silver moonlight away through the frosty air under the sparkling stars of the winter’s night. The children’s voices followed him, singing “He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” “Good-bye, Sydney Town,” and any other songs that came to their minds at the time; and after each song there would be “Three cheers for Teddo.”

So Teddo started the first stage of his journey that took him away among strangers in the big State of Queensland, and his little bush friends would not see him again for many years to come. But as they grew up they all retained memories of the kindly red-headed Teddo, and from time to time a very carefully-written letter would come from him from some far-off town with a most outlandish name, and many a time the map of Queensland was searched to find “where Teddo was now”; and, though other mailmen came and went, there was never another such as Teddo on the line.

A letter had come for Willie from his mother, saying that he really must come home; he ought to be satisfied now, and they missed him very much, and he really must return to school, and ever so many more reasons why he should come home. Willie felt very downhearted.

“’Course I’d like to see them again, and I think a terrible lot of them, and all that, but I do want to stay longer. I asked Mamma ever so long ago to let me stay till November, and she nearly promised she would, but a woman never can keep her word,” he went on, dashing away a tear.

“We’ll write and beg and beg for you,” said Eva.

“Will you? Good! Write and say you can’t part with me, that I’m a—a—a real decent chap, and say—oh, say anything at all you like, only do get her to let me stay till November. Say it’s a long way up here, and it’s no use coming for a little while. Let’s see—how long have I been here now? About seven months—well, say that a person ought to stay nine or ten months, but that I’ll be real satisfied to go home in November, and to be sure and let me stay till then.”

“Yes, we’ll say all that and a lot more.”

“Righto! and I’ll pay for the stamps,” said Willie. “Whatever it costs, let me know.”

Then a letter was concocted, and to read it one would think that Willie was a little angel upon earth:

We much regret that you want Willie back so soon [they wrote]. You know, it is such a long way up here, and once he gets home it may be years and years and years till he comes back. He means to work and study so hard when he goes home to make up for this long holiday, and we would love him to stay till November; and then he will be quite, quite satisfied to go. But if he went now we would all miss him so much, because he’s such a help and such good company, and Dadda would miss him fearfully, and so would Mamma and Miss Gibson and all of us. He studies real well for Miss Gibson, considering that he is out so much and loves riding so much, and, you know, in Sydney he’ll never get a ride; so now, while the horses are fat, he ought to stay and ride a real lot, and I am sure if you will only let him he will grow up to bless you.

“How will that much suit?” asked Eva, who took the composition on herself and read it aloud to him.

“By cripes, it’s real good!” answered Willie. “Go on a few more pages like that, and she must let me stay.”

“Well, if you say that word any more I won’t write at all.”

“What word?” asked Willie, trying to appear innocent.

“You know quite well; you got it from old Joe, and you needn’t bother copying him. Oh, dear! Whatever else can I say?”

“Let’s see; you said I was nice and cheerful, didn’t you? Well, say—oh! say that I look real well, and I’m getting real fat.”

“But you said that in your last letter, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but you say it, too.”

Willie looks so well and is getting real fat, and has a lovely colour now, and he’s so nice and cheerful and pleasant and kind that we would all love him to stay longer; so I am sure, dear Mrs. Gray, that you will not refuse our request, and that Willie will never forget you for it.

There was much more in the same strain, and then signatures were attached; but I think it was a little note that Mother enclosed that made Mrs. Grey decide to let her little boy remain till November, and there was great rejoicing when the decision arrived.

“We’re real good at writing letters,” said Eva, somewhat proudly.

“Yes, that was a bonser one about me. I don’t know how you thought of it all.”

“Oh, we can think all right,” said Eileen. “I wouldn’t wonder if we made some money some day thinking out inventions and patents and all those kind of things.”

“Well, when I grow up I’ll help you,” declared Willie. “If you want any money just come along to me.”

He felt very grateful for that letter, as he thought of the good free time before him.

“How will you make the money?” asked Eileen.

“Oh, I’ll manage that, all right! I haven’t decided yet, but I’ll have it so you needn’t be afraid to come for a loan. I won’t forget old friends....”

Willie was very polite for quite a long time after that. He was always offering his chair to Mother or one of the girls, and he was continually asking Mother if she felt a draught, and would she like windows or doors closed? And he actually tried to study at night time to please Miss Gibson. The thought of staying till November pleased him so much.

“I wonder how much money it would take to buy Myall?” he said to Joe, as they were riding round the paddock.

“Pretty near a million, I reckon,” answered Joe.

“A million!” gasped Willie. “Oh, dear!” he groaned. “I’ll never manage it.”

“Was you thinkin’ of buyin’ it?” asked Joe.

“I was wondering if I ever could,” said Willie. “If I went to work and started to save up my money straight away; but, oh, dear! I’ll never manage it. A million’s a terrible lot of money, isn’t it, Joe?”

“I reckon so,” answered Joe. “I wouldn’t like the counting of it.”

“No, ’specially if you were sleepy,” said Willie.

“You take it from me, young man, I wouldn’t be sleepy if I ’ad the ’andlin’ of a million of money. Why, I’d be thinkin’ every noise was a burgular after it. No, old Joe’d be pretty wide awake if ’e ’ad the ’andlin’ of a million of money!”

“Of course I wouldn’t care if I didn’t have a very big place,” went on Willie. “I wouldn’t care if it was just one little paddock on the corner of the creek. As long as it was land and belonged to me, and I could live up here and ride. That’s all I want.”

“Just enough to run a horse on, like?” said Joe.

“Yes,” said Willie, eagerly. “Do you think I could buy a place like that?”

“Well, of course, you’d have to make a livin’ somehow,” answered Joe, “and you couldn’t make much of a livin’ on a one-horse run; and I wouldn’t like it to be said that old Joe ever put the idea into your ’ead about it. But some day you might win a lease, or buy a piece of land—enough to run a few hundred sheep on, and by degrees you might buy a little more, and get on that way. But you want a bit o’ money to start with, or else you’ll have to work very ’ard. ’Course, though, the banks would lend you money, and you might be able to make a do of it.”

“That’s what I’ll do. I’ll get the banks to lend me money. I never thought about them. Why, it’ll be real easy. I’ll go to a lot of different banks and get them all to lend me a little; and I won’t let any of ’em know that I’ve been to the other one—see? My word! won’t Mother be surprised when she hears I’ve got a bit of land?”

“Hey, steady there!” said Joe, a bit afraid. “You’re too young yet—a long way too young to think about it. Well, you can think, but don’t go trying to git land right away. You’ve got a few years ahead of you yet.”

“Yes, that’s the worst of being young,” sighed Willie.

“Well, it’s funny, the difference in boys,” soliloquised Joe; “here’s you dyin’ to be on the land, and there was Frank dyin’ to be off it.”

“Yes, funny, isn’t it?” agreed Willie.

From that time he commenced to build castles in the air, in which figured prominently a green stretch of paddock with a gurgling creek running through it; a dear little cottage nestling on its banks, and a flock of big woolly sheep, some fine horses, and a few dogs to make up the sum total of his possessions.

“And, of course, I must have some cattle,” he would think, when completing the picture in his mind’s eye; “and a dear little pony and sulky to meet them at the railway station when they come up to stay with me.”

“They” represented Mamma, Dadda, and Marcia.

Mrs. Grey, the overseer’s wife, at Jenkin’s old place, was very ill. It was something unusual for Mrs. Grey to be ill. Mother spent a lot of time with her, and Miss Gibson would go down and read aloud to her by the hour. But she grew gradually worse, till at last Mother and the governess took it in turns to stay with her, following out the doctor’s instructions, which were written or wired daily from the far-off town.

The children rather liked the novelty of Mrs. Grey being ill at first, because they had broken time at school, but as time went on they grew tired of it. It was too lonesome in the house without Mother at night time, and they missed Miss Gibson, too. So old Joe came to the rescue, and told them yarns.

“Did you ever hear tell of the time youse were nearly burnt to death, and your Mother saved you?” he asked one afternoon about dusk.

“Oh, no, Joe!” gasped Doris, with wide-open eyes. “Tell’s.”

“Oh, you wasn’t in the world then!” answered Joe. “Little Eva was a baby.”

Then Baby cried because Eva was ever a baby.

“Oh, tell’s about it!” cried Willie, eagerly.

“You never heard tell of it, then?”

“No, never,” cried Willie. “As true as anything, I didn’t.”

“We have, but we’d love to hear it again,” said Eileen.

“Righto!” and Joe tapped his pipe on his boot, preparatory to filling it.

“Oh, dear! are you going to fill your pipe first?” asked Willie. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

“No, thanks, young man; I don’t care about the way you cut baccy.”

“Oh, dear, start telling us, Joe, while you’re cutting the tobacco!” said Willie, all eagerness to hear the story.

“Hold ’ard, hold ’ard!” said Joe, calmly, as he went on with his work. At last the pipe was filled and lit, and Joe proceeded.

“Yes, we was all away draftin’ at the yards down at the back of ‘Coolabah,’ and a fire broke out down along the crick, about four mile from here. There was tons of dry grass lying about, and it blazed like fury. Your Mother seen it light up, and you can bet she got the shock of her life. Not a man within miles, and all youse little ones with her. She knew if it came this far the house and all would go, and very likely you and her’d be burnt to death. So she rushed out to the paddock and catches old Dolly and whipped her into the spring-cart, and she put all youse in, an’ she rushed round and gathers up a little brood of chickens that she couldn’t bear to think of bein’ burnt to death, and put ’em in a box and jumps out into the cart and sent old Dolly like—like blazes, down the Myall road, and all the time the flames was comin’ nearer an’ nearer, and she was hardly game to look back, fearin’ she would see the house on fire.”

“Oh, dear!” gasped the children. “Wasn’t it awful?”

“Yes, and she sent old Dolly as fast as she could go down the road, and just as she turned the bend, lo and behold youse! she sees a pack of horsemen galloping down towards her!”

“Oh!” they gasped again in relief.

“Yes, they’d seen the fire, and knew it was near your place, so they rushed off from the yards and got here just in time to save the ’omestead. My! wasn’t your Mother glad? She just sat and cried after the shock; but, my word, she must have rushed round to have got you all safe away, for the fire was no time coming up the crick, and it swallowed all before it! Yes, she just sat and cried, for it was an awful shock to her, because she thought the fire might overtake you and you’d all be burnt to death alive.”

“Oh!” they all gasped again. “But wasn’t Mother brave?”

“Brave!” echoed Joe. “Why, I call your Mother a hero!”

“A hero—yes, that’s what she is!” they declared.

“Yes, she’s a regular hero,” declared Willie, stoutly.

“Oh, dear, I’m glad we’re saved!” said Eileen, “and were not burnt to death alive.”

“Do you know what I’d ha’ done, if I’d been there?” asked Willie.

“No,” said Joe, quietly.

“I’d ha’ got the scythe, and I’d ha’ cut all the grass down round the house, and I’d ha’ raked it all away out so’s there’d be nothing for the fire to burn near the house—see? And I’d ha’ got wet bags and hung them all round——”

“Yes, and what’d the fire be doing all this time?” asked old Joe, sarcastically. “Do you think it would wait for you to cut the grass and rake it all away, and find the bags, and all the rest of it? Oh, no, young man, you wouldn’t ha’ been alive to tell the tale to-day if you had started on them lines, and don’t you forget it! No, you couldn’t ha’ done better than your Mother,” he added, turning to the other children. “I always said, and I always will say, that your Mother’s a hero.”

“Oh, dear! isn’t it lovely to have your Mother a hero?” gasped Doris....

“Here she comes now,” said Joe. “I wonder what’s the news.”

“I say, let’s give her a cheer,” said the children.

“Well, I’d like you to, and I’d like to join in; but it mightn’t be in keepin’ with the time, seeing as how Mrs Grey is so ill.”

“Oh, yes! a good thing you thought of that, Joe,” said Mollie.

“Old Joe can think sometimes,” said Joe, well pleased.

Then Mother came in with the good news that Mrs. Grey was much better, and that a friend of hers would arrive to-morrow to look after her. Then the children cheered to their heart’s content, both because Mrs. Grey was better and because their Mother was a hero.

My dear Basil,

I am in the North-West, and it is spring time! The fresh, warm-tinged air of the open spaces sends new life through the frame, waking old ambitions, recalling lost ideals and dreams of youth. The North-West world is a vast temple filled with the incense of the wattle, and the gladsome carols of feathered songsters. Just to lie on those verdant carpets and gaze into the twinkling depths of the blue sky; just to gaze and gaze and wonder and wonder again at the beauty and space and gladness of it all!

At night the sky is a silver-specked vault, charged with the silver of the Milky-Way, or flooded with the light of the moon. What a great, great pity it is that our minds and hearts ever grow old! If only we could go through life with wonder eyes, what delights and wonderments we would find in this old prosaic world. And we could, if we would, retain this sacred possession of perennial youth. It is not always the years that count. One of the youngest persons I know is a man of forty-five, and the oldest person I ever met was a boy of fourteen! Ah, those young-hearted folk! How delightful it is to meet them! Don’t they seem to make life worth while?

Down in the scrub a field of beauty stretches before me. The tall blue gums stretch towards the sky with their snow-white branches gleaming among the shadows and filtering sunlight, and here and there a mighty giant of the forest waves long, tattered, shroud-like strips of brown bark that have been cruelly stripped from their branches by the forest storms. But already the healing has come; the smooth new bark gleams and glistens in the warmth of the kindly sunlight, and the tattered shrouds wave a tender farewell to those new spirits born of their disaster.

I climb and scramble through forests of slender saplings, over fallen logs and stumps, among blue-grey vegetation or, in the next instant, among vivid green trees that grow in symmetrical beauty, as though tended by a gardener. Fancy, if one had the planning out of a bush garden in that North-West forest! What a labour of love, what a fascinating theme to work on! Clearing and thinning and “lopping”; guarding with tender and jealous care some forest beauty that now gleams tenderly through darkening, choking growth. What winding paths and avenues and clumps and groves would be formed, with here and there a cleared space for masses of garden flowers. But a haunting, elusive perfume steals gently on a slight breeze from the inner depths of the forest, and I hasten thither to be met by fresh delights. The air is filled with the cloying sweetness of budah, nipand, wild orange, and clematis blossoms.

The wild orange, or bumble, or “moogiel” (the aboriginal name) stands somewhat aloof from their neighbours. Who knows? Perhaps in the days of old they held pride of place in that vast scrub, and, mayhap, the dusky maidens twined bridal wreaths from their creamy blossoms; but howe’er it may be they stand aloof with their crown of glossy leaves and creamy blossoms and tender green fruit. Perhaps black fingers, long since stilled, wove hopes and shy thoughts among garlands of tender blossoms in the days ere the white usurper set foot on Australian shores.

I don’t know what you will think of it all, Basil, but you asked me to send along these descriptions of the North-West, and I am seeing it at its best, so you must make allowances if I enthuse. I know all about the long, drear, desolate droughts, but “why think about to-morrow if to-day be sweet,” and so I give way to keen delight of the beauty and freshness of the surroundings, and trust that I draw a vivid pen-picture of this lovely forest. MARIE.

---

My dear Basil,

Oh, those wattle groves of the North-West! How can I describe their tender, haunting loveliness?

To-day I stood on a red, sandy road, and gazed down a long, glowing vista, where, like gold-crowned maidens, the wattle trees stretched for miles on either side, as though guarding that long avenue from destruction. A slight breeze stirred the branches, and the fluffy balls nodded in welcome, and scattered a shower of golden, powdery dust on to the shimmering sand. I stole almost reverently through that golden avenue, for a sense of benediction was in the air.

A burst of melody broke on the stillness, and I stood stock-still. Surely such a pæan of praise might the angels sing! The liquid notes swelled higher and clearer as the black and white feathered songster continued his gladsome song. I stole quietly through the bushes and watched the singer who filled the scrub with melody. Just a black and white bird (a magpie) standing on the dead branch of a tree—no stage setting here. With head thrown back he trills and “cadenzas” and warbles as though his heart would burst, and a sea of throbbing melody surrounds me. And then the song dies away, and I am left with a sense of loneliness, for a hush fills the auditorium of the forest; but it is soon broken, for other birds awake the echoes, chirping, calling, singing and chattering and fluttering hurriedly around, as though the very universe depended on their exertions. The scrub is filled with baby-birds in different stages of growth. Some are merely very unattractive little morsels, that open hungry beaks as Mother-bird appears; some half-fledged and unattractive, too; some are just wee, fluffy balls, with bright, beadlike eyes; and others are at the interesting stage of learning their first “steps.” Up among the friendly branches they flutter and screech as they try their little wings, with alternate chattering and scolding and encouragement and comments from Ma and Pa. I pause and ponder. Next year those tiny, helpless morsels will have their homes among the leafy branches, and they, too, will be builders. Think of it! In one short year’s time the birds will have commenced their life-work, and what about we humans? Year after year we are watched and tended. Year after year our education goes on, and yet I doubt then if we are as faithful builders as those feathered songsters. But adieu till next week, when I will tell you more about the fields and paddocks.

How I wish you could have a whole free week up here to revel in the green gladness and wonderful space! MARIE.

---

My dear Basil,

The paddocks are full of young life. Out on the green the foals frisk and gambol, while their mothers, with admonishing whinnies, try to coax them back to their side. To-day a wee foal of but a few weeks old came and stared at me with wonder eyes. Standing daintily on its slim legs and tiny black hoofs it stared at “the stranger within the gates.” I longed to pat its soft nose, to stroke its silky ears, to embrace its shining, satiny neck, but—I didn’t dare to move, for I knew there would be a startled glance, a scamper of hoofs, a wild rush and the mob would be off, leaving a trail of trampled greenery in their wake, and with me a sense of desolation. So I sat still and gazed into those wonder eyes, as the little creature came nearer and nearer with cautious steps, and was joined by its curious little mates, till there were seven high-bred, dainty animals gazing at the solitary human. A shining bay, with black points, held pride of place as it reared its head daintily, and two little chestnuts followed closely; a wicked little shining black satin-coated one already showed the whites of its eyes, and a brown and a roan completed the number. They stood about solemnly, those seven little critics, and I wondered at their verdict. There and then I resolved that they should find a place on my canvas, and I seized my brush, when suddenly the roan foal, becoming frisky, gambolled and tossed its head, and, with playful leaps, dashed across the paddock, the others following helter-skelter. I don’t think I shall ever forgive that roan foal for breaking up the party, and I’ll feel a grudge against every roan horse I see, whether roaming free in the paddocks or harnessed to work. And then the whole mob scampered off; with tossing mane and head held high in the air, they galloped and pranced and gambolled and frisked for very lightness of heart, and revelled in their glorious sense of freedom and the intoxication of that spring morning. In the next paddock the unbroken horses heard their revels, and they, too, started on a wild stampede. I could hear the thud, thud, thud of galloping hoofs as they disappeared away in the distance, and the muffled sound of the return, as with flashing eyes, waving mane and distended nostrils those young, untamed creatures raced and raced for very joy of living. I thought of tired, spiritless cab-horses standing day by day in unbroken monotony, of cart-horses, whose only glimpses of greenery is the common at night time, and I sighed that I could not transport those weary, spiritless animals, who have surely forgotten (if ever they did know) those free, wild stretches, that unbroken spirit, those wild stampedes through a wealth of greenery in company with a gay, care-free mob, intoxicated with the freedom and beauty of early spring mornings.

All the children joined me in my afternoon walk, and we took the track to the Namoi river. Among the bull-rushes and weeds along the water’s margin, the shy, slim, graceful water-hens rush noiselessly. The children gathered bunches of bull-rushes, clad in their goldeny-brown plush top-coats, and then we gathered shells and mussels, and then placed the mussels all back again in the water, for high above our heads, in one of the river bends, we saw a bed of wild buttercups, and as we hastened through the reeds a brood of ducks floated out—darling little, tiny fluffy balls, with bead-like eyes, drifted along the deep, still waters, with the important mother-ducks leading the way. There were faint, little cries and chirps as they glide along and were joined by flocks of others, young and grown, gliding peacefully down the still, deep river, through patches of sunshine and stretches of shade.

The children find new beauties every day in the bush life. “Why, we never used to notice half those things till you came here,” said Eileen the other day. “I think we must have been going about with our eyes shut half the time.” But I know, of course, that it is because the gift of observation has been cultivated lately, and everything appeals to them now, and where once the paddocks and the river banks were delightful places to run about and play in, now there are fresh points of interest in tree and flower and plant life.

To-morrow I commence my picture, and I shall work very constantly at it till it is quite finished, so don’t expect too many letters in the weeks to come. MARIE.

Mother had gone away. In all the years of their life they had never known Mother to leave them before. But she had gone now for a whole fortnight, and her letters were very constant.

Miss Gibson and Mollie were housekeepers, and all the others helped. At first they were most particular, and Eileen and Eva would sweep and tidy their room most scrupulously every morning, and Doris would tidy up her doll’s clothes and wash and paint up old Rose’s face every morning, and Baby would wander round and get in everybody’s way.

“I’m just about sick of work,” Eileen said one day. “I’m only going to do our room every other morning now, Eva, and the day Mother comes home we’ll give it a monstrous cleaning.”

“All right,” agreed Eva, who was a bit tired of it, too.

“An’ I’ll only wash Rose’s face once a week,” declared Doris.

Miss Gibson was extra kind to Baby those days, and would nurse and talk to her for ever so long.

“Why, you’re making her a real baby again,” said Eileen. “She’ll be getting too lazy to walk. I suppose it’s because Mother’s away that you pet her so much.”

“Poor old Baby!” laughed Miss Gibson, “she won’t be a baby for ever, you know.”

“No, and sometimes I wished I’d died when I was a baby.”

“Why?” asked Miss Gibson, for she knew that Eileen was in one of her discontented moods, and would probably talk and talk till she talked herself all unconsciously out of it.

“Oh! ’cause there’s nothing much to live for, only learning old lessons and things that don’t interest you, and growing up and being disappointed, and—and all sorts of things.”

“Never mind, there might be a bright time coming.”

“No, there’s no bright time coming. People always say, ‘There’s a bright time coming.’ But it’s a very slow old traveller, for it never gets this far. ‘A bright time coming’——”

“Well, what about the time that Uncle came? That was a bright time.”

“Yes, but that’s all over now, and we might go all our lives waiting for a bright time that will never come,” and so, talking, grumbling, and arguing, she talked herself into quite a good temper again.

Meanwhile another fortnight flew by, and then a letter came to Miss Gibson, and there was a hurried consultation with Mollie. Then Eileen was let into the secret, and then the others were told.

“A little brother, a little brother!” they shouted. “Well, isn’t it funny?”

“Well, of all the things that ever would happen, I thought that would be the last!” said Eva.

“Dear, dear, dear!” cried Doris, jumping round and clapping her hands. “Won’t we have fun with him?”

“Won’t we?” screamed Eva. “I hope he’s pretty, and I’ll paint a picture of him.”

“I suppose he’ll be cross, and will always want someone to nurse him,” grumbled Eileen.

“Jingo! I wish he was older,” said Willie; “he’d be great sport for me.”

Then Baby set up a roar, and said she wanted him now; and Miss Gibson lifted her up and talked to her.

“He’ll soon be here now, Baby, and you won’t be Baby any more.”

“Is that why you was always nursing her?” asked Doris. “And did you know, and never tell us?” and then she cried, too. “If you’d told me I’d ha’ made him some little dresses, ’stead of makin’ them all up for Rose.”

“Don’t cry, dear; we’ll all sew for him when he comes home, and Baby can play with him when he gets older.”

“Oh, dear! won’t it be funny having a little brother?” said Mollie. “Oh, dear, I wish he’d soon come home!”

“I’m going to have first nurse,” said Eileen. “I said first.”

“No, I am!” cried Eva, and then there was a quarrel about it.

“I know what I’ll do,” said Willie, slyly. “I’ll ride up to Hogan’s letter box the day your Mother’s coming home, and get her to let me have first nurse. There!”

“No, you won’t—you’ll do nothing of the kind!” cried Eileen, stamping her foot.

“No, he’s not your brother,” cried Eva.

“No!” roared Doris, “he’s not your brother, and I’ll hit you, too.”

She rushed at him, and there was a wild stampede, while they all chased Willie; and the governess let them have their fight out, for she knew how excited they were.

By-and-bye they all came back good friends, and had promised Willie he could have fourth nurse, because Baby wasn’t old enough to care, and she could have the last one.

“By Jove! won’t he laugh when he grows up, and I tell him that I nursed him when he was little?” said Willie, proudly.

“Oh, he might die!” said Doris, bursting into tears. “He might never grow up—he might die.”

Then Miss Gibson had to pacify her and promise her she would make toffee for tea, and so peace was restored again.

For the next few weeks nothing was talked of excepting the new baby, and while they were supposed to be studying or doing their homework they would wonder what colour eyes it would have, and if “it” would be cranky or good, and if “it” would like bush life or rather go to Sydney and study like Frank. It would nearly fill a book with their wonderings, and all the time the time was drawing near when “it” would be home with them.

“I suppose ‘it’ won’t be very pretty,” Eileen would say. “It will be too little for a long time yet.”

“I wonder what’ll we call it,” said Eva.

They ran through hundreds of names, but none of them would suit.

“What about Teddo?” asked Doris, struck by a bright inspiration.

“Oh, yes, let’s call him Teddo!” cried Willie.

“Oh, no!” said Eileen—“not Teddo. Teddo’s all right—for—well—for Teddo, but it won’t do for our little brother.”

“I think it’s real nice,” said Doris, “and Teddo was a real nice man.”

“Oh, yes, I know! but, all the same, we’re not going to call it after Teddo.”

“I like Ronald,” said Eva.

“No, my pet lamb’s named Ronald. He can’t have that,” answered Eileen. “I don’t know whatever we can call him,” she went on, anxiously.

So they went through a lot more names till they became quite cross, and they decided to leave the old name, and let someone else find one. And so the days wore on till the wonderful brother arrived.

And then the joy and the criticisms.

“Isn’t he a darling, and a little dear, and a beauty?” and all kinds of endearing terms were lavished on him, and he was just like some of them thought he would be, and real different to what others thought, and he proved a great entertainment to them.

“Why, he’s got a little red face just like Teddo’s,” cried Doris.

“He hasn’t,” cried Eileen. “He has a lovely, pinkish face.”

“He’s just like a little angel,” said Eva, “and I’m sure Teddo wasn’t like an angel.”

“But he’s like Teddo, all the same,” persisted Doris, “an’ we ought to call him Teddo.”

Then Mother asked what about calling him after Uncle Harry, and they were all thunderstruck to think they had not thought of that before.

“Of course we will!” cried Mollie.

“Yes, ’cause only for Uncle he might never be here,” said Doris, seriously; “’cause everything’s different since Uncle came.”

So it was decided to call him Henry, which would, of course, mean “Harry,” or “Hal,” or “Har.” But he was nearly always called “The Baby,” and so Baby still kept her name as merely “Baby.”

Dadda made him a cart—a box with wooden wheels—and it was fitted up with cushions, and the baby spent many hours there as the weeks went on, and would lie and coo and laugh for ever so long, and the children would crowd round and talk to him. They declared that he answered them, and they were sure he knew each and every one of them and was the most wonderful baby that ever lived. Doris declared that he called her “Doris” one morning as plain as anything; and she said that she loved babies, and when she grew up she would like to have about a hundred.

“Ugh! they’ll be like rabbits!” Eileen answered. “It would be awful to have that many.”

But Doris said she didn’t care.

Willie would beg to be allowed to drag the cart down the road and give the “little chap” a ride, and sometimes Mother would let him, until she found out that he would sometimes leave the cart with her precious treasure and rush off after a bright-winged bird or butterfly.

“But look here, Mrs. Hudson, it’s only for a minute or two, and the baby doesn’t mind—not a bit! He’s great chums with me——”

“Yes, but supposing something knocked the cart over, or supposing—oh, hundreds of things; so you may just wheel him down the road in sight of the house sometimes.”

And Willie said that was very tame.

The weeks sped by. Sometimes the children would say the time dragged. At others they wouldn’t have half enough time, and wished the days were twenty-four, instead of twelve, hours long. It just depended upon the mood they were in whether the time dragged or flew.

Every Tuesday afternoon they did the week’s darning, and would sit out on the verandah, with the darning basket or other mending, and work away, sometimes grumbling, sometimes laughing and talking or listening to Miss Gibson’s stories or reading.

“I don’t know why we wear stockings,” said Eileen one day, as she mended an exceptionally big tear in Baby’s sock. “We ought to wear leggings—yes, leather leggings; and there’d be none of this old stitch, stitch, stitching. Do you hear, Baby?—you’ll have to get a little pair of leather leggings made at the saddler’s.”

Baby roared, and declared she “wouldn’t wear ’em, an’ she was tightened of the tadder,” and was just going off into fresh cries of grief, till Eileen assured her that she would let her off.

“But, all the same, it would be a good idea,” she went on, digging the needle into her sewing. “I’m sure it would be lovely to run about without boots and socks——”

“What about bindies?” asked Doris, triumphantly.

“Oh, well! people’d only have to use their eyes,” said Eileen, coolly. “Anyhow, I’m sick of mending and darning and patching—I’d like to live in trees like the Swiss Family Robinsons——”

“Or monkeys,” said Willie, teasingly.

“You speak for yourself,” answered Eileen, and then the laugh was turned on Willie.

“I say, we never had that week on the river yet,” cried Mollie.

“Oh, no! wouldn’t it be grand? Let’s ask about it now. Come on!”

“Oh, yes, let’s!” shrieked Doris.

Then needles, darning wool, cotton, and stockings were scattered all over the verandah, while they rushed away to find Mother.

At first she thought they had taken leave of their senses, but they begged and pleaded so hard that at last she consented to think about it.

“Yes, we’ll have a great time. We’ll swing the hammocks in the big trees, and, oh—it’ll be great!” cried Mollie.

“What about waiting till Frank comes back? You know, he expects to have a short holiday in the early spring time.”

“Oh, so he does, so he does!” they fairly shrieked. “We’ll wait till then. Frank will enjoy it, and he’ll be such a help, putting up the hammocks and fixing up the fires, and all that.”

“Huh! That’s a nice way to talk about a fellow,” said Willie; “just want him to work!”

“We don’t want him to work,” declared Mollie. “We’re real glad to have him, and we know he’ll love helping us.”

“Oh, I could lend you a hand if you want help,” said Willie.

“Of course you can, and we’ll be real glad to have your help.”

“Yes, there’s not much I can’t do in the fixing up line,” went on Willie, boastfully.

“Oh, no, you’re all right for your age,” said Eileen, “but of course you’re so very young.”

If there was anything Willie hated it was to be called young.

“I’m not so very young, either,” he answered. “Now, I call Doris and Baby young. I’ll surprise you all when it comes to fixing up camp.”

“Yes, you’re real good at fixing up,” agreed Eva.

“Oh, dear! won’t it be grand?” they all echoed again, and just then Dadda came in.

“I have some good news for you, children.”

“Good news!” they cried. “Whatever is it? Oh, tell us!”

“Tell us, quick!” cried Doris.

“Mr. and Mrs. Grey are leaving soon, and the manager and his wife and children are coming to live there.”

“Oh!”

The darning, which had been taken up again, was fairly banged on to the verandah now, and scissors and wool were scattered far and wide, while Eva threw a reel of cotton high in the air.

“Children coming! Playmates! Hurrah!”

“When are they coming, and who are they, and how many, and how old are the children, and are they nice?”

“Are you glad?” asked Dadda.

“Glad?” repeated Eileen. “Glad’s not in it! We’re overjoyed. Of course we all like Mrs. Gray; she can make lovely little cakes, and keep her house lovely and clean, but—little cakes and a clean house are not playmates. And when we’re dying for fun and playmates, cakes and houses don’t count!”

“No, dere no good,” declared Doris, in tones of finality.

“Oh! won’t it be fine?” cried Eva. “I hope they’re nice.”

“I hope so,” said everyone, in tones of concern. “If they’re not nice, won’t it be awful?”

“Worse nor cakes an’ a house,” said Doris.

They all went off into peals of laughter at the worried look on Doris’s face.

“Oh, I think they’re sure to be nice,” said Mollie, hopefully.

“But supposing they’re not,” groaned Eileen. “Supposing we wish the Greys were back again?”

“We’ll fix ’em up,” said Willie. “If they’re not nice when they come, we’ll make ’em nice.”

“Well, young man, they’re coming the day after to-morrow, so you’ll have to get ready for your task very soon.”

“The day after to-morrow!”

They all sat still for a while, with the wonder of it.

“I didn’t think it would be for another week, whatever. The day after to-morrow!”

“I wonder will they go past here, and will we get a look at them?” cried Eileen.

“No, they’re coming past Frazer’s old place.”

“Oh, bother them!” she cried. “We mightn’t see them for weeks. I’ve a good mind to camp at Frazer’s old place, just to get the first look at them. I wonder how many children there are, and do they like the country, and can they ride, and what are their names? Did Mrs. Grey tell you anything about them?”

“No, she doesn’t know them at all.”

“Oh, dear! I don’t know how ever I can live till they come,” groaned Eileen. “I bet I’ll dream about them to-night.”

Sure enough she did, and she recounted her dream to a wondering group next morning.

“Yes, there were five of them, and what do you think—they were all exactly the one size?”

“Oh!——”

“And they all had red hair. Real red hair, everyone of them.”

“Oh, they must have looked funny!”

“All the one size?” asked Eva.

“Yes, the five of them; all the one size, with little red heads.”

“They must have all been twins,” shrieked Doris.

“Twins!” echoed Willie, in tones of disgust. “Triplets, you mean!”

“Triplets—oh, listen!” cried Eva. “Fourlets or fivelets, more like.”

“Oh, dear, they must have looked like five little carrots!” said Doris.

“Yes, that’s what they looked like—five little carrots, all dressed up.”

There were shrieks of laughter at this, but the dream made them all the more anxious to see the new people. As the days sped on, they grew nearly frantic with curiosity.

“See them?” they’d ask Dadda and old Joe, as they came in, in the evening. But they were always doomed to disappointment.

But one day old Joe had good news.

“Yes, I seen ’em to-day,” he said, as he unsaddled his horse. “I called there with a sheep notice.”

“Oh, Joe! How many—what are they like? What did they say?”

A volley of questions were hurled at him.

“She seems a nice lady——”

“But the children, Joe—what about——”

“Children?” echoed Joe. “Who said there was children?” he went on, in his most tantalising manner.

“Oh, Joe! but there are, aren’t there? Oh, tell us, Joe.”

“If there’s no children, I’ll go—I’ll go and drownd myself,” cried Doris, bursting into tears. “I will—I’ll go and drownd myself——”

“Steady, there—yes, there’s children. Well, there’s none real little—least, not what I seen.”

“Oh, tell’s all about them!” cried Doris, with the tears still standing in her eyes.

“There’s a boy looks about fifteen—a nice lad, he seems, with red hair.”

They all gasped.

“Red hair! Oh!”

“You didn’t see five of them, did you, Joe? Five of them with red hair? Because, if you did, that’s my dream out.”

“Dream? Who’s talkin’ about dreams?” answered Joe, testily, for he was always cantankerous till he had his tea. “If you’re goin’ to start talkin’ about dreams, I’ll tell you no more about them.”

“Oh! go on, please, Joe.”

“Yes, a nice lad he seems, and his hair ain’t real red; leastways, not that bad-tempered ginger red. It’s more like the reddish-brown colour of a myall log just where it’s chopped.”

“Yes, I know the shade,” said Eva, eagerly.

“He’s got a nice fresh face, and he seems a real nice lad. And there’s a girl about the size of Eileen there, and there’s another one in a sort of a pram or chair.”

“Oh, she must be the baby!” they gasped.

“No, she ain’t the baby, but I think she must be delicate. She looked about nine or ten.”

“Oh! Any more?”

“No, that’s all I seen.”

“You didn’t hear any more laughing or—crying anywhere, did you, Joe?”

“No,” he answered, testily; “of course I didn’t. Wouldn’t I know there was more if I heerd ’em laughing or crying?”

“Oh, the poor little delicate one. I’d love to see her. What a pity she won’t be able to join in our fun!” said Eileen.

“Now, that’s all I know about ’em,” said Joe. “So don’t you ever mention the new people to me again. If you want to find out any more go and see ’em for yourself, and don’t let on I said anything about the little delicate one—for there’s no knowin’ how they’ll take it.”

“All right, Joe—all right,” they shouted after him. “But what a pity!” they said among themselves, “there’s not more of them. If there were only five or six.”

“I wish dere was a tousand,” declared Doris.

“Why don’t you say a million thousand while you’re at it?” asked Willie.

“Well, anyhow, it’s time Mother went to see them,” said Eileen.

“Yes, of course it is,” they all agreed. “Let’s go and tell her to go soon.”

“Wait a while. Who’ll go with her?”

There was a pause.

“Whose turn is it? It isn’t mine, because I went to Bragan Junction last week,” said Eileen. “I suppose Mother and Miss Gibson will go and one of us. Let’s see—it’s Eva’s turn.”

“Oh, no! you go, Eileen; you go first, and tell us all about them.”

“But supposing I don’t like them. You go, Mollie.”

“Oh, no! you always get more news than any of us. You go first.”

“Yes,” agreed Willie and Doris. “And, another thing,” went on Willie; “I don’t see what Miss Gibson wants to go for. Mollie ought to go instead.”

“Oh, no, Miss Gibson must go,” said Mollie, hastily. “It wouldn’t be nice to leave her at home.”

“No, and, besides, let them see we have a governess,” said Eileen. “It’s just as well to let people know you can afford it.”

“I never thought of that,” agreed Willie. “I hope your Mother wears her best dress.”

“Of course she will,” they chorussed. “And now let’s find Mother, and get her to name a day, because once the day’s named half the trouble’s over.”

Off they scampered to find Mother.

The visit was paid at last, and Eileen went as a kind of “scout,” to seek news and information, and the others waited with what patience they could for their return. But the time seemed very long as they watched up the road, long before there could be any possibility of them appearing; and at last Eva suggested that they should walk up and meet them. Willie joined them, and they all marched forth and walked to the Big White Gate, a mile and a half from home, before they met them. Eileen sprang out to tell them everything.

“I’ll walk home,” she said, “because I’ve got such a lot to tell them.”

“Won’t you get in and have a drive, Doris?” asked Mother.

“No, tanks,” answered Doris. “I want to hear about ’em.”

“Oh, they’re boskers! A lot better than I thought, and we’ll be able to have great fun together. What do you think—there’s five of them. Old Joe must have missed two the day he was there.”

“That’s great!” they cried.

“There’s Colin, about sixteen. He’s nice, and his hair’s hardly red at all, although there’s a bit of red in it, and he can ride and shoot and skate and——”

“Does he wear long pants?” asked Willie.

“Yes, and he had a lovely Norfolk suit on, and looked like the nice fellows on the catalogues.”

“I wish I was in long pants,” grumbled Willie.

“What! A boy like you? A nice sight you’d be in long pants. Why, you’ve got five years to go yet. It isn’t long since Colin took to them.”

“Did you call him Colin?” asked Eva.

“Yes, of course I did, and he said we must all call him Colin. We’re all going to meet them to-morrow down at the river bridge, because Colin’s promised to take Meta there, and it’ll be great fun. Meta’s the delicate one. She’s not always delicate, but she hurt the spine of her back, and she has to have a long rest. That’s why she has an invalid’s chair, but she’s real nice and cheerful. Then there’s Edith—she’s next to Colin. I should have said her before Meta; and there’s two little boys—Keith and Kossie. They are little dears, but very wild. I mean they chase round and make a noise, but they’re lovely looking. And they’re twins.”

“Oh, dear, I wish to-morrow would come soon!” said Doris.

“It won’t be long,” said Eileen, consolingly.

The next afternoon they met, and became firm friends. They told each other their ages and dates of their birthdays, and their favourite names and favourite flowers, and they made up their minds to be friends always, no matter what happened.

“You look real nice in that chair,” said Eva to Meta, impulsively.

“Do I?” she laughed. “Well, I’ll be real glad when I can leave it. Sometimes since I have come up here I’ve had some nice little short walks, and it is just lovely to be on my feet again. I never knew how nice it was to walk till I’ve been lying down so long.”

“I’ll read all my poems to you some day, if you like,” went on Eva.

“I’d love it,” Meta answered.

“Yes, I have a nice collection of stamps,” Colin was saying to Mollie, “and some of them are very valuable, and I have some beautiful foreign post-cards, too——”

“Any money in post-cards?” asked Willie, with his hands deep in his pockets.

“Oh, no, it’s just a hobby.”

“I believe in money-making,” asserted Willie. “Some day I’m going to start and make a big lot of it.”

“Good luck to you,” laughed Colin. “You’re thinking of it early.”

“A man has to start young,” answered Willie, as he strode off with his fishing line. He would have dearly loved to have a game of chasings with the two little boys and Doris, but just on the first meeting he wanted to appear dignified.

“He’s a queer little chap,” laughed Colin to Mollie.

“He thinks he’s a man when he talks like that,” said Mollie, hastily. “He’s a real nice little boy when he’s natural.”

Meanwhile the two little boys were becoming unmanageable. They would race backwards and forwards over the bridge, like two young horses, and up and down the steep banks of the river, until they became more daring, and started to jump from one stone to another across the water.

“Come out at once, you young rascals!” commanded Colin, “and don’t attempt to go in there again.”

So for a time there was peace while they played at making houses with sticks with Doris and Baby. Then Mollie looked up and saw a sight that made her blood run cold, for, perched high on a tree overhanging the deepest part of the river, were the twins far out on a slender branch that swayed with their weight. One false move, and they would be dashed into the gurgling water that lapped round the cruel sharp stones just beneath them. Colin saw them, too, and his face blanched.

“Not a word, Mollie,” he gasped. “Go and talk to Meta. Talk for all you’re worth, and don’t let her see them, whatever you do.”

Mollie never quite knew how she reached Meta, and what she talked about to make her laugh so; but she caught hold of the invalid’s chair and wheeled it away down the road and around the bend, out of sight of the fatal tree, after she had whispered to Edith and Eileen to go to Colin.

The twins could see their danger, and looked appealingly to those on the river bank, for they had all joined Colin by this, and Doris and Baby waved and clapped their hands in fear.

“Keep still, the pair of you!” commanded Colin, “and I’ll come up to you.”

He tore off his coat and boots, and attempted to climb the tree. They were a long way out, but it was easy enough to reach them if they would only keep still. At last Colin, lying on a strong branch, put out his hand and drew Keith back to safety, and when halfway down handed him to the watchers on the bank. He then went back again for Kossie, who was beginning to cry and getting restive. Suddenly one of the branches he was clinging to broke, and the next instant Kossie would have been tossed into the water, had not Colin, with a mighty effort, grasped him. For a minute he swung in mid air, and then he was drawn back to the branch. For a time the two of them hung there. The watchers on the bank held their breath. If the branch should snap, and send the two clinging figures into the stony depths below! A few twigs and bushes broke off and dropped into the gurgling water, and the watchers shuddered. Supposing it should have been Colin or Kossie! But at last the tension was over, and Colin slowly descended, with Kossie in his arms. Then Doris, Baby, and the others rushed the twins and kissed and hugged them, and told them never to do it again, and gave them all kinds of advice and warnings.

“No, never do it again,” said Colin, sternly, facing the culprits. “You might have been floating down the river now—two little corpses. I’ve a good mind to——”

But his words were drowned in the wail the twins set up at the thought of being two little corpses, and it was long ere they could pacify them.

“Me don’t want to be corpse,” shouted Kossie.

“Me don’t, eder,” cried Keith. “Me want to wide me po—o-ny.”

“Well, you’ll never ride your pony again, you’ll never see your pony, if you go doing things like that,” said Colin. “Come on, let’s have some billy tea to cheer us up, and then it will be time for home.”

“Oh, what a pity it’s nearly over!” said Doris. “I wish it was just beginning.”

“Never mind, we’ll soon meet again,” said Colin, as he threw a stack of twigs and bushes on the fire that crackled and blazed merrily. They all had a parting cup of tea, and gave three cheers for Colin and three cheers for all themselves; then Doris said:

“Three cheers for the twins!”

“They don’t deserve it,” said Colin, but he joined in the cheer, and caps and hats were thrown high in the air.

“What a beueful day it was,” said Doris, as they walked home across the paddock.

“Yes, lovely. Nearly an accident and all,” said Eileen. “It was just like what you’d read about. Oh, it was a lovely day, and I love the twins, although they’re wild and a bit bold.”

“Pity Kossie didn’t fall in and didn’t get hurt. It would have been great to talk about,” said Willie. “If he only fell in and sailed down the river a bit. It would have been real great!”

“Ye—es. As long as he didn’t get hurt,” agreed Eva.

“Yes. I wish he fell in and sailed away,” said Doris, briskly. “It wouldn’t ha’ hurt him, an’ we’d had great fun. Pity Colin didn’t push him in,” she cried, warming to the subject.

“Oh, well, anyhow, he nearly fell in, and it was real exciting, so we can’t grumble,” said Eileen, and they all agreed.

They all walked home through the cold, sharp-tinged gloaming, very pleased with themselves and the world in general.

As time went on there were many merry meetings, and the twins had some hairbreadth escapes, and the Gillong children wondered how ever they had lived so long without the Garlands, and the Garlands wondered the same about the Hudsons. Sometimes they would go fishing, and the twins would throw stones and sticks in the water, just to see the circles growing wider and wider. Colin would chase them up the bank with his rod, because he said they hunted the fish away; and then they would climb trees and “hoot-toot” among the branches and declare they were owls or other birds.

They were a source of never-ending joy to Doris, who dearly loved to watch them at their tricks, and she wished and wished that she knew a million thousand boys like them.

“Oh, dear, I wish something nice would happen!” sighed Eileen. “It’s a terrible long time since anything real nice happened.”

“Yes, not since Uncle came,” said Eva.

“Oh, wha—what about the baby?” gasped Doris, in amazement.

“Oh, yes, of course—the baby—well, the baby’s all right, but, still, I want some real fun. I’m sick of everything again, and I know the Garlands are great, and we’re lucky to have them; but I’d like something real different and real surprising to happen.”

“Yes, I wish something exciting would happen, too,” said Mollie. “Something real nice and exciting——”

“Yes, not Mrs. Grey getting sick, or anything like that,” said Eva.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Grey getting sick is not the kind of fun—er, I mean excitement—I want,” said Eileen; “that was right enough for a time, but I want real fun now.”

“So do I,” said Mollie.

“And so do I,” said Eva.

“And me, too,” agreed Doris. “I want some real fun—not Mrs. Gray, or the baby, or old Rose, or anything else.”

“Me, too,” chimed in Baby, who was beginning to feel quite grown up since the other baby came.

“Pity somethin’ wouldn’t happen to the twins or something,” said Doris. “Not too bad—only somethin’ or other, I don’t know what.”

“But, of course, nothing will happen,” said Eileen, dismally.

“No, of course it won’t,” agreed Eva.

“No, it never does,” went on Eileen. “It’s the same old thing over and over. Go to bed, get up, have your meals; go to bed again, get up, have your meals,” she repeated like a parrot, and she might have kept on repeating it for another hour or two, only that they saw the mailman coming in the distance, and they wondered if he would bring any letters; but “of course he wouldn’t,” Eileen said; he never did bring letters to them, only once in a blue moon, so what was the use of wondering about him or looking for him or anything else.

“If he don’t bwing letters I—I don’t know what I’ll do,” said Doris. “I wish—I wish a letter’d come to take us away to some place we never heard of,” she went on, not knowing what to wish for.

“Oh, yes, and it might be worse than here!” answered Eileen. “A lot of good that will do you!”

“I don’t know what I’d like,” said Mollie, “but something where we could have plenty of laughing and talking and great fun.”

“I wish we had another noo uncle,” sighed Doris. “He was the best ’sprise we ever had. Pity we hadn’t some more.”

“Oh, you’d soon get sick of uncles,” grumbled Eileen.

“There might be a letter from Uncle to-day,” said Mollie, brightly. “It’s a long while since we heard from him. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if there was one from him to-day.”

“I’ll bet there won’t be,” croaked Eileen, “so don’t be thinking there might, because you’ll only be disappointed.”

Mother opened the mail-bag, and out dropped some square thick envelopes.

“Oh, letters!” called Mother, and there was a scramble to see whom they were for.

“Mother and Dadda, Miss Gibson, and the Misses Hudson, and one for Willie, in the same writing,” she cried.

“I hope it’s not a bill for that whip of mine,” said Willie, as he tried to appear careless about getting a letter.

“A likely thing a bill would come in an envelope like that,” said Eileen, sharply.

Then there was excitement indeed, for the letters were invitations to a party at “Myall,” and not merely a party, but a plain and fancy dress party. There was great excitement at “Gillong,” as they discussed their dresses and “characters.”

“I think I’ll go as a Cowboy,” said Willie, as he swaggered round.

“Oh, no; go as something nice,” said Eileen.

“Nice? What do you call nice?” asked Willie. “There’s nothing nicer than a cowboy. You ought to see ’em at the pictures.”

“Oh, no! Go as Lord Somebody, or Sir Someone, or somebody grand. You can be an old cowboy any day.”

“No, thanks, I don’t want to be any of your grand chaps. I might be a footballer, or a cricketer, or a stockman; but none of your grand men that wear silk and satin. Ugh! And I might be a Red Indian yet. Yes, that’s what I’ll be—a Red Indian,” he cried, excitedly. “Oh! it will be fun rigging it up. Let’s come and make a start at it now. I’ll have feathers all over my head, and I’ll get the loan of that dingo skin of your Mum’s, and—oh, it will be fun!”

“No, you won’t be a Red Indian,” cried Eileen. “No one will dance with you.”

“Dance with me?” echoed Willie. “I don’t want ’em to dance. I want to have some fun. I thought you were all wishing for fun, and now it’s coming you want to dress up in fine clothes. Ugh!”

“What about Little Lord Fauntleroy? Oh, Willie, you’d look pretty!”

“Little Lord Fauntleroy!” gasped Willie. “Ugh! Do you think I want to look pretty? Do you think a man wants to look pretty? Ugh!”

For the next week excitement and disorder held sway at “Gillong,” for there was so much trouble in choosing costumes.

One day Eva would decide on “Flower Girl,” another on “Erin” or “Rule, Britannia,” or some other character; and they were all the same, till Mother and the governess were nearly distracted.

“I don’t think I’ll go,” said Eileen one evening.

“Why?” they all asked in chorus.

“Because I don’t know what to be, and it’s too much trouble deciding. And, besides, it’s silly going in fancy dress, fixing up everything; and I’d rather go in a real pretty silk dress and nice silk stockings and pretty shoes and a fan, and all sorts of nice things; and I’m not rich enough for that, so I’ll stay at home.”

“Oh, nonsense!” cried Mollie. “It’s lovely to be going in fancy dress.”

“Oh, its all right for you—you’ve decided!”

“Well, why don’t you decide?”

“I can’t. Every day makes it harder, and I get more mixed; so I’ll just give the lot up and stay at home;” and she looked very disconsolate.

“What about a gipsy?” asked someone.

“Or a queen, or a mermaid, or—oh, lots of things!”

“Now, look here, Eileen; you’ll have to decide,” said Mollie, firmly. “Let’s fix it up now.”

So, after a great deal of talk, she decided on “Gipsy Queen.”

Then there was work getting their dresses ready. Mollie was “Night,” and the soft black dress, with the half-moon and stars cut out of silver paper, suited her splendidly. Across her red-gold hair she had a black velvet band, with a quaint little half-moon slanting across it.

The “Gipsy Queen” looked fine in her red dress, with slashes of gold paper and touches of black velvet, and coins and berries placed cunningly here and there. In the make-ups everyone helped, and the tags off tobacco were even pressed into service. Even old Joe would sit at the kitchen table after tea and cut out hundreds of stars and other shapes out of silver and gold paper; and many the argument he and Willie had over correct sizes, etc., and how many stars were in the sky, and thousands of other things; and, of course, the arguments were never decided, because they were both sure that they were right, and left it at that.

Eva was “Flower Girl,” and had a pretty white muslin frock, decked with flowers, and carried a wand (made by Old Joe) wreathed with flowers. Doris was “Winter,” and looked radiant in her red dress, bordered with wadding for fur, and a little white wadding cap trimmed with red berries. Baby was “Red Riding Hood,” and fancied herself in her little blue frock and white pinafore and red cape and hood; only when she had been at the party a while she grew tired of the cape and hood, and threw it off, and was just plain Baby in her little blue frock for the rest of the evening. At the last Willie had decided to go as a “Scout,” and his mother had to hurriedly post him a suit from Sydney; and Mollie fixed up one of Frank’s felt hats for him, and he was very pleased with his “rig out,” as he called it.

Two days before the party a letter came from Frank to say that he was coming home for a short holiday. “Just a week or ten days,” he wrote, “and I am looking forward to it. What a lot we will have to talk about! Tell Doris and Baby I’ll expect them to give me a picnic under the old picnic tree.”

They were all silent for a while, overjoyed at the great news, and then their tongues were loosened, and a babel of voices filled the air.

“Well, if it’s not the very best thing that could happen,” cried Eileen. “I’ve been wishing that Frank could be here to see us in our fancy dresses, and now he’ll be here. Hooray!”

“Oh, dear, dear! whatever’ll he go as?” cried Doris. “I wish he’d be old Father Christmas.”

“Father Christmas, indeed!” cried Eileen. “I fancy I see him!”

“Yes, an’ he’d be a mate for me, then,” said Doris. “He could have a red coat with fur on it and berries, and he’d look real nice.”

“Pity I didn’t know he was coming sooner,” said Willie. “I’d have saved postage on my suit. He could have brought it up.”

“So he could,” they agreed. “What a pity!”

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Willie, lordly. “A fellow doesn’t have much use for money up here.”

They danced round Frank when he arrived, and all wanted to tell him all the news at once. They admired him, and said he looked “lovely” and “beautiful,” and all kinds of nice things, till Frank laughingly declared he’d grow too shy to talk.

But he was a different Frank to the boy who had left “Gillong” only about eight months ago. He was so alert and bright and keen, and his eyes were dancing as he talked and laughed. For he had found his niche, and was working hard at his heart’s desire: and Mollie thought gratefully of “Uncle,” who had put it in his power to take up the work he liked.

“I’m getting on fine, Mollie,” he confided later on, “and I’m sure as the time goes on that I’ll reach the top. Oh, it’s fine to be at something that you like—something that you can put all your energies into and use your brain power. Sometimes I think of the long, long days that used to seem so hopeless, and I shudder. But it’s great to be back among it all again for a while, and I’ll enjoy every minute of my holiday.”

They showed Frank their dresses, and there was much whispering and laughing among them.

“Guess what this used to be once,” cried Eileen, holding up Doris’s jaunty little “winter” cap.

“Couldn’t in a lifetime,” laughed Frank.

“The wadding out of the old tea cosy,” she cried.

“And Baby’s red cape and hood are made from an old cloak Mamma had when she was a girl. Do you see this wand? Well, old Joe made it, and we covered it with gold paper.”

“Marvellous!” cried Frank. “What a pity I wasn’t here sooner to rig myself out in something.”

“I’ll tell you what—go as a Red Indian,” cried Willie. “I wanted to, but couldn’t manage it.”

But Frank decided he would go in plain clothes.

The new baby came in for a lot of attention, too.

“Well, little chap, I wonder what you’ll want to be when you grow up,” said Frank, leaning over his little cart. “I wonder will you be fond of bush life, or will you have a hankering after other things.”

The new baby smiled up at him, as though it didn’t care what became of it in the future.

“Anyhow, I’ll keep an eye on you and find out what you do want, and see that you get it.”

Frank meant it, for in his heart was a great gladness, and life seemed worth while. He grew quite excited over the prospect of the party, too.

“Won’t Enid be surprised?” said Eva. “Won’t she be glad, too? You look lovely, Frank, and that suit of yours is beautiful. I bet you’ll be the nicest-looking grown-up boy there, and I’m real glad you’re here to come with us. What a pity you’re not a poet, Frank,” she concluded.

“A poet? One of those chaps that forgets to have his meals?” cried Frank, teasingly.

“No, a real nice, clever poet, and write big books of poems, and have pretty pictures in them. You know, I could paint the pictures later on, because I’m going to be an artist.”

“Oh, well, I’ll think about it,” laughed Frank, “and perhaps we’ll bring out a book in conglomeration—Eva Hudson and Frank Lynton.”

“Wouldn’t it be lovely?” she gasped.

“Oh! let’s talk about the party,” pleaded Doris. “Don’t be an old poet, ’cause it’s real hard gettin’ words to go, an’ you’d be always writin’ and writin’, an’ you’d never have time for games or anything. A party’s better’n poems a lot.”

They all fell to wondering what the Garlands would wear.

“Of course there’ll only be Colin and Meta there, I suppose, unless Edith goes to look on.”

“No, they’re all going,” said Mollie. “Even the twins.”

“What! the twins going? Oh, that’ll be better than ever!” they cried. “The twins will give us some fun. Oh, Frank, you’ll love the twins!”

“I’m not too sure about that,” said Frank.

“It’s the best news I ever heard,” cried Doris, dancing round.

“The twins will be there. The dear, darlin’, bold, noisy, darlin’ twins.”

They all went from “Gillong” except old Joe, and he came out to see them off, and told them that there wouldn’t be anyone as nice as them there, and to fly round and enjoy themselves. The station was a blaze of light as they drove up, and buggies were coming from all directions, and motor-cars and a few horsemen.

“Oh, dear, I’m getting shy!” said Eva. “I do hope I don’t keep like it, or I won’t enjoy myself a bit.”

They were all too excited to feel shy when they alighted, and were led off to take off their wraps.

“What do you think?” gasped Eileen, as she took off her cloak before going down to the party room. “I’ve seen four gipsies already. I’m sorry I’m not old Queen Elizabeth or Mary of Scots, or some of them.”

“Never mind, I’m sure you’ll look as nice as any of them,” said Miss Gibson. “Come along, now, and forget any grievances and enjoy yourself right merrily.”

Enjoy themselves they did, and after a while Eileen didn’t care if there were forty gipsies there. They danced and sang and played games in the moonlit garden, and there were such a lot of nice boys and girls; and how they did talk!

Young Harry Egerton, from a big station further north, danced a lot with Mollie, and he quite beamed when she told him she liked his name. When he asked her why, and she told him it was because she had a nice Uncle named Harry he didn’t look half so pleased.

“And we’re going to Sydney to stay with him again this summer,” she went on. “He’ll soon be back from the Continent now.”

Then Harry said he was going to Sydney for the summer, too, and they’d meet down there.

Enid was so pleased to see Frank again that she had the second dance with him, and then fat George Blackston came up and said she promised it to him a long time ago. She smiled sweetly, and begged to be excused, because Frank had been so long away, and was only staying up the country for a little time.

So George marched off and secured another partner, and said he didn’t think the party was going to be much good.

“Why?” asked his partner with wide-open eyes, for she had just been thinking how “lovely” it was.

All the evening the fun was kept going. At first Willie strolled round and watched them all; but after a while he, too, joined in the merriment, and what a time they had!

Doris was romping round, and tore the wadding on her dress, and after that little pieces of white fur were scattered all over the room. But she didn’t care, with her head thrown back, her eyes and cheeks glowing, she pranced round and said it was the beautifullest party she was ever at. And Eva, too, put away her flower-wreathed wand and joined in the fun.

Mother and a lot more grown ups looked on and smiled and talked about the costumes, and the baby slept through it all, never knowing the good time he was missing.

“You know,” confided Eileen to one of her partners, “we ought to have a lot of parties like this.”

“Of course we ought,” he agreed.

“Yes, every week or every fortnight, whatever,” and he agreed again.

What a crowd were there—nearly all in fancy costume! Gipsies and Flower Girls and Queens and Shepherds and Stockmen and Soldiers and Sailors joined in the throng.

Harry Egerton told Mollie that “Night” was the prettiest costume there, and Frank told Enid that “Dawn” was. For Enid was arrayed in a pretty costume of goldeny shade, merging into the rose-pink of dawn.

Colin came as a courtier, and Eileen said she would never have believed that Colin could look so nice, if she hadn’t seen him with her very own eyes. He picked her out at once, and said that the Gipsy Maid must dance with the Count, as in “the days of old.” So the merry Gipsy Girl danced happily with the gorgeous Count.

Meta was a Scotch Lassie, and the twins were the Little Princes in the Tower, and looked angelic in their dear little black velvet suits, lace collars, and patent shoes and buckles; and Edith enjoyed herself immensely looking on, and a very merry party of boys and girls gathered round her chair.

“Next party I hope you’ll be able to join in all the fun,” said Eileen, kissing her.

“Oh, yes! of course, later on I will,” answered Edith, brightly, for she had learnt while still young the great lessons of patience and unselfishness.

Then supper was announced, and Enid suggested that they should have a grand march in full regalia to the supper table, and they all agreed heartily. Wands and baskets of flowers, etc., were hastily gathered together, and Baby made a wild rush for her cap and hood, which were thrown aside; and they all marched out to the big covered-in verandah, where the supper was spread.

On they went, two by two, laughing and joking and making a pretty picture of color and brightness in their varied costumes. And if the fun had been bright and gay all the evening, it became even better at the supper table. There were jests and jokes and ripples of merry laughter, and Eileen confided to her partner that she was just finding life worth living.

“I wonder where’s the twins?” said Colin, looking round the table.

“Oh, yes—the twins!” echoed Eileen, and just then she gave a little scream. “Oh, dear! what’s that?” and on the other side of the table someone else gave a little shriek.

“Oh, a dog!” they cried.

“What? Where?”

“Under the table, and he bit my leg!” cried a little fair-haired girl.

“Oh, dear, you’ll go silly!” cried someone. “If he’s a mad dog, you’ll get hy—dro—pho—bia.”

“Oh!” the girl shrieked.

“And he’s bit me, too!”

“And me—and me——”

“Oh!”

Then there was a scramble. A lot climbed into their chairs, while heads were ducked under the table, to find—the twins! Yes, the twins, chuckling fit to kill themselves!

“We noo we’d fighten you,” they cried, as they popped out. “We noo you’d sing out. We was sittin’ under there ever so long.”

“You ought to be sent home,” cried Colin, hotly; but all the others laughed.

“Did you think we was mad dogs?” they cried, in great glee. “We said we’d fighten you a long time ago.”

Then they patted their little velvet suits and straightened their little lace collars, and looked nicer than ever. Then everyone roared with laughter, and the supper went on merrily, as though there was no such thing in the world as drought or hard times.

And when the buggies came round for the homeward return there were laughing good-byes and all kinds of promises, while the waiting horses champed at their bits, or a big motor throbbed as if in protest at being kept so long. Good-byes were flung back across the cold night air, as at last they rolled away home, saying it was the nicest party that ever was.

The time had come at last, and a merry party gathered to go off to the river. They had chosen a spot a few miles from “Gillong.” The Hudsons, the Garlands, Enid and some of her friends, and the governess made up the party.

Old Joe drove the cart with the tents, hammocks, and bags and boxes, and after a lot of persuasion he let the twins and Doris drive with him.

“But, mind you, none of your tricks or nonsense,” he threatened. “Doris is as bad as the pair of you now.”

“Oh, Joe, we’ll be good!” declared the twins, with their innocent-looking faces.

“All right, then, none of your pranks! D’you hear?”

“Yes, Joe.”

“Well, mind you ’eed,” he answered, as he started off.

For the first mile they were all right, and then they grew restive. When Joe wasn’t looking Keith would hang on to the tailboard of the cart with his legs swinging in the air, and execute a high kick now and again, much to the delight of the other two. Then, like a flash of lightning, he would be back in his place if old Joe glanced round. But he played the game once too often, and just in the middle of a high kick the cart wheeled round the bend, and he was thrown far out on to the soft clover.

“Oh, Joe, Joe, pull up quick!” cried Doris. “You’ve thrown him out.”

“Who? What?” cried Joe. “Threw him out!” and he pulled up with a jerk.

“Yes, Keith, round the last bend.”

“Sakes alive, you’d send a man crazy, so you would. I ’ope he ain’t ’urt,” and he turned back quickly, to see our hero racing along and crying at the top of his voice.

“Come ’ere and jump in. How did you fall out?”

“The c-a—rt bumped me—o—ut,” sobbed Keith.

“Where was you sittin’?”

“N—o—t far from de others.”

“Show me the spot,” said Joe, sternly. “You must ha’ been up to some of your tricks. Where was you sittin’?”

“I was near the back of the ole cart,” said Keith, sulkily.

“Was you hangin’ out of it?”

No reply.

“Come on, out with it! Was you hangin’ out of the cart?”

“Yes,” said Keith, defiantly.

“Well, serves you right for fallin’. You might ha’ broken your leg, fallin’ like that. You’ll never drive with me again as long’s my name’s Joe.”

Then he lit his pipe and drove on and didn’t speak to them again till they reached the river; but the young rascals were whispering and giggling together long before then—up to some fresh roguery.

Such a gay crowd set to work to pitch the tents and swing the hammocks, and soon the fresh smell of cut timber and bruised leaves filled the air, while laughter and merry voices were heard on every side.

The hammocks were mostly bags slung up with wire, and in some cases sheets of wire-netting, with a rug thrown over them. But they swung among the leafy branches under the fresh-smelling leaves, and there were never better beds in the world! It was delightful to wake in the early morning under a canopy of leaves, and see the sun peeping forth, transforming the dew-tipped leaves and grass and gossamer spider-webs into glistening jewel-like splendour. To hear the birds chirping and twittering along the river, or watch them plunge into the stream. To hear the flap of the fish as they sprang out of the water, and then to hear the fire crackling merrily. At times like this they all wished they were gipsies.

Then breakfast would come, with fish fresh from the river and potatoes cooked in their jackets, and there was nothing but goodwill and merriment from morning to night.

They would have tea as the evening shadows were creeping along the river, and hear the birds fluttering and cooing among the branches, or far along the river strange calls and chirps would be heard from strange wild bush birds. Then the merry jackasses would give forth their jolly, rollicking laugh, and wake up all the echoes; and the children would join with them, till there was perfect pandemonium. And by-and-bye a great golden moon would swing in the sky, lighting up the scene into fairy-like splendour, making the tents stand out whitely and transforming the broad stretch of water into a golden sheen. This was the time for stories, and they would gather round the camp fires and listen while the “grown-ups” talked; and sometimes they would declare that they could see gnomes and fairies high among the glistening gum leaves, and even hear them chattering.

One night they found Keith and Kossie, armed with two little tomahawks, just about to try and climb a great gum that had gnarled and knotted branches, and they declared they were going up to give the gnomes the fright of their lives.

“We wadn’t goin’ to hurt ’em; we was only goin’ to have some fun,” they answered when Miss Gibson protested with them.

“When I grow up I’ll settle some of dem old gnomes,” said Keith, shaping up to fight, “and I’m goin’ to find de ole wolf dat nearly killed Red Riding Hood and shoot him,” he ended up, tragically.

“Oh, but the woodmen shot him!” cried Doris.

“Well, den I’ll kill his brudder,” declared Keith.

“That’s right, you’ll kill someone if you’re not careful,” said Frank, with a hearty laugh. For Frank’s laugh rang out gay and clear these days, and oftimes Mother and Father would look at him and marvel at the change.

“I don’t think we did right by the lad, keeping him so long with us at the work he must have hated,” said Father.

“Oh, well! it will make him appreciate his good fortune all the more now,” said Mother. “And I don’t think Frank regrets the time he spent with us now, but it’s nice to see him so happy.”

The last evening came, as last evenings will, no matter how we try to stay their progress. The last evening of a happy, care-free week—a week to which many looked back in after years with a sigh or a smile, but always with a tender memory.

“I wonder will we ever have another week here. I wonder where we’ll all be this time next year.” And a great, great many more wonders were voiced, as they gathered round the camp fire for the last time. And how they did talk! The things they had meant to say for ever so long were said to-night. Fresh stories and jokes were recounted, and from being at first a somewhat saddened party, with the thought of the “break-up” in the morning, they became noisy and gay. Just in the midst of the laughter two little figures bounded up before them.

“Good gracious! Whatever’s that? The twins!”

Sure enough it was the twins—the twins, smothered in mud and dirty water, with dead leaves sticking to the mud that covered them, and dirty, muddy water streaming from their clothes.

“Where have you been? I thought you were in bed?” and other questions were put to them.

“So we wad, and we seen a rabbit and we jumped out an’ chased him, and Kossie fell in the river and I pulled him out——”

“An’ den he fell in——” chipped in Kossie, “an’ I pulled him out, and den——”

“He fell in again!” shouted Keith, roaring with laughter at the thought.

“Dear, oh, dear! I thought you were the gnomes or the wild men of the woods,” cried Eva. “You do look funny.”

“An’ de rabbit got away——”

“Of course it did,” said Colin. “It had more sense than you two.”

Then they had to be bathed and put to bed and given a lecture, which took no more effect on them than the proverbial water on the duck’s back.

There was more talking, followed by supper, and they climbed into their hammocks, to sleep under the open skies, under a star-specked dome, for the last time for many a month to come.

They were back again at “Gillong” a week after the week on the river. They sat on the wooden verandah, the five of them, and gazed at the great green stretch before them. Mother and Frank had driven to Bragan Junction that morning, and they should be back any time now. Inside, the governess wrote letters to Sydney.

“It’s only a year ago that we sat here, drought-stricken,” said Mollie. “What a big, big difference in one year! Then we didn’t know Uncle, and we didn’t know Sydney or Miss Gibson, or——”

“And Frank was here, working hard and sick of the drought, and——”

“And we didn’t know the twins,” chimed in Doris.

“No, and we didn’t think we’d be going to Sydney again this year. Why, in two months’ time we’ll be down there again, and Uncle will tell us all about his wonderful trip—my word, I must look up my geography,” said Eileen.

“And we didn’t know Willie,” shrieked Doris, at the top of her voice, “a year ago.”

“No, and now he’s nearly our brother,” said Eva.

“What a lot of good things have happened! I believe if we counted up we’d get a dozen.”

“And we didn’t have the baby,” shrieked Doris, louder still.

“Oh, no—no baby brother! I’d forgotten him,” said Eileen.

“I think we often forget him—for a little while,” said Eva. “We’re so used to talking about the five of us.”

“Let’s count all the good things; let’s count quick!” shrieked Doris, holding up her chubby fingers.

Baby held both her hands up.

“First—Uncle. Second——”

“Here they are. Here’s Mother and Frank,” called Eileen, “and whoever’s that with them? Why, it’s Uncle! It’s Uncle!” she shrieked. Sure enough it was Uncle, smiling and smart and distinguished looking.

“Uncle, Uncle!” they shouted, and the five of them were hanging round him, all asking questions at the one time.

“You didn’t think your old Uncle could come up here without you knowing all about it, did you? Well, Uncle is trying to be as clever as his little bush nieces, and your Mamma and Frank kept the secret well.”

“How long have you known? How long, Mum and Frank?”

“Ever since Frank came home,” smiled Mother, “but I wanted to surprise you.”

“Ever since Frank came home?” they repeated, blankly. “However could you keep the secret that long?”

“Why, couldn’t you?” asked Uncle, looking knowingly at the five of them. Then they all shrieked with laughter.

“It’s the best thing in the world that could have happened,” said Eva, “just to have you back here again.”

“Yes, and I want you all to hurry up and get ready to come to Sydney. Can you manage in a month? I’ve taken a beautiful big house with grounds, so I’ll be looking out for you.”

“Ready!” they cried. “Of course, we’ll be ready. Oh, it will be beautiful! Beautiful! Three cheers for Uncle!” they cried, dancing round him.

It was late that night before the lights were out at “Gillong.”

“I’ll never grumble again as long as ever I live,” said Eileen, as she blew out the candle and slipped into bed.

“Oh, you’ve said that hundreds of times,” said Mollie, sleepily.

“Yes, but I really mean it this time. I’ll—never—grumble—again—as long as—ever—I—live,” she repeated, as she fell off to sleep.

The moon rose slowly over “Gillong”—a great golden moon—and sailed high in a cloudless sky. Its rays lingered lovingly on the children in their little white beds on the verandah. It flickered on the quivering leaves of the gum trees in the garden, where Frank and Willie were wrapped in a dreamless sleep in their swinging hammocks. Then it sailed serenely on, casting its magic glow over the paddocks and scrubs and creeks on “Gillong,” till it paled before the glow of dawn in the eastern sky.

My dear Basil,

The days are growing longer. There is a tinge of summer warmth and drowsiness in the air. The corn paddock at “Myall,” which has been a picture of vivid green, with the pale gold corn cobs peeping out of their golden tresses and swathing of tenderest green, is turning to rich, deep green, with red-gold and burnished cobs raising themselves proudly erect or swaying in the breeze. The wheat field, too, is turning to yellow with the rustling ears breathing ever a slight cadence to the breeze. And with the growing length of days my picture, too, is growing apace. I stand back and gaze at it ere I place my brushes away for to-morrow’s work. It is a picture of joyous young life, of early blossom and fresh born greenery, of tender leaflet and bud, of wattle’s gold and a glimpse of road winding among forest giants, and the spirit of the early tenderness and benediction of Spring time breathes over all. If in the years to come I shall ever again gaze on that picture, my thoughts shall go rushing back to glorious, fresh-tinged days when all the world seemed young; to lilting, joyous song of birds; to the gambols of those merry foals; to the teeming, indescribable hum of insect life among those forest trees; to the haunting perfume of that golden wattle—in fine, to all the charm and allurement of Spring time in the open spaces.

The end of the year is not far off, and on the whole it has been a year of interest, of pleasure. When one studies human nature, as well as the great open Book of Nature around one, then the time flies by all too quickly.

Soon I shall take a short holiday in Sydney, and just for a space become one of the busy, hustling crowd, and revel in the glimpses of shining water and twinkling fairy barques and harbour lights and white-winged yachts, and then back again to the life of the Bushland, and the pleasant task of teaching the dearest, funniest children I have ever met—Five Little Bush Girls.

MARIE.

FINIS.

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