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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 50881
   :PG.Title: 'Possum
   :PG.Released: 2016-01-08
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Mary Grant Bruce
   :DC.Title: 'Possum
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1917
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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'POSSUM
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      Cover art

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   .. _`"Then he shot down, head foremost, and again found himself in the grass."`:

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      :alt: "Then he shot down, head foremost, and again found himself in the grass." (Page 96.)

      "Then he shot down, head foremost, and again found himself in the grass." (Page `96`_.)

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      'POSSUM

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      BY

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      MARY GRANT BRUCE

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      Author of "Glen Eyre," "Mates at Billabong,"
      "Norah of Billabong," "Jim and Wally,"
      etc., etc.

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      WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
      LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO

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      To
      My Mother

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CONTENTS

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I  `The "House Beautiful"`_
II  `Breaking Bad News`_
III  `Gordon's Farm`_
IV  `Into the Unknown`_
V  `The Home-Coming`_
VI  `A Day in the Country`_
VII  `The Riding of Jane`_
VIII  `Rain—And a Friend`_
IX  `"Maggie or Something"`_
X  `'Possum Takes Hold`_
XI  `Farmers in Earnest`_
XII  `Sailing`_
XIII  `Amateur Surgery`_
XIV  `A Boating Holiday`_
XV  `Santa Claus and Clothes`_
XVI  `A Little Boy`_
XVII  `'Possum Becomes a Pupil`_
XVIII  `The Regatta`_
XIX  `The Order of Release`_

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.. _`THE "HOUSE BEAUTIFUL"`:

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   'POSSUM

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   CHAPTER I

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   THE "HOUSE BEAUTIFUL"

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The trim suburban garden blazed with flowers.
Over the porch at the gate mandevillea
hung in a curtain of fragrant white, and an
archway over the path that wound through the
close-shaven lawn was a miracle of Fortune's yellow
roses—gold and rose and copper blended gloriously.
There were beds aflame with "bonfire" salvia,
and others gay with many-hued annuals.  Gaudy
tulips reared splendid heads near a great clump of
arum lilies that fringed a tiny pool where little
Garth Macleod's solitary goldfish swam in lonely
state.  Everywhere there were roses; in standards
in the smooth, well-kept beds, or trained along
the wide verandas, forming a screen of exquisite
blossom.  Their sweetness lay like a charm over
the garden.

It was a hot spring afternoon.  Tom Macleod,
digging busily in a corner, pushed his Panama
back from his flushed face, and stood erect for a
moment to ease his aching back.  As he did so
a motor whirred to the gate, stopped, and a stout
little man hurried up the path, waving a capable
hand towards the shirt-sleeved worker across the
lawn.

"Hullo, Doctor!" Macleod called.

"See you presently, Tom," was all the doctor
vouchsafed him.  He disappeared behind the roses
on the veranda, and Macleod returned to his work
with a furrow between his eyes that had not been
there before.  From time to time he cast
half-impatient glances towards the house, whence no
sound issued.  Finally, with a hasty movement,
he plunged his spade into the soil, and went with
long strides across the grass—meeting, at the step,
the doctor, who plunged out of the house like a
plump Jack-in-the-box.

"Oh!" said Macleod vaguely.  "How's the kid?"

"The kid? why, going on first-rate," said the
doctor, laughing.  "Can't a man stay five
minutes talking to his patient's mother without your
making up your mind that the kid must be dying?"

Tom Macleod grinned a little shamefacedly.

"The last three weeks have rather unsettled
my nervous system, I believe," he said.  "I didn't
know I had one until Garth took to trying to die.
You needn't be so superior, old man.  I believe the
little beggar shook up yours, too!"

"Well—it hasn't been too jolly a time,"
admitted the doctor.  "One doesn't like to see a
nice kid suffering: and Garth and I are old chums.
Anyhow, he's better.  Come and sit down; it's
an extraordinary thing, but I have time for a
cigarette."

He went with quick, short steps towards a bench
under a drooping pepper tree, Macleod following
with his long, easy stride.  No two men could
have been a greater contrast: the short, plump
doctor, with his humorous, ugly face, which every
child loved at the first glance, and the tall, lean
Australian, clean-limbed and handsome—almost
boyish, but for a certain worn expression, and for
the lines of anxiety which his boy's illness had
graven round his eyes and mouth.  They lit their
cigarettes and stared at each other.

"On the rare occasions when you announce
that you've time to smoke, I have noticed that you
generally have something to communicate—probably
unpleasant," said Macleod.  "What is it,
old man?"

"I wish you weren't so observant," said the
doctor; "it's disconcerting.  Well, I *have*
something.  It isn't exactly new: I hinted at it to you
six months ago.  Now I've got to speak plainly."

"You mean——?"

"I mean that if I had a boy like Garth I wouldn't
run the risk of trying to bring him up in a city,"
the doctor answered.  "I haven't been satisfied
with the little chap for a long time.  His
constitution's all right—there's nothing radically the matter.
But he doesn't thrive.  You've seen that for
yourself, Tom."

"Yes—I've seen it," said the father heavily.
"Of course, we've kept hoping he would grow
stronger.  As you say, there seemed nothing really
wrong, and he's pretty wiry——"

"If he hadn't been wiry I could not have pulled
him through the last three weeks," Dr. Metcalf
said.  "You may thank your stars he's wiry."

"If he hadn't picked up this unlucky illness——"

"Well—I don't know," said the doctor.  "I'm
inclined to think you may yet consider it a
blessing in disguise.  You might have gone on pouring
tonics and patent messes into him, and hoping he'd
improve.  You can't do it now.  It's up to you and
Aileen to give him every chance, if you want a
strong son instead of a weakling."

"That's final?" Macleod asked.

"That's my considered opinion.  I know your
difficulties, old man.  But I know you don't value
anything in the world beyond Garth.  Take him
to the country; let him live out of doors, and run
as wild as a rabbit; give him unlimited fresh
milk—not the stuff you buy out of a can—country food,
and pure air: let him wear old clothes all the time
and sleep out of doors—and in a year I'd stake
my professional reputation you won't know him.
Keep him in a Melbourne suburb, and I won't be
answerable for the consequences."

"That's pretty straight, anyhow," said Macleod.

"I mean it to be straight.  I haven't known you
since you were at school to mince matters with
you now.  And I'm fond of the kid: I want to see
him grow into a decent man, with all the best that
is in him given a fair chance."

"We've tried to do that," Macleod said.  He
looked round the glowing garden.  "It's such a
jolly home, and he does love it."

"It's one of the jolliest little homes I've ever
seen, and it's going to hurt both of you badly to
leave it," the doctor rejoined.  "The trouble is,
it is too jolly.  You have made yourself a little
Paradise inside the tallest paling fence you could
build, and you've shut out all that lies outside
that fence—miles on miles of teeming streets,
packed and jammed with people.  You're in the
midst of grass and roses and things, with a sprinkler
going on your tulips, or whatever those rainbow
affairs are—and you don't think about the street
outside, dry and baking, with a hot wind swirling
the germ-laden dust about—blowing it probably
upon the meat and fruit and milk you'll buy
to-morrow.  The air comes to you over thousands
of houses, clean and dirty, and thousands of people
breathe it.  You've got to get where there's no
second-hand air."

"Great Scott!" ejaculated Macleod.  "Will you
tell me how any children manage to live at all?"

"It's a special dispensation of Providence that
most youngsters don't die from germs," said the
doctor, laughing.  "I'm aware that the infantile
population of Melbourne is pretty healthy, but
it's always a mystery to me how children in any
big city survive their surroundings.  After all,
Melbourne's cleaner than most places.  However,
there is only one among its hordes of kids that is
interesting you and me at the moment, and that's
Garth.  You've got to get him out of it, Tom."

"When?"

"As soon as you can make your arrangements.
I know you can't do that in a moment, but, of course,
he could not be moved just yet.  When he is strong
enough Aileen could take him somewhere until you
were ready.  But get him to the country.  His
poor little head is full of stories and make-believes:
let him forget what a book looks like, and introduce
him to a pony.  By the way, it's going to be
enormously good for you and Aileen, too."

"Is it?" Macleod asked, smiling grimly.  "I'll
worry along somehow, though I know mighty little
of anything outside a city.  But it's rough on her,
poor girl.  She just loathes the country—hasn't
any use for scrub and bad roads, and discomfort
generally.  I'll never be able to get her a
servant—there aren't any, I believe, once you get more
than a mile from a picture theatre.  And she has
never had to work."

"Don't you worry your head about Aileen,"
said the little doctor, rising.  "She has her head
screwed on the right way—and women have a way
of doing what they've got to do.  She can imagine
herself her own grandmother, fresh out from England,
and tackling the Bush as all our plucky little
grandmothers did.  Pity there are not more like
them now: we live too softly nowadays, and our
backbones don't stiffen.  But you'll find Aileen
will come out all right.  In a year you'll all be
blessing me.  When you come to think of it, I'm
the only one to be pitied.  I'm going to miss you
badly."  There was a twisted smile on his lips as
he wrung his friend's hand.  "Good-bye: my
patients will be calling down maledictions on my
head if I don't hurry."

Macleod saw him into his dusty motor and
watched it glide down the hot street.  Then he
turned and went back through the scent of the
garden, instinctively making his footsteps noiseless
as he crossed the veranda and entered the house.

It was a trim house of one story, with a square
hall where tall palms gave an effect of green
coolness.  An embroidered curtain screened a turn
into a passage where, through an open door, could
be heard the sound of a low voice reading.  A
childish call cut across the soft tones.

"Is that you, Daddy?"

"That's me," said Macleod cheerfully, if
ungrammatically.  "Are you sure you ought not to
be asleep?"  He entered the room and smiled
down at his little son.

"A fellow can't sleep all day," Garth said.
"'Sides, I needn't sleep so much now.  Doctor
says I'm nearly well, Daddy."

"That's good news," said his father heartily.
"We'll have you out in the garden soon, and
getting fat.  The tulips are blossoming, Garth, and
your poor old goldfish is awfully lonesome.  He
says even Bran doesn't go near him now."

"Bran is too busy nursing his master," said
Garth's mother, looking at the rough head of the
Irish terrier curled up on a chair beside the boy's
bed.  "We'll all get out together in a few days,
and find out all the beautiful things that have
happened in the garden since we were there.  Won't
it be lovely, Tom?"

She leaned back until her head touched her
husband—a tall, pale girl, with lovely features and
a mass of fair hair that glinted like Garth's when
the sunlight fell on it, and eyes as blue as violets.
Her long hands, blue-veined and delicate, lay idly
in her lap, one finger keeping open the book from
which she had been reading.  She was like an
exquisite piece of china—fragile, to all outward
appearance, and dainty; graceful in every line.
Tom Macleod looking down at her, felt as he had
felt ten year' ago, before they married, that he
must let no wind blow upon her roughly.

Now he had to tell her that they must go away,
away from the ordered comfort of city life, which
was all that she had ever known, to whatever the
country had in store for them.  Even for himself,
always a townsman, the prospect carried something
of dread, as do all unfamiliar prospects.  But he
knew that, whatever hardships the Bush holds for
a man, it is hardest on a woman.

Garth was chattering away, oblivious of his
father's grave face.

"Doctor says I can talk as much as I like,"
he proclaimed happily.  "And he says I'll be
perflickly well in a little bit, and then Mother can
take me down to the sea.  And she says she will,
didn't you, Mother?  And then you can come down
for week-ends, Daddy.  Or do you think the Office
would give you a holiday, like it did the time we
went to Black Rock?"

"It might," said his father.

"Do make it," Garth begged.  "It would be
so lovely, Daddy—and you could teach me to swim."
His little thin face, for which the brown eyes were
so much too large, was alight with eagerness.
"Bran'll come too—he loves going away, doesn't
he?  D'you know, Daddy, I think Bran was
just cut out for a country dog!  He's so awful
interested when he gets away from the streets."

"I'm not sure that that's not very good taste
on Bran's part," said Macleod: and at something
in his tone his wife looked up sharply.  "What
do you think about it yourself, Garth?"

"Oh, I just love the country," Garth answered.
"You get so tired with streets—they all look alike,
nothing but motors and dust.  The Gardens are
jolly, of course, and so's Fawkner Park; but they're
not the same as the real country.  D'you remember
the time we went to Gippsland for the holidays?
Wasn't it lovely?  I always felt when we went out
walking that we might meet anything whatever—fairies,
or Bunyips, or—or all sorts of things!"

"But you never did, I suppose?"

"N-no," Garth admitted.  "But I used to
pretend I did, and that was fun.  And I truly did
see some rabbits and a wallaby, only the people
at the farm weren't a bit pleased when I told them
about the rabbits.  Mr. Brown said he'd rather
see a gorilla on any of *his* land.  Isn't it a pity
rabbits are such damageous things, Daddy?  Anyhow,
I used to pretend that all the really bad fairies
had got locked up inside rabbits, to do as much
mischief as ever they could, until they got good
again.  But Mr. Brown said that if ever he heard
of a rabbit getting good he'd eat his hat."

"Seeing that Brown told me he'd just spent
two hundred pounds netting his land against rabbits,
you couldn't expect him to love them," Macleod said.

"Two hundred pounds is an awful lot of money,
isn't it?" Garth asked innocently.  "But you've
got heaps more than that, haven't you, Daddy?"

"Not as big a heap as I would like," his father
answered.  He walked across the room and stood
looking out of the window, his eye wandering over
the well-kept garden.  A lucky legacy had enabled
him to buy his home just before his marriage:
now he wished with all his heart that he had not
spent so much, in the years that followed, in
making it nearer and nearer to their hearts' desire.
They had built a room here, a veranda there: had
installed electric light and cooking power, electric
fans and electric irons—had filled the house with
every modern device for ease and comfort.  His
salary was good: there was no need for economy.
He had lavished it on the garden they loved, until
its high walls enclosed, in truth, a little paradise.
Their personal tastes had been expensive: stalls
at the theatres, little dinners at the Savoy, races,
dances, bridge parties, had all been commonplaces
in their happy, careless life.  Best of all had he
loved to dress Aileen beautifully.  "When a fellow
has the loveliest wife in Australia, it's up to him
to see that she's decently rigged out," he would
say, bringing home a fur coat, a costly sunshade,
a piece of exquisite lace.  He hardly knew how
much his own clothes, quietly good, had cost him:
Garth had been the best turned out boy in the
neighbourhood.  Their servants, well-paid and
lightly-worked, had kept the household machinery moving
silently on oiled wheels.  There had seemed not
one crumpled petal in the rose-leaves that strewed
their path.

The trained nurse entered softly, bearing on a
little brass tray Garth's tea-service—dainty china,
painted with queer, long-necked cats.

"This is the first day I've felt really int'rested
in tea," Garth proclaimed cheerfully, wriggling up
on his pillows.  His mother moved quickly to help
him, slipping a wrap round the thin little shoulders.
Then a gong chimed softly from the hall, and she
turned to her husband.  Her fingers lay on his
shoulder for a moment.

"Tea, Tom."

"Oh, all right," he said, and turned from the
window.  "So long, old son—eat a big tea."

"I'll eat a 'normous one, if Nurse will only give
it to me," Garth said, eyeing his tray hungrily.
"Mind you do, too, Daddy.  And come back soon."

"I will," Macleod said.  He smiled at the eager
face as he followed his wife from the room.





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.. _`BREAKING BAD NEWS`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   BREAKING BAD NEWS

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It was one of Aileen Macleod's whims that she
liked to brew her own tea.  A copper kettle
bubbled busily over a spirit lamp on the tray as
they entered the drawing-room, and her husband
flung himself into an arm-chair and watched the
slim, beautiful hands busy with the silver
tea-caddy and the quaint, squat teapot.  Neither
spoke until she came to his side with his cup.

"I beg your pardon, dear," he said, trying to
rise.  She kept him back, a hand on his shoulder.

"You've been working: why shouldn't I bring
you your tea?" she said, smiling at him.

"Because I ought to be looking after you," he
rejoined.  He was on his feet with a quick
movement, took her by the shoulders laughingly, and
put her into a big chair, bringing tea and hot cakes
to a tiny table beside her.

"There!" he said.  "No: you want another
cushion.  Now lie back, sweetheart, and rest;
you're ever so much more tired than you'll admit,
even to yourself."

"Being tired doesn't matter, now," she said.
"Nothing matters, now that Garth is safe.  But
it's nice to be bullied."  She smiled at him, with
a little restful movement, then took up her cup.
Over it she looked at him questioningly.

"Dr. Metcalfe *is* quite satisfied, Tom?  What
were you and he talking about for so long?"

"Oh, he's quite satisfied with the boy's
progress," Macleod answered.  "He says you and he
can go away quite soon.  We—we were just
yarning."  Something tied his tongue; she looked
so tired, and yet so peaceful.  He would not tell
her just yet.

Aileen opened her lips to speak and then closed
them again.  They talked idly of the garden, the
tulips that were just blossoming, and the new
roses, until tea was over and a silent-footed maid
had removed the tray.  Macleod lit a cigarette,
and lay back in his chair.

"Tell me, Tom," she said quietly.  "I know
there is something more."

He was silent for a moment, looking at her.  She
was very pale, her breath coming quickly.

"Don't bother about anything now," he said.
"We've got the little chap back; and you're
dog-tired.  You mustn't worry about anything."

"Don't you see—when I don't know, I think it's
Garth!"  Her voice broke, almost in a cry.  "Tell
me—quick!"

He was on his knees beside her in a flash.

"What a fool I am!—it's all right, my girl.
Garth's quite safe.  Only we've got to go away—to
leave all this and take him to the Bush.  He'll
grow strong if we do.  But I didn't know how
to tell you."

His wife gave a long sigh, and put her face down
on his shoulder.

"Oh-h!" she said.  "I thought it was something
that really mattered!"

"My girl!" said Macleod huskily.  For a while
they did not move.  Then she put him away from
her gently, and looked at him with steady eyes.

"I suppose I shall wake up some morning—perhaps
to-morrow morning—to realize that it's
quite large and important," she said.  "But at
present it seems the smallest thing, because all that
really counts is that Garth is safe.  Tell me all
about it, Tom."

"Metcalfe won't answer for him if we keep him
in town," he said.  "If we take him right into the
country for a few years he will grow into a strong
boy.  Therefore, as the Americans say, it's country
for ours."

"Of course.  What will happen?"

"We'll sell or let this place," he said, watching
her face keenly for some sign that the blow was
telling.  But there was no change in its eager
interest, and he went on.

"I must send in my resignation at the office.
They'll be nice about it, of course: probably they'd
always try to find a berth for me, though it would
not be as good as this one.  That will leave us with
the little bit of private income we have and
whatever we get out of the house.  We might live on
that, after a fashion.  But if we've got to go into
the country, I'd rather see if we can't make
something out of the land."

"But we don't know anything about it."

"Not a thing," Macleod agreed.  "But I don't
believe it's so awfully complicated: surely a man
of reasonable common sense can learn.  And look
at the alternative—living in some beastly cottage
in a township, with not a thing to do.  I don't
think I could stand it."

"I'm sure I couldn't," said his wife.  "Of
course you'll learn—look at all the stupid people
who do well out of land.  Quite stupid people:
and your worst enemy can't say you haven't got
brains, Tom!"

"I make you my best bow," said her husband
solemnly.  "You're very encouraging, ma'am!
I'll try to live up to your high estimate of me.
But what seems to matter more is that I think I've
got enough muscle."

For the first time a shadow of doubt came into
her eyes.

"I don't want you to be worked to death,"
she said.  "Will it be very hard for you, Tom?"

He broke into a short laugh.

"Hard for *me*!  Do you think it matters the
least little bit about me?  But it maddens me to
think what it's going to mean for you.  Do you
realize that it means no more fun, as we've always
counted fun? no more outings or gaiety, no
pretty clothes? any sort of a home, and mighty
little comfort?  We—we won't have much money,
Aileen."

"We'll have enough to—to *live*, won't we?"
she asked.  "To buy food, I mean?"

"Oh, there'll be enough for that.  But we'll
have to scrimp in a hundred ways.  I don't know
that we can even keep a servant for you, though I
don't suppose, for that matter, that there are
any to be had in the Bush.  I wouldn't mind that
so much if I could help you: but I'll have my own
work outside, and it will keep me going.  I've
never let you work, Aileen," he ended wistfully.

"No, you haven't," she said; looking at him
gently.  "If ever a woman was thoroughly spoilt
it's your wife!"

"I couldn't have had the face to marry you,
if it had meant that you would have to work,"
he answered.  "How could I, when you'd never
done any work in your life?"

"I don't know that that is a very creditable
record for a woman," she said reflectively.  "I've
often thought my life was too soft a one; only
you have made it so easy to be lazy, Tom."

"You're not lazy," he defended her hotly.
"Look at all you have on hand—your music, the
garden, the home—do you think it's only servants
that have made us our 'House Beautiful?'  You've
charities, and Women's Leagues—and
Garth.  It seems to me you're always busy."

"They're all very pretty things to play at,"
she said, laughing.  "All except Garth: he is a
solid reality.  Now I'm going to discover ever
so many other realities.  Don't worry about me,
Tom, dear.  It's going to be an Awfully Big
Adventure, but we'll get through somehow."

She smiled up at him.  Something like a great
weight lifted from Macleod's heart.

"You aren't afraid?" he asked.

Her face grew grave, and for a moment she did
not answer.

"I never knew what fear really meant until
Garth was ill," she said, at length.  "One says
one is afraid of lots of things; but you get right to
the terrible depths of fear when you think your
child is dying.  And it teaches you that nothing
else matters.  Now that Garth has come back, and
I can hold him again, nothing else even seems
serious.  I suppose a month ago I might have felt
scared at the idea of cooking and scrubbing, but
now I feel as if I could do it, and sing.  You
understand, don't you?"

"Yes, I understand," he answered.  "It's hard
to imagine anything else troubling us, if the kid's
safe.  But will we feel like that in a year's
time? in six months?  The sharp edge of thankfulness
will have worn off then, but the cooking and
scrubbing will remain."

She nodded.

"It isn't easy to say.  I suppose I shouldn't
make any predictions, since I don't in the least
understand all I'll have to tackle.  But plenty of
other women have done it, and much more—women
with half a dozen little children.  I'm not
going to be afraid."  She lifted her chin with a
defiant little toss.  "I suppose it will be hard, and
I'll make ever so many mistakes—so will you, and
we'll laugh at each other!  Oh, Tom, nothing can
be very bad if we keep laughing, and we have
Garth!"

"You dear!" he said.  "I might have known
you'd take it that way.  Of course"—he
hesitated—"there are other alternatives.  You wouldn't
care to send Garth to live on a farm for a few
years, if we could get hold of the right people?
Like the Agnews did with that delicate boy of theirs,
you know?"

"The Agnews couldn't help themselves," said
Aileen.  "*There's* a woman to be pitied, if you
like.  Mrs. Agnew aged ten years in the first year
after she had to part with Harry.  We don't do
that sort of thing in this family.  Next?"

He laughed.

"With my first suggestion badly squashed——"

"You would have squashed it yourself if I
hadn't, Tom!"

"Yes, but I knew you would," he said comfortably.
"Well, the next is really more feasible."  He
watched her narrowly.  "Suppose I stayed on
at the office, and we let this house, and I lived in
rooms; there would be money enough to establish
you and Garth in some little country place where
you wouldn't have to work, and it would be all right
for the boy.  It would mean separation, of course,
but I might be able to run down to see you every
few months.  It would be far easier for you, dear."

"And for you?"

"Whatever is best for you will be best for me,"
he said.  "You know that, Aileen, don't you?
I will be quite satisfied with your choice."

"I wish I knew what you want," she said,
watching his face.

"And I won't tell you."  He laughed at her.

"Very well," she said, "then I will choose, and
it's your own fault if you don't like it.  I think
that as a planner you begin well, and then slump
dreadfully—at any rate, your last two efforts
are simply horrid.  Do you think I can take the
responsibility of bringing up Garth alone, just
when he needs a man's hand?  He'd break his heart.
I wouldn't dare to tell him we meant to leave you.
And if you imagine that a little freedom from work
would make up to me for being without you——  Aren't
you ashamed of yourself, Tom Macleod?"

He sat down on the arm of her chair and lifted
her hand against his face.

"I had to give you your choice," he said.  "But
you don't know what a blue funk I was in!"

"Then you ought to be more ashamed of
yourself than ever!" she retorted.  "We're mates,
you and Garth and I: nothing matters, so long as
we are together."

"Not even scrubbing?"

"No," she said.  "Nor ploughing, Tom?"

"Certainly not.  Nor cooking?"

"Cooking might be fun.  What about milking?"

"I learned to milk in my extreme youth," said
he proudly.  "That's a detail.  But—washing?"

"It's done in the best families," she said.
"Counted out.  How about clearing land?"

"I will do it with my little hatchet," said her
husband.  "Washing-up, Aileen?"

"Ugh!" she said.  "Even in this uplifted
moment I can't pretend I'm going to enjoy greasy
dishes.  Never mind—they'll get done.  We won't
think about them.  Anything else?"

"Lots, I'm certain.  What if the sheep get
foot-rot, and the hens develop pip?  Or is it the
other way round?  Could you manage a hen with
foot-rot?"

"Just as well as you would handle a sheep with
pip.  What are they, anyhow?"

"Diseases which have always been happily
obscure to me," he said, "Now we'll have to study
them."

"We'll study them together, then," said his wife;
"then, if they appear we can turn on them our
united batteries of knowledge.  There must be
lots of other diseases, Tom.  Is it hens that get
glanders?"

"Very probably: it always seemed to me that
hens have nasty habits," said he.  "Of course,
I've only looked at them with a kind of semi-detached
eye, but then, I never felt any inclination
for close acquaintance with a live fowl.  My soul
was as a star, and dwelt apart!"

"I think one of the first things you had better
do would be to uproot any graceful notions about
your soul," said his wife.  "We shan't need
encumbrances like that for some time.  Stout bodies
and strong muscles are likely to be more in our
line; don't be surprised or shocked if you find me
writhing in odd corners, because it will be only
Swedish drill, to develop me—also in odd
corners!"

"It will be awfully interesting," he said, laughing.
"Couldn't you start it now?  I believe there's
one lovely exercise that you do at meal-times.  Strangers
are apt to run to your assistance, thinking you're
strangling, but it's only neck-drill, to give you a
long, slender throat!"

"I've always faintly hoped mine pleased you,"
rejoined his wife.  "However, it's too late now—it
won't matter in the Bush if one has a throat or
not.  My energies are going to enable me to develop
strength enough to throw a bag of wheat over my
shoulder, and go whistling down the lea!"

"Why not bring it home?  I don't see why you
want to throw good wheat about, after I shall
probably have had grave trouble in growing it.  And
what is a lea, anyhow?"

"It's something the lowing herd winds slowly
o'er," she said.  "You ought to know that."

"I did, but I don't know what it looks like.
And I suppose I'll have to know."  The laughter
died out of his eyes, and he looked at her in
silence for a moment.  "Aileen—it's all very
well to play the fool, but we're two horribly ignorant
people.  I wonder if we'll do any good at all?"

"Yes—we will," she said stubbornly.  "And
I don't mean to stop playing the fool: at least
I hope I won't have to.  Think of poor old Garth,
if we grew old and solemn!  We'll just back each
other up and worry through.  We're in a pretty
tight place, but we're not going to pull long faces
over it.  I suppose sometimes things will get
bothersome, and we'll be tired, and possibly our tempers
may become a bit ragged at the edges.  But we'll
understand, and not remember it against each other
next day."

"Nor next minute, I hope," he said.  "Well,
a man would be a cur if he were afraid to face things
with any one like you."

"Don't you expect too much of me," said his
wife.  "I'm an ignorant old thing, as you've justly
pointed out, and when you have indigestion through
my bad cooking you'll dislike me extremely.  But
I'll improve.  Now come and we'll tell Garth all
about it."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`GORDON'S FARM`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   GORDON'S FARM

.. vspace:: 2

It was Dr. Metcalfe who found the new home
for them.

He came in on Garth's first afternoon in the
garden.  They were gathered under the pepper
tree, and Garth gave a glad little shout at sight of
him.

"Oh, there's my doctor!  Come along, Doctor,
and have tea!"

"This seems a party," said the new-comer,
regarding the table beside the boy's couch.  "Cakes,
as I live! and with pink and white icing!  Who
said you could have exciting things like that, young
man?"

"Mother did—and I b'lieve you told her," said
Garth cheerfully.  "I'm ever so nearly well.
You know you don't have to come and stick that
old fernometer in my mouth any more."

"It's evident that it will be needed again to-morrow,"
said the doctor, regarding the cakes with
a lowering brow.

"Never mind—it'll be worth it," Garth rejoined.
"Anyhow, I know you're only pulling my leg!"

"The attitude of disrespect shown by one's
patients is very distressing," said the doctor,
subsiding into a low chair and accepting tea.  "Go
on, young man: don't blame me when you find
the castor-oil bottle looming by your bed of pain!
Then you'll wish that you had stuck to good old
bread-and-butter, and you'll send for me."

"Well, you'd come," said Garth comfortably.

"I would not.  I would send back a stern
message—'Double dose of oil.'"

"Then I'd better have a double go of cake,"
said Garth.  "Bettern't I, Dad?"

"Most certainly, I should say," his father
answered.  "It's a sound rule not to mind paying
for your fun."  He held the plate for Garth's
inspection.  "There's one in the corner, with an
enormous blob of icing: it looks pretty good."

"It is," said Garth, digging his sharp little teeth
into it, with a rapt expression.

"A nice pair, you are!" quoth the doctor,
regarding them with a twinkle in his eye.  "Not
that I can blame the son, seeing what his father is.
I pity you, Aileen: you'll have a hard time with
them when you get to the Back of Beyond."

"Oh, did you know we were going there?"
Garth queried eagerly.  "Isn't it lovely, Doctor!
I'm going to have a pony, Dad b'lieves.  Will you
come and see it?"

"It will be my one ambition," the doctor told
him gravely.  "Have you made any arrangements
yet, Tom?"

"I'm trying to find a place," Macleod answered.
"The office has been awfully decent: they say
I'm to come to them if ever we return to Melbourne,
and they'll do their best to take me back.
Likewise, they've given me a bonus, which is handy."

"And said the nicest things about him," interpolated
his wife.  "*He* won't tell you that, so I
must—you can blush unseen, Tom.  And the staff,
to his great horror, mean to give him a silver salver."

"Very handy in the Bush, I'm sure," said the doctor.

"It's jolly good of them," Tom said; "but I
wish they wouldn't.  Poor beggars, they have
enough to do with their money.  The awful part
is that I believe they're going to make speeches!"

"And you'll have to make one," said Aileen.
"Do you think they would let us come and hear?"

"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated her husband.  "I
haven't made a speech since the burst of eloquence
I uttered, at our wedding breakfast."

"I remember well," said the doctor.  "It
lasted fully ten seconds, and then you collapsed.
We all blushed for you.  I think I'd like to hear
you make another."

"Well, you won't,'" said the victim, with finality.
"I wish you'd change the subject: it hurts."

"Certainly," said the doctor.  "I've found you
a farm."

"You have!  Where?"

"Down in the Gippsland Lakes country," said
his friend.

"Is it any good?"

"I wouldn't have found it if it were not," said
the doctor severely.  "As a matter of fact, I
believe it is rather a lucky find.  It belongs to
Jim Gordon, an Englishman who has been out
there about fifteen years.  He knocked about all
over the country for a good while, and then bought
this place.  Now he has had money left to him,
and he's going back to England.  But he likes
Australia, and he does not mean to stay away
for ever, so he won't sell: he's fond of this little
place, and he'll take a low rent if he can get a tenant
who will look after it.  He showed it to one man,
who looked at his plunge-bath and remarked, that
it would be a good thing to set tomato plants in!
It seems to have given Gordon rather a shock."

"It would," said Aileen feelingly.  "Did you
tell him we were nice people, Doctor?"

"I went as far as I could," said the doctor
guardedly.

"I wonder he hasn't already come to call, in
that case," said she, laughing.

"Apart from your quite unjustifiable reasoning,
he isn't exactly a calling man," the doctor remarked.
"I gather that he has lived very much to himself
on this place, doing most of his own work, and that
he is not at all popular among the settlers near,
who, probably regard him as full of unpleasant
English pride—which he is.  He's one of those
stiff-necked people who think their own ways are always
best, and so will never learn any new ones.  Therefore,
he has never made much money.  From what
he says, there is plenty of work to be done on this
place.  It's about the acreage you want, and there's
a decent little house on it; and he does seem to
have taken some pains with his orchard and garden.
But for the most part he appears to have gone
fishing, and let the place take care of itself."

"Would there be room on it for a pony?" Garth
asked wistfully.

"Yes—and what's more, there's a pony there
already!"

"Glory!" said Garth faintly.

"Have we got to take his live stock, too?"
asked Macleod.

"It isn't necessary, but I should think it would
suit you.  There is not much—a pony or two,
and a few cows and sheep.  You will need all he
has had, and, I should think, more: and he'll sell
them at a fair valuation.  He has two boats, which
are let with the house, if the tenant undertakes to
keep them in order—he really seems keener about
the boats than about anything else.  He has a
horror of agents and lawyers, and wants to arrange
the whole thing privately.  If you will consider the
place he would like you to go down with him to
see it."

"I suppose he would not object to my taking
a man down with me?  Dawson, who values for
our office, knows all about these things: and you
know how much I do.  The office has offered to
lend me Dawson to look at any place."

"Oh, Gordon won't mind—he's really a very
fair-minded old chap, and you won't find him hard
to deal with.  He's not the sort of person to take
advantage of the young and innocent: in fact,
he'll probably respect you more for taking a tame
expert with you."

"It's a long way from town," Macleod said,
regarding Aileen with troubled eyes.

"What of that?  It's glorious country, and
the very place for a small boy," said the doctor,
smiling at Garth, who had forgotten cake, and was
listening, his eyes shining.  "You don't want to
be running to town always—that's expensive and
unsettling.  Cuninghame is quite close, where you
can get all your stores: and if you want a bigger
town, Sale and Bairnsdale are within easy reach.
I've never found out which of them is the capital
of Gippsland, but perhaps you'll make the
discovery.  Did I mention that one of the boats is a
motor-launch.  You lucky people will be able to
explore all the corners of the lakes that mere
tourists never see."

"Dad!" came from Garth, in a burst of ecstasy—which
somehow checked his father in a remark
that busy farmers would not have much time to
play about on the lakes.  Looking at the delighted
face, with the unnaturally large eyes, it seemed
better to put that remark away among unborn
speeches.  He said instead—

"It sounds very jolly.  I'll have to teach you
to run the motor, old son.  By the way, Metcalfe,
do you happen to have gathered whether we are
likely to make a living out of this highly desirable
place?"

"Why, yes, I think you are," the doctor answered.
"Gordon has not done so badly, and he's not a
hard worker.  Given decent seasons and fair luck
you ought to get on, though it's not a place to make
any fortunes out of.  But go down and look at it
for yourself."

Which Macleod did, returning a few days later
with a cheered expression.

"It's not so bad, Dawson says," he told Aileen,
gratefully sipping a cup of coffee, after his long
journey.  "No fortune in it, as Metcalfe said;
but a living, unless we have bad luck.  And it's
certainly cheap.  The house might be much worse—though
I'm afraid you will find it bad enough, after
this one, my girl."

"Bless you, I'm not expecting a palace," said
Aileen cheerily.  "I hope it's small: a palace
would be somewhat burdensome when one came
to scrub it."

"Oh, it's small enough," he said.  "We'll fit
in, with an extra room or two.  There are some
things that you don't rind in many bush homes,
Dawson says—a decent bathroom, wire window-screens
and doors, and a thoroughly good water-supply.
They seem awfully ordinary, but I can
assure you they're not!  And the country is lovely:
the view from the front windows will make you
forget your old scrubbing-brush!"

"It will be a bad look-out for you if I do!"
murmured his wife.

"That's beneath you," he said, laughing.  "I
don't think a respectable farmeress ought to make
bad jokes.  There's a good garden, and a fair
orchard, and Garth will fall in love with the pony."

"Is the pony safe?" she asked.

"Very unsafe, I think—it's always in danger
of going to sleep.  I wouldn't like to say how old
it is, and I'd hate to ride five miles on it.  But
Garth will think it a lovely steed.  It may make
you realize how much past its prime it is when I
tell you Gordon wouldn't sell it.  He hadn't the
face to put a price on it—threw it in with the
farm, on condition that it was treated kindly.  Well,
you couldn't treat anything like that unkindly—not
if you had been brought up to reverence age!"

"It sounds a soothing beast," said Aileen—"not
likely to harrow my mind by bucking Garth off."

"I'll guarantee it won't.  There's another pony,
too.  I've bought that.  Also three cows, twenty-four
sheep, some assorted calves, and a lot of fowls.
Dawson says they're cheap: I don't know.  And
I've inherited an orphan boy!"

"Tom!  What do you mean?"

"Just what I say.  Gordon has a boy on a
three-years' lease from an orphanage in Melbourne,
and only six months of it have run, so I've taken
him over.  He's about fourteen, and quite full of
wickedness.  But one may train him into something."

"Did he—did he look at all clean?"

"He did not.  I rather think the training will
begin with soap; and it will be a terrible shock to
him, because you'd say from his appearance that
he'd never met it.  His name is Horace, I suppose,
but old Gordon always called him Horrors, and I
think we'll stick to it; it's extraordinarily suitable."

"I don't think he sounds nice," said Aileen,
wrinkling her pretty nose.

"To tell you the truth," said her husband
confidentially, "he isn't.  But he'll do a lot of odd
jobs.  I made inquiries about a servant, but it's
as we thought—not a soul to be had.  Did you
sound Julia about coming?"

"I did," said Aileen.  "'Is it me?' said Julia,
'that 'ud be leavin' Melbourne to go to wan of
them places I've heard tell of—nowhere to go on
your night out, and never a man to see, not if it
was even a butcher-boy!  I lived in a bog in
Ireland all me days till I come to Australia; and 'tis
no longer the counthry that I'd work in, but a good
town with moving pictures and the grocer callin'
every day for orders!'  Then she wept at leaving
me, and said she loved me as if I was her mother.
Annie weeps too, at intervals, but of course she
won't leave the young man in the baker's shop.
But we couldn't afford them, anyway, Tom, so
what's the good of worrying?  Stop worrying at
once, and tell me more about the farm."

"There's a gorgeous cloth-of-gold rose tumbling
all over the veranda," he said obediently, "and
lots of nice common flowers in the garden—stocks,
and wallflowers, and snapdragons, and honesty,
and pinks, and things like that.  It's very untidy,
but quite pretty.  The house is in a sheltered place
where anything will grow: he has orange and lemon
trees, covered with fruit, and he says the lemons
bear all the year round.  There are guavas, too:
I didn't know they grew in Victoria."

"Glory!" said Aileen, quoting her son.  "I'll
make guava jelly!"

"Do you know how?"

"No, but I'll learn.  What else?"

"Oh—apricots, and peaches, and cherries, and
apples, and pears, to say nothing of gooseberries
and currants.  There's a good strawberry bed, too."

"It sounds lovely," said Aileen.  "Think of
pies!  I've been learning to make pastry, Tom,
and Julia says I have a lovely hand for it.  She's
going to teach me all sorts of things.  Do you think
we can afford to buy one of those nice American
oil-stoves?  The ovens have glass doors, and you
sit in front in ecstasy, and watch your cakes rise."

"What if they don't rise?"

"Then you go and do something else, and hope
for the best.  Don't depress me, Tom.  They truly
are lovely stoves, and you and Horrors wouldn't
have nearly as much wood to cut.  And they're
nice and cool to work at."

"Well, that's quite enough reason," Macleod
said.  "If any dodge is going to make work
easier for you, we'll get it, if I have to pawn my
watch.  Let's go and buy these fascinating things
to-morrow.  I've got a list of everything in the
house, and you'll have to go over it, and see what
else you'll need."  He rose and stretched himself
with a great yawn.  "Eh, but I'm sleepy!  The
boy is asleep, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes, poor man: he tried to stay awake
for you, but I told him you would be too tired to
talk.  He's desperately anxious to hear about the
pony—you must go in to see him as soon as you
get up, and tell him about it.  He is so happy to be
going to the country.  It's going to be awfully
worth while, Tom."

"Is it?"  Then the doubt in his eyes died at
the sight of her face.  "Yes, I believe it is," he
said.  "But then you'd make anything worth
while!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`INTO THE UNKNOWN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   INTO THE UNKNOWN

.. vspace:: 2

They said good-bye to the "House Beautiful"
in the early morning, while the roses on the
porch were still wet with dew.  One fragrant bud
brushed Aileen's shoulder as she went, and she
picked it, and tucked it into her coat.  If a little
shiver ran through her as the door closed behind
her, she gave no sign.  Their cab rattled off down
the familiar suburban street.  Neither Tom nor
Aileen looked back.

At the big station all was bustle and hurry:
and soon they were in the train and slipping
through the long miles of grey houses, until the
just-awaking city was left far behind, and wide green
paddocks and gum trees, tall and stately,
surrounded them.  Little townships, like beads upon
a string, brought them to a halt every few miles:
sometimes so close together that there seemed
scarcely any break between the outlying homesteads.

"Plenty of settlement here now," Macleod said.
"My mother used often to travel this road by
coach, and it was a journey in the winter: the
road was just a succession of bog-holes.  There
was one cheery spot known as the Glue-Pot.  Passengers
used to get out there, in a body; the women
and children stood under the trees, often in pouring
rain, while the men got their shoulders to the wheels
and dragged and pushed the old coach through.
It must have been hard on women with babies."

"Ugh!" said Aileen.  "Do you know, I think
our mothers were made of better stuff than we are."

"I don't," said her husband stoutly.  "You
aren't called upon to do what they did—you would
do it if you were.  But I don't think we men are
anything like as good as our fathers: we're brought
up softly, and we simply haven't got their muscle
and endurance and pluck."

"It's just the same with you—you would do
what you had to."

"I suppose we'd try.  Honestly, though, we
wouldn't get through as much.  Every one thinks
more nowadays of having a good time: the old
people never took holidays, never had luxuries:
worked year in and year out; had mighty few
clothes, and patched them until they fell to pieces.
I suppose that's partly how they made money.
No, we're poor specimens compared to our fathers."

"Well, *I* think you're just as good as Grandfather,
and a jolly lot better!" said an indignant small
voice; and Garth hurled himself tumultuously
upon his father.

"It's something to have a champion, isn't it?"
said Aileen, laughing.  "Sonnie, this is where I
tuck you up for a sleep," at which Garth protested
that he had never been less tired in his life, but
nevertheless submitted to being rolled up in a rug
with his head on his mother's knee; where
presently sleep came to him, and he lay peacefully
while the train raced through the fertile paddocks
that were once a desolate swamp, climbed the
Haunted Hills laboriously, rattled down the other
side, and so came upon wide plains where great
bullocks ceased grazing to look lazily at the iron
monster that came daily to disturb their solitude.

Half the afternoon had waned when the train
came to the end of its long journey, and they
emerged from the station into a sleepy street where
two-horse cabs waited to rattle them across
Bairnsdale to the river.  A paddle-steamer, moored to
the wharf, was hooting as they approached, and
late-comers were hurrying down the hill, fearful
of being left behind.  Having thus shown her
independence by hooting, and every one being safely
on board, the steamer decided not to hurry; and
it was some time before she woke up to fresh energy,
mooring ropes were cast off, and she churned her
way into mid-stream.

Garth was wildly excited.  Already a big grey
horse in a gig had supplied a private circus for his
benefit, declining to cross the bridge over the river
near the wharf, and showing its utter disapproval
of all bridges by dancing wildly on its hind legs,
while the girl who was driving beat it in vain.  A
parting hoot from the steamer's siren concluded
the argument, so terrifying the horse that it dropped
to all fours and, in desperation, bolted across the
bridge, disappearing in mad career towards the
town.  Already, Garth decided; the country was
showing extraordinary attractions: this sort of
entertainment never happened in a Toorak street.
And now they were slipping down the river, between
high banks where pleasant houses perched,
surrounded by beautiful gardens.  Boat-houses were
built at the edge of the water, whence flights of
steps ran up the hill: and little boats, tied to stakes,
rocked lazily as the steamer approached, and, as
she passed them, executed a frenzied dance as the
swish of the water from the paddle-wheels churned
into the reeds along the bank.  Sometimes a lone
fisherman sat in a boat, patiently angling.  These
sportsmen regarded the steamer as a necessary
evil, and dangled their baits in the air until the
commotion of her passing should have subsided.

A road wound along the river-bank.  It was
partly screened from view by trees, but sometimes
they caught glimpses of people riding and driving,
and once they saw a flock of sheep, driven by two
boys, the younger of whom looked about Garth's
age.  A little later came three or four merry boys
and girls, on ponies, racing, with shouts of laughter,
along the track.  Garth drew a long breath.

"Isn't the country a lovely place for boys,
Dad!" he said.

"It seems pretty jolly, old man," his father
answered.  "How soon do you think you'll be able
to ride like that?"

"I expect I'll have to get bucked off a good few
times first," said the small boy soberly.  "But
it doesn't hurt much if you choose a soft spot to
fall, Doctor says.  He told me no one could ride
until he'd been slung off seven times!"

"Well, a good many people couldn't ride if they
had been off seventy-seven times," his father
answered.  "Some people aren't born to be riders."

"Do you think I am?" queried Garth anxiously.

"Can't tell until I see you on a pony.  You
ought to be all right; there's a good deal in beginning
young.  You will be all right if you're not afraid,"
said his father.

Garth's small face set firmly, and instinctively
he stiffened his back.  In his heart he was not
quite sure that he was not a little afraid.  But
he hoped no one was going to guess it.

Round a bend came a little sea-going steamer,
trim and workmanlike.  She passed them, so close
that a biscuit could have been thrown from deck
to deck.  The two crews exchanged cheery
greetings; the men on the incoming ship were busy
getting everything in order as they neared the end
of their long voyage from Melbourne.

"Some day, when we want an adventure, Garth,
we'll go round to Melbourne in that boat," Macleod
said, watching the steamer's stern as she ploughed
her way up the river.  "I believe she carries passengers."

"Well, you'll get the adventure if you chance it
in rough weather," said a man near them.  "I
bin round in her an' the ol' *Despatch* too: an'
when it's fine it's a jolly good way of gettin' there.
But when it's rough, it's a fair cow!  One trip, we
was four days instead of thirty-six hours, and
every one ashore give us up for lost.

"Wrecked?" asked Garth, wide-eyed.

"'M.  But we wasn't.  We was sheltering in a
little inlet, and lucky we was to get there.  We put
in at Waratah Bay an' tried to land, but all the ol'
boat 'ud do was to try an' climb on the wharf, there
was such a sea running: so we got out again.  It
wasn't no picnic.  We hadn't any too much food—not
that most of us had big appetites.  She was
standin' on her head all the time, when she wasn't
doin' her best to lie down' on her side an' die, an'
we were bruised black an' blue from bein' chucked
about.  I nearly had me arm broke, from bein'
pitched out of me bunk, one night."

"You had a bad time," Tom said.

"It was a fair cow.  I guess even one of them
big ocean liners might have bin a bit uncomfortable
in that storm—and she was about three hundred
tons!  Anyhow, whatever she was, she could
weather a storm better than most of them—there
was bigger ships than her went down in that gale.
We got to Melbourne all right, if we were a few days
late.  I guess the owners were pretty relieved when
we came up the bay: I know *we* were!"

He laughed, and drew out his pipe.  He was
an immensely tall man, with broad, stooping
shoulders.  A straggling beard ornamented a face burnt
to the colour of brick-dust, in which twinkled little
china-blue eyes.  There was something very simple
and friendly about him.

"But you have not always had bad trips?" Aileen asked.

"Bless you, no, lady.  When it's fine I wouldn't
ask no better way of getting about; an' I bin round
often when there wasn't hardly a ripple the whole
way.  There was two young ladies once, travelling
round, an' they slept out on deck both nights.
Not that I've any fancy that way, meself; gimme
a good, air-tight cabin.  Oh, you wouldn't ask a
nicer boat than the *Wyrallah*—her we passed just
now.  I had a liking for the poor ol' *Despatch*;
but she's gone now."

"Where did she go?" Garth asked.

"Down to the bottom, son.  She was tryin'
to get into the Lakes' entrance in a heavy gale,
with a bad cross-sea running.  It's not an easy
entrance—very narrow, and a nasty bar.  The
current took her a bit out of her track, an' she got
on to a rock, an' went down.  It happened mighty
quick.  There was lots of people in Gippsland as
was sorry for the ol' *Despatch*.  She wasn't a beauty,
but she'd tramped up and down from Melbourne
many a year, and we'd got a liking for her."

He pointed ahead with his pipe-stem.

"We're getting into the lake."

The high banks had changed to flats, across which
they could see a broad sheet of water.  The land
between narrowed to a point; and presently they
came out upon the placid waters of a wide lake
rippling gently in the evening sunlight.  In the
reeds near the point great black swans were
swimming.  They rose as the steamer churned past them
and sailed away into the western sky, the clang of
their leader's note coming more and more faintly
as they became dots on the blue.

"Some people as calls themselves sportsmen
shoot those birds," said their new acquaintance
scornfully.  "Sportsmen, indeed!  I'd as soon go
out and shoot canaries, they're that tame.  And
they're no sort of use when they are shot; you'd
have to be mighty hungry before you'd eat one.

.. _`"'Some people as calls themselves sportsmen shoot those birds.'"`:

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   :alt: "'Some people as calls themselves sportsmen shoot those birds.'"

   "'Some people as calls themselves sportsmen shoot those birds.'"

"Are they tough?" Aileen inquired.

"Tough—and fishy.  The blacks eat 'em, but
they aren't white men's food.  It's a shame to kill
them.  But lots of these bright young chaps that
come from Melbourne on a holiday reckon that
anything with fur or feathers on is made for them
to blaze at.  I'd teach 'em a thing or two, if I had
me way."  The china-blue eyes were suddenly
fierce.  "Y'see, there's lots of things in the Bush
that we get fond of, and it makes us a bit savage
to have chaps like them rampaging round!  I
found one of 'em once trying his hardest to shoot
bell-birds!"

"Is that very wicked?" Garth asked innocently.

"Well, it's worse than shooting canaries.  The
bell-birds live in the fern gullies: they're shy little
brown things, hard to see, but they've a note just
like a little bell chiming away in the tree-tops.
You'd think even a Melbourne fine gentleman
couldn't help liking them.  But there was me gent,
with his little gun, looking for scalps; and even a
bell-bird's was better to him than none."

"What did you say to him?  Did you let him
shoot them?" the lad asked.

"I misremember what I said, but he didn't
like it, an' he got nasty, and wanted to fight.  Lord,
you couldn't fight anything like that!  So to end
it I just gave him a good spanking, and let him go.
He went."

Tom burst out laughing.

"You didn't, really?"

"I did, though.  What else could you do with
him?  He reckoned he was grown-up, but he hadn't
as much sense as my kid of ten.  Spanking's the
only thing for that sort—an' I guess he remembers
the one I gave him yet.  You see, he was rude."

"Are all Melbourne people like that?" Aileen
queried, with a twinkle in her eye.

"Bless you, no," said the giant, twinkling in
return.  "Most of 'em come to fish, and they don't
do any harm: an' there's lots that like the Bush,
an' wouldn't hurt anything in it.  Some of 'em's
that proud of it they even collect all their
lunch-papers and burn 'em after a picnic; but you don't
meet many as well brought up as that."  He
knocked the ashes out of his pipe.  "Well, I think
it's a fair thing to go an' have some tea."  He
grinned at them, and strolled off along the deck.

"That's an idea," said Tom.  "Come on, and
we'll have some too."

The little saloon was crowded, so they brought
their tea on deck, where nothing, Garth said, was
ever so good as bread-and-butter, eaten in the
sweet air that blew softly across the lake.  Here
and there brown-sailed fishing-boats could be seen,
and sometimes the steamer slowed down while
a boat ran alongside, and the crew pitched empty
fish boxes down to the men in blue jerseys, in
readiness for the night's haul.

"They'll give them back to us filled in the
morning, if they have luck," said the Captain, a
long and friendly man who had come down from
the upper deck to make acquaintance with his
passengers.  "Then we ice them, and the fish will
be in Melbourne to-morrow night.  Not as good as
fresh-caught, of course, but then you city people
don't know the difference!  Wait till you get fish
at the hotel, I suppose you're going to Kalimna?"

"No—we're coming down here to live," Tom
told him.

"You don't say!" ejaculated the Captain.
Light broke upon him.  "Is it you who've taken
Gordon's place?"

"Yes."

"Wonder how you'll like it."  His glance
rested for a moment on Aileen, dainty in her well-cut
travelling clothes, her delicate face a little pale
and tired.  "It's not a bad little place, but I'm
afraid you'll find it a bit rough.  Gordon's a queer
stick: hardly ever spoke to a soul.  He wasn't
what you'd call popular in these parts."

"I hope that won't make people unfriendly
towards us," said Aileen, smiling.

"Not much—once they know you're not like
Gordon," the Captain answered.  "Country people
are friendly enough—when they've time—but they
can't stand any one being stuck-up, and that was
the name Gordon had.  He liked the place, too, I
believe, but he never would make any friends.
He was a lonely old soul.  Well, well!  And so
you're going farming!"  Again his eye travelled over
them curiously.  "Been at it before, might I ask?"

"No—this is our first attempt," said Tom,
flushing a little.

"Well, you've got pluck, haven't you?  That's
all it wants—pluck and hard work.  One thing,
you've a good neighbour; Nick O'Connor's a nice
chap.  Didn't you know him?"—as Tom's face
showed no response.  "That's him you were
talking to awhile ago—that big chap."

"Is he our neighbour?  Oh, I'm glad, aren't you,
Dad?" Garth exclaimed.

"And are you going to be a farmer, too, young
man?" queried the Captain.

"I'm going to try," Garth said manfully.  "Dad
says I can help him."

"I should say so—a big fellow like you.  Would
you like to come and see the engines?"

"Glory!" said Garth blissfully, and trotted off
by his new friend.  Half an hour later his father
went in search of him, and found him on the upper
deck, grasping the wheel with his thin little hands,
and trembling with eager delight as the steamer
answered his touch.  The Captain stood by, laughing
at his efforts.

"I'll make a sailor of him, if he finds he doesn't
like farming," he said.

"I'll remember," Tom said, laughing.  "Which
is it going to be, Garth?"

"I like this—awfully!" Garth panted.  "But
I suppose one might get a bit sick of it.  And you
can't have a pony on a ship!"

"Not as a rule," said the Captain.  "Well,
let me know if you change your mind.  I might
have a vacancy for a first mate any time."  He
patted Garth on the head as the small boy went
off with his father to the warmth of the lower deck
and his big overcoat.

The day was dying, and Garth began to feel a
little tired: ready to sit down between his father
and mother, and watch the lake shores as they
glided by.  They were in another lake now, the
first of the chain of three that stretches inland from
the sea; and their course was close to shore,
underneath wooded heights and past beautiful little bays.
The lake grew darker and darker.  It was all very
beautiful and peaceful: but, to the three strangers,
it was certainly a little lonely, perhaps a little
unfriendly.  Home—the dear "House Beautiful"
seemed very far away.

There came a momentary stoppage at a little
jetty under high cliffs, where three or four men
with rod cases went ashore and disappeared on a
steeply ascending path.  Then the steamer ran on,
almost under the cliffs, until the lake narrowed,
and opened out again; and ahead they could see
the lights of a township.  On the right hand, dimly
visible, a narrow pathway of water ran out, between
long grey piers, to an illimitable grey waste of
water beyond; and a dull sound that had for some
time been audible swelled to a roar; the thunder
of the surf pounding on the entrance bar and on
the Ninety-Mile Beach.  They steamed past the
entrance and into what seemed a little land-locked
lake: paused for a moment at another jetty, and
then made across to the beckoning lights on the
further shore.  The long journey was at an end.





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.. _`THE HOME-COMING`:

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   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE HOME-COMING

.. vspace:: 2

Weary, a little dazed, the three travellers
stood up, collecting rugs and wraps, and
moved to the rail, watching the bustle of
disembarkation.  Most of the township of Cuninghame
seemed to have come to meet the boat; the wharf
was crowded, fishermen and labourers mingling
with gaily-dressed visitors—boys in flannels, and
girls in pretty frocks.  Across the street from the
wharf, light streamed from the open doors of a
brightly-lit store, throwing everything else into
greater darkness.

Tom Macleod leaned forward, scanning the
throng intently.

"I wish I could see my worthy friend, Mr. Smith,"
he muttered.

"Who's Mr. Smith, Daddy?"

"Mr. Smith is the proud owner of a two-hoss
shay he calls an express-wagon: and I hired him
to meet us and drive us home, my son," Tom
answered.  "Thank goodness, there he is!" as a
short, thick-set man came into view in the shifting
crowd.  "Hi!  Smith!  Stay here, Aileen: I'll
go and get the luggage ashore."  He disappeared,
and they heard his voice again urgently hailing
Mr. Smith, who strolled to and fro on the wharf,
apparently enjoying the evening, but making no effort
to find his temporary employer.  Finally, a more
insistent call secured his attention, and they lost
sight of him.

A long and dreary wait ensued.  The decks had
emptied; and the steamer lights were being turned
out.  A keen wind blew from the water: Aileen
wrapped Garth in a rug, and they crouched together
on a seat, too tired even to talk.  The people on the
wharf went home, or clustered in groups near the
store, gossiping.  From time to time they caught
sight of Tom and Mr. Smith, crossing and re-crossing
towards the street, laden with boxes and trunks.
Garth was nearly asleep when at length his father
appeared.

"You poor souls!" Tom uttered.  "I'm awfully
sorry to have kept you such a time, Aileen.
But we couldn't get a soul to help us, and Mr. Smith
isn't what you'd call a swift mover.  Asleep,
sonnie?  Come on—we'll soon be home."

Garth got to his feet stiffly, and stood, shivering,
while his father and mother gathered up the rugs.
Then they crossed to the wharf over a narrow
gangway.  In the street waited Mr. Smith, in a curious
vehicle like a single-seated buggy with a very long
tail, which tail was piled high with their luggage.
The seat was very high, and looked—and
was—exceedingly uncomfortable.  Two impatient horses
were making attempts to start, and Mr. Smith
was repressing their energy.

"G'd evenin'," he said.  "Back there, Blossom.
You're a long way off your paddock yet.
Take care how you get up, Mrs. Macleod; the step's
a bit high.  Afraid the kid'll have to sit on your
knee.  Bit of a squash, ain't it?"

They settled themselves somehow; the high seat
caused Aileen's feet to dangle uncomfortably until
Mr. Smith obligingly produced a sack of potatoes
which acted as a footstool and prevented her slipping
down.  Tom took Garth on his knee, and muffled
him in a rug.  His head went back thankfully upon
his father's shoulder.  Mr. Smith clicked
encouragingly to the horses, and they trotted up the
street, leaving the brightly-lit store behind them.
On one side were dim houses, and on the other,
behind a low stone wall, the lake glimmered, and
the water splashed on the shingle.

They turned inland presently, along a track that
was hardly visible to the untrained eyes of the
city people, though Mr. Smith and the horses
followed it unerringly.  It wound like a snake among
the dim shapes of gum trees.  Soon they were
beyond the outlying houses of the township, and
only an occasional lit window showed the existence
of any inhabitants of this lonely region.  Even
these disappeared at last, and they drove into what
seemed utter blackness.

Afterwards, Aileen Macleod was amazed to
find that her new home was only three miles from
the township.  On that first night, twisting and
turning on the dark bush track, with her senses
numbed by weariness and homesickness, it was an
interminable drive.  Garth fell asleep, but the
bumping of the express wagon over unseen
obstacles awoke him constantly, and he whimpered
a little—too tired to be a man, in spite of his seven
years.

"Buck up, ol' son," said Mr. Smith.  "We're
just about there."

They stopped at a white-painted gate, only half
visible to the strangers.  Tom got down and
fumbled with unaccustomed fastenings, while the
horses fidgeted at the delay, and Aileen tried hard
not to be nervous.  At length it was open, and then
another pause ensued while it was shut—an operation
even more difficult than the opening.  Tom
swung himself up into the wagon again, with a
muttered apology for his slowness.

"There ain't a decent gate on ol' Gordon's place,"
Mr. Smith said.  "You'll have to let your boy come
back with me to open it—I'd never hold these
brutes once they got their heads pointed for home."

They were trotting through a paddock, where,
apparently, no track existed.  Bump—bump—bump,
they went, over hollow and rise, stick and
tussock.  The horses swerved and twisted among
the grey tree-shapes.  Once they shied so violently
that Tom had to clutch Aileen to save himself
from being thrown out.  Something got up with
a snort and lumbered off into the darkness.

"A bloomin' cow!" observed Mr. Smith.

"Do cows always lie down on the track at
night?" Aileen asked.

"Cert'nly," said Mr. Smith, in some surprise.
"The things what don't come here at night,
gen'lly-as-a-rule, is horses and buggies!"

A new chill crept over her.  The stupid incident
seemed to sum up her position.  The cow was at
home, and she, most emphatically, was not.  Would
it ever be home to her?

A faint light showed through the trees ahead,
and presently they were skirting a rough garden
fence, as Mr. Smith announced his intention of
taking them round to the back.  He pulled up,
with a great grinding of brakes, and shouted
"Coo-ee!" loudly.  Across the yard a door opened,
and a boy's squat figure showed against the light.

"There's your man," said Mr. Smith, with
something resembling a chuckle.  "Come over 'ere,
'Orace, and lend a hand with these things."

The boy moved slowly, hesitatingly, forward.
Tom got down, and held out his hands to Garth.

"Come on, sonnie.  Be careful, Aileen: the
step is high."

He lifted Garth down, and turned to help his
wife.  She was numbed from her cramped position,
and stumbled against him, glad of his arm, for a
moment.

"I'm all right, Tom," she said then.  "Give me
something to carry in."

"You can take the rugs," he said, "and Garth.
Don't come out again, dear; just look round the
rooms to get the hang of the place.  I'll hurry
the things in as quickly as I can, and come to help
you."

Mother and little son stumbled across the uneven
yard, guided by the light from the door.  The
squat boy brushed against them, evidently afraid.
They reached a narrow veranda, across which
the light streamed.  It came from a kitchen: such
a kitchen as Aileen had never seen.  She looked
into it half-timidly.

It was not a very large room, and it was
indescribably filthy.  A fire, which seemed the only
clean thing, blazed in a rusty-looking stove, which
had not known blacklead since its earliest infancy.
On the hearth, logs, buckets and dirty boots
mingled: a very black kettle and some evil-looking
saucepans stood on the stove-top and the hobs.
The floor was covered with tattered linoleum, with
bare spaces here and there where the ancient
covering had worn away, or still lingered in ragged
strands.  There was a sink in one corner; a large
table, the surface of which shone with blackened
grease, a dresser, covered with a queer assortment
of cracked and stained crockery.  The walls had
once been whitewashed, but the white had long
disappeared beneath a coating of smoke and grime.
A black frying-pan hung by the fire-place, with a
toasting-fork that had been twisted out of fencing
wire.  Over all was a reek of vile tobacco smoke,
mingled with the smell of dirt and closeness.  It
was very evidently the sitting-room of Horrors.
The mantelpiece held a framed text, its gaudy
flowers almost invisible under the speckled and
misty glass.  It said, "God Bless Our Home."

"Mother!" said Garth, in a whisper.  "Is this
where we're going to *live*?"

She looked down at the child's white face, and
woke from the disgust and horror that had swept
over her.

"Well, it is, sonnie," she said.  "But it won't
look like this long.  You wait until we all get busy
at it, and you won't know it.  Anyway, we'll
forget about it to-night.  Come on and explore the
rest of the house."

There was only one lamp, and she did not like
to take it, since its dim beam was the only guide
for the men as they tramped backwards and
forwards from the wagon to the veranda.  She
looked about on the dresser, and found an end of
candle stuck into a broken porter bottle, the sides
of which were thick with grease.  No matches
were visible, so she held it to a blazing stick until
it was alight.  Then they entered their home.

There were four main rooms, with a kind of lobby
at the back, off which were bathroom and storeroom.
It was a simple cottage, such as you will
find in the Bush in hundreds: a big living-room,
and three bedrooms of varying sizes, the largest
of which would have made a servant's bedroom in
the "House Beautiful"—which was, perhaps, a
place that gave itself airs.  Such rooms they were!
The extreme filth of the kitchen had not penetrated
indoors; but they were dirty enough, with dust
thick in every corner, and an almost unbearable
fustiness that cried eloquently for fresh air.  After
her first sniff of the evil atmosphere Aileen went
hastily to each window, flinging them open: all
save one, which, apparently, never had been opened,
and declined to begin now.  She struggled with it
for a minute and then gave it up, glancing at her
dirt-streaked hands with a little shudder of disgust.

They had sent ahead of them, by steamer, a few
articles of furniture, arranging with Mr. Smith
to bring them out and unpack the new beds; which
stood, gaunt with their naked mattresses, looking
painfully clean amid the surrounding squalor.
Sheets and blankets were somewhere in the mass of
luggage that even now was being flung down on
the dark back veranda.  The other furniture
was rough and untidy, and chiefly home-made:
the dressing-tables were old packing-cases draped
with dingy cretonne, the washstands were shelves
against the wall.  Mr. Gordon had evidently been
a gentleman with a turn for carpentry: there
were chairs made from barrels, and bookshelves
composed of old laths from fruit cases, and filled with
tattered and dirty books.  The walls were boarded
and varnished, cobwebs forming their only decoration.

"It's a funny house," Garth said plaintively.
"Mother, could I go to bed, do you think?"

"Mother hasn't got a proper bed ready for
you," Aileen said.  "Never mind, sonnie: I'll
fix you up without proper things for a while."

She brought the bundle of rugs, and spread
them on the smaller bed: Mr. Smith, with an
admirable economy of space, had erected both
in one room.  Garth was fumbling wearily at his
buttons, and she came to his aid quickly.

"We won't take all your clothes off, because
your pyjamas, are hiding in one of the boxes," she
told him.  "But you won't mind that, to-night."

Garth was past minding anything.  His heavy
head nodded forward as she picked him up, kneeling
on the dirty floor while she unlaced his boots;
then she laid him gently back on the uncovered
pillow.  He was asleep almost as his head touched
it.  Very gently, she drew the rugs over him, and
turned from him, shading the candle with her hand.

Tom Macleod, entering hurriedly, looked from
the white face on the pillow to that of his wife,
almost as white.

"My poor little girl!" he said.

A lump rose in Aileen's throat.  She choked it
back with decision.

"If you begin to pity me I might cry, and there
doesn't seem time for any diversion like that,"
she said, smiling bravely.  "We're all right.  I've
put Garth to bed—-the poor man was so tired I
wouldn't wait for sheets.  But I would like some
milk for him, Tom.  Do you know if there is any?"

"There should be any amount—I think it's kept
in the store-room," he said.

"And a saucepan?"

"Smith says he put the new pots and pans in the
store-room, too—and the bread and meat and things
we ordered."

"Then we'll all have hot milk and bread before
we start unpacking," said his wife with decision.
"Would you get the lamp, Tom?  I'm so tired of
this illumination!"  She put down the greasy
bottle and looked at the candle-end with disfavour.
"I'll leave it, in case Garth wakes."

The store-room was more hopeful, since its
window consisted of wire gauze, through which the air
came freely.  They found milk in what seemed
to Aileen enormous quantities, most of it sour; but
a bucket held the fresh supply of the evening, and
a huge parcel from the store revealed butter as
well as bread and groceries.  They found another
lamp, and while Tom heated milk in a hurriedly-rinsed
saucepan, Aileen spread their first meal in
the dining-room, using old newspapers for a
tablecloth.  She woke Garth, and made him drink a
cupful of milk, but he was too sleepy to eat.

"Never mind—the milk will do him good,"
Tom said, watching them.  "Now come and have
some yourself."

They looked at each other over the paper-spread
table, and to each of them came a vision of the
"House Beautiful"—was it only last night that
they had been in its dainty luxury!  Neither spoke
of it, however.  Tom poured milk into a cracked
cup and gave it to her.

"Don't be afraid.  I washed the cups!" he said.
"There was plenty of hot water, but nothing to
dry them with—at least, nothing that you'd have
cared about!  So they're damp, if clean."

"Bless you!" said his wife.  "Did you ever
wash a cup before, Tom?"

"Not that I know of," he said, laughing.  "But
it isn't really difficult, if you have brains!  Is
the house very awful, dear?"

"Well—I'm inclined to think it's as well I had
no stronger light than my candle-end to inspect
it," she said, forcing a laugh.  "It's—well, just a
bit dirty.  You ordered a charwoman, didn't you, Tom?"

"Of course I did.  At least, one doesn't order
them in this part of the world: one begs them
humbly.  I arranged with a plump lady named
O'Brien, and Smith was to bring her out as often
as was necessary.  But she sent him a message
that she had a lady friend from Bairnsdale staying
with her, and she wasn't going.  There doesn't
seem to be any one else; so, since Gordon left, the
house has been at the tender mercy of Horrors,
not that I think he gets much beyond the kitchen.
The kitchen is eloquent of him."

"It is, indeed," said Aileen, with a shudder.
"Where is he now?"

"Gone to open the gate for Smith.  I told him
to come back quickly, but I don't fancy he's strong
on being quick.  I want him to help me carry
things into the lobby—it's the best place to
unpack.  You know where to put your hands on the
things we need to-night, don't you?"

"Oh, yes—bedclothes and sleeping things are
all together in the black trunk, and so are our old
clothes.  They're all handy.  But I can't remember
where I packed soap and towels."

"They'll turn up," said Tom cheerfully, "especially
if you don't worry about them.  All you
have to think of to-night is bed, even if you go
there grubby!  I'm afraid you'll have a very hard
day to-morrow, my girl."

"It doesn't seem as if anything could be hard
if I only had a sleep first," she said.  "Have more
hot milk, Tom."

Tom drained the saucepan.

"I never knew what a really good thing milk
was," he said.  "Let's live on it largely: it's
cheap, and easy to cook!  I feel pounds better."

"Kin I go ter bed?" said a voice at the door.

It was Horrors: a curious, squat boy of fifteen,
with a very red face in which small eyes looked dully
at the world; with a mop of extremely tight black
curls, and an expression of stupidity that proved
to be quite genuine.  His clothes, tightly buttoned,
were of blue dungaree, and had a well-filled look
which, later, they found to be due to a habit of
wearing other complete suits underneath the top
layer, as though prepared at any minute to leave
home suddenly.  He stood at the door opening
from the lobby and repeated his question heavily.

"Kin I go ter bed?"

"You can't, just yet," Tom said.  "I want
you to help me carry in those boxes."

"Awright," said Horrors sadly.

"Where do you sleep?" Aileen asked nim,
studying her new henchman gravely.

"In me room."

"But where?  Not in the house?" with a
swift fear.

"Over there."  He jerked his head towards the
outer world.  It was characteristic of Horrors
that he never used two words where one would do.

"There's a buggy-shed, with a lean-to attached
that forms Horrors' sleeping-bower," Tom told his
wife.  "I told him to clean it out before we came."

"Did," said Horrors.

"H'm," said Tom.  "Pity you didn't clean
the kitchen, too.  Well, we'll get in these boxes."

They carried them in, placing them so that
they could be conveniently unpacked.  Aileen
dragged out bedclothes and garments and made
the bed by the light of the candle-end, now nearly
exhausted.  She was not used to the task: it would
not have been considered a well-made bed.  But
it looked rather like heaven to her when it was
finished.

Tom came in, to find her rooting wearily in a trunk.

"I wish I could have helped you," he said
anxiously.  "What are you looking for, now?"

"Soap," she said, her lip quivering in spite of
herself.  The hunt for soap had suddenly assumed
enormous proportions—she had a vague idea
that, if necessary, she must go on searching for it
all night.

"Oh, you poor old tired thing!" her husband
said.  "There's an old bit of yellow in the bathroom,
and here's a spare pillow-case—it will make
a beautiful towel.  I've got hot water in the
basin—it was the dirtiest basin you ever saw, by the
way.  Come along."  He lifted her to her feet.

They washed their hands and faces together
in the basin, like children, and dried them on the
pillow-case.  The candle-end had guttered out
when Aileen went back to her room, and she
undressed by a faint gleam of moonlight that filtered
in through the uncurtained window.  The smell
of the yellow soap was her last waking memory on
her first night in the new home.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A DAY IN THE COUNTRY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   A DAY IN THE COUNTRY

.. vspace:: 2

The sun was streaming through a threadbare
yellow blind when Aileen Macleod awoke
next morning.  For a moment, dazed with sleep,
she wondered what had happened—surely Julia
was very late in bringing tea!  Then memory came
to her, and, with it, the realization that, for the
first time in her life, food depended upon her own
exertions.  Simultaneously came the conviction
that never before had she wanted morning tea so
much.

She slipped out of bed.  Garth and her husband
were still sound asleep, but from outside came a
clatter of buckets that gave hope that Horrors
was astir.  The thought of the bath called her.
But on examination, the plunge-bath proved to
possess an encrusted layer of dirt that defied cold
water, and effectually robbed her of any craving
to use it.  The basin provided minor ablutions—the
pillow-case was still damp from its midnight
use, but its cleanliness, even though moist, was
pleasant.  Everywhere that she looked the pitiless
daylight revealed dirt which the kindly
candle-end had hidden the night before.  She drew the
skirts of her pretty dressing-gown more closely
about her as she went back along the narrow
passage towards the locked front door.  She threw
it open and went out upon the veranda.

.. _`"She drew the skirts of her pretty dressing-gown more closely about her and went out upon the veranda."`:

.. figure:: images/img-080.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
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   :alt: "She drew the skirts of her pretty dressing-gown more closely about her and went out upon the veranda."

   "She drew the skirts of her pretty dressing-gown more closely about her and went out upon the veranda."

Before her was loveliness of which she had not
dreamed.

The house stood on a little hill, which sloped
gently away at the back, and, in front, shelved
more steeply down to where a glimpse of blue water
showed.  Like a river, it wound away among the
hills until it was lost to sight: now narrow, now
widening almost to a baby lake.  Beyond were
hills clothed with gum trees and wattle, stretching
to the far distance; but nearer, she looked down
into an exquisite fern gully, where splendid
tree-ferns flung their fronded crests high into the air,
and smaller fern-growths nestled about their stems.
The plash of a tiny waterfall told of a stream
running through it, to empty itself in the lake.
Nearer, the hills were low and rounded, their fresh
greenness a delight to tired city eyes.

No other houses were visible.  It was as though
they owned all the sweet countryside that stretched
about the little cottage.  On a far rise she could
see knots of sheep, like dots of white wool upon the
green; but before her no living thing moved, and
there was only the still peace of hill and valley and
curving lake.  There had been fear in her heart—the
fear born of inexperience and ignorance, the
dread that the task she had shouldered would prove
too hard for her.  But it died as she looked out
across the paddocks.  In fancy she saw Garth
running on the hills: growing strong and rosy,
losing the pinched, tired look, and the blue circles
under his eyes.  With that dear vision in her heart,
nothing else could matter.

She went back to her room.  Garth was sitting
up in bed, frankly bewildered.

"Hallo, Mother!" he said.  "Did I go to sleep
in my clothes?"

"You did," said his mother, beginning to brush
her hair with swift strokes.  "You were quite too
tired last night to worry about pyjamas and sheets,
sonnie."

"I don't remember a thing about it," said Garth.
"I say, isn't this a queer room?"

"Oh, rooms don't count," Aileen answered.
"You won't think about them when you see what
a country we have come to.  It's just lovely,
Garth.  Green paddocks—and gullies—and blue water!"

"Glory!" said Garth, and tumbled out of bed:
a quaint figure in crumpled shirt and trousers.
He ran to the window.  "Oh-h, Mother!"

"Are you two discovering Gippsland?" asked
a sleepy voice.

"Yes.  Get up, lazy one, and discover it too,"
said Aileen.

"You forget that I explored it before kindly
bringing you here," answered her husband, turning
more comfortably on his pillow.  "Aren't you
grateful to me?"  He suddenly regarded her with
amazement.  "Why are you doing your hair in
that small, hard bun?"

Aileen skewered the bun in question with a final
careful hairpin.

"There is going to be an amount of dust raised
in this house to-day that will make up for the years
during which it has never seen a spring-cleaning,"
she answered.  "And my hair is clean.  So I
screw it in a bun, and presently I shall also tie
it in one of your largest handkerchiefs.  Then I
shall sally forth and attack our new home with a
broom."

"To do which, you must be fed," said Tom,
getting up with a quick movement and
disappearing towards the bathroom.

"How he'll *hate* that wet pillow-case!" Aileen
murmured.  Inspiration came to her, and she dived
into a trunk, which, after a moment's rummaging,
revealed a large brown towel.  Thrust in at the
bathroom door, this induced gasping sounds of
gratitude.

The newspaper tablecloth of last night did duty
for breakfast also; and breakfast was eggs, boiled
over a spirit-lamp, and tea, which Tom brewed
in the kitchen.  Garth, delighted at what he
regarded as a huge picnic, trotted here and there,
helping and hindering with equal enthusiasm.

"I've made a tour of the house," Aileen said,
manipulating an enormous brown tea-pot; "and
I want to map out our plan of campaign.  What
are you going to do?"

"Help you, until the place is clean," said her
husband, looking at her.  She was an unfamiliar
Aileen, in a blue overall, short and workmanlike,
and with her tightly-screwed hair.  Tom came to
the conclusion that he liked it.  "What do we do
first?"

"Good housewives, I have always read, begin
by setting their kitchen in order," she answered.
"But I think I would rather have clean bedrooms
first; and I propose to ignore the kitchen.  It's
dirtier than all the rest of the house put together,
and I feel that it will keep.  If we could set up the
oil-stove in the lobby we could boil kettles and things
there.  I brought an enormous piece of cooked
corned-beef, so we shan't need to cook."

"First-rate idea," said Tom approvingly.
"What about the kid?  Does he eat corned-beef?"

"There's a cold chicken for him," said his mother.
"Also meat jelly, in a jar: I trust it's not broken
by that unholy bumping last night of Mr. Smith's
express wagon.  What does Horrors do to earn
his living, Tom?"

"He's supposed to do what he is told; but
under Gordon he seems to have done very much
what he liked," Tom answered.  "He milks three
cows, and feeds pigs and calves and fowls; and
cuts wood, and draws water—no, he doesn't, there
are taps, praise the pigs!  He's just an odd-job
boy—and quite at your disposal.  His not to
reason why!"

"He might do some of the rougher work, and
the scrubbing," Aileen said.  She knitted her
brows.  "I do feel so stupid—I don't know where
to begin!"

"I don't blame you, with a house in what my
old nurse used to call a dirty uproar," said her
husband.  "Let's hurl everything out of one
front room on to the veranda and clean things
there.  Then we'll clean the room, and put the
clean things back into it, and then we'll sit down
in the clean midst of everything and smirk at the
result.  We shan't be clean, ourselves, by that time,
but that's a detail.  If we do that every day for
a week you won't know our mansion!"

"It sounds a good plan," said Aileen enthusiastically.
"Come on, and we'll begin."  She reached
the door, and then turned back, laughing.

"I quite forgot that if we didn't clear away the
breakfast things, nobody would!" she said.  "I
must wash up."

"I'll help you, Mother," said Garth eagerly.

"Will you, sweetheart?  Well, you can dry
the things.  And Tom, if you could get Horrors,
you and he might begin the hurling-out of the
furniture.  Where is Horrors, by the way?"

"When I last saw him, he had eaten five eggs,
and was beginning a sixth!" said her husband.
"If he feels well enough, which seems doubtful,
I'll get him at once.  I'll fill the kettle for you.
Don't go into the kitchen more than you can help,
for it is in every sense a place of horrors.  I saw
fully five thousand cockroaches there last night."

"Ugh!" shuddered Aileen.

"Don't worry.  I'm told that it's only at night
that 'the rogues come out to play,'" said he.
"We'll poison them when we come to attack the
kitchen.  They must have been great company
for that boy in the long evenings—we mustn't
grudge him lively society!"

"What's cockroaches?" asked Garth, greatly
interested.  "I never saw one."

"I trust not," said his mother hastily.  "Never
mind them—we must get to work, sonnie."

There were evil rags in the kitchen that had
done duty as dish-towels, and which Aileen, having
sniffed gingerly, lifted on the point of a stick and
conveyed to the fire.  There was also a dish-pan
so encrusted with the remains of many washings
that she decided to use a wash-hand basin.  There
were the shelly remnants of Horrors' breakfast—which
it seemed best to leave for his own disposal.
Finally, having discovered that when cockroaches
are sufficiently tame and prosperous they do not
always shun the daylight, she seized the kettle and,
shuddering, fled, leaving both doors open, that
fresh air might remove some of the more obtrusive
odours of Horrors' sitting-room.  Later, she found
that this plan had led to the intrusion of a large
family of fowls and several half-wild cats.  In the
hope that some of these visitors might care for
eating cockroaches, she forebore to disturb them.

It was a strange day for a woman who had never
before done an hour's hard work.  Throughout her
life she had known only ease and dainty comfort;
now she found herself plunged into dirt and squalour,
with no skilled aid, and handicapped by utter
inexperience.  It was the inexperience that almost
angered her as the hours went on.  By nature she
was practical enough—it was hurting to her pride
to make stupid mistakes that must be paid for by
more hard work.  She scrubbed a room without
thinking of cleaning the walls and ceiling—which,
when examined, yielded so much grime that her
fastidiousness forthwith scrubbed the defiled floor
again.  Tom was greatly annoyed with her when
he found her on her knees, wielding the scrubbing-brush
anew.  But at least there was comfort in
having done the job thoroughly.

Horrors, as a scrubber, proved an utter failure.
Tom said he "took the rough off"; but Aileen,
looking at pools of filthy water which seemed to
have flung up waves of dirt, decided that his
methods were hopeless, and—when Tom was out of
the way—went over the work again herself, and
made the discovery that scrubbing is not so easy
as it looks, and that it carries possibilities of
backache undreamed of before.  Indeed, as the day
wore on, a thousand aches seemed situated in her
back, and her shoulders grew so stiff that she could
scarcely raise her arms.  Like all enthusiastic
beginners, she tried to do too much, and paid the
penalty.

Yet throughout the hard day she was never
unhappy.  The work brought its own reward in
the delight of feeling cleanliness about her again;
and it was something to be working together,
uniting their efforts in making the new home.
Garth's happy face, as he appeared from time to
time at a window, full of joyful tidings of new
discoveries outside, was a never-failing tonic.  And
Tom was the best of mates; ignorant as herself,
and much more unpractical, but full of energy,
and with a joke always on his lips.  Garth's voice
singing, as he roamed in the garden, mingled with
his father's, singing also, to the accompaniment
of much rattling and banging, as he unpacked
and erected the new oil-stove.  It made her want
to sing herself—only that her back ached too much.

They lunched in a scrappy fashion, very late
which was foolish; and, having lunched late, let
afternoon tea go altogether, which was more foolish
still.  They had yet to learn that hard work, without
sufficient food, does not pay.  Aileen was
finishing bed-making, in a room that fairly smelt
of cleanliness, when Tom appeared in the doorway.

"Six o'clock; and that's the last stroke of work
you do this day," said he firmly.  "Come and eat
things: I've made an enormous pot of tea, and
Garth has laid the table."

"How lovely! and what dears you both are!"
she said, turning, and smiling at him.  Then
suddenly the room began to turn round, slowly at
first, and then faster, and she was falling through
space.

It seemed a very long while, though it was but
a few moments, before she opened her eyes, to find
herself on her bed, with Tom bending over her.

"What's the matter?" she asked.  "I'm all right,
Tom—let me get up."  She struggled to rise.

"Lie still, dear," he said anxiously.

"Did I faint?—how silly of me!" she said disgustedly.
"I'm so sorry; I must have frightened you."

"I'm glad I caught you," he said.  "Isn't there
some medicine I could give you?  Sal volatile, or
something?  Tell me where to look."

Colour was coming back to her lips.  She began
to laugh.

"Oh, I don't want any medicine," she answered.
"I haven't got any, either—you know I never
faint, Tom.  It's too stupid of me to do it now.  I
was only a little tired—and I think the idea of tea
overcame me!"

"Keep quiet, then, and I'll bring you a cup,"
he said, disappearing.  He was back in a moment,
cup in hand, and made her lean against him as she
drank it.

"That was lovely!" she said, lying back.  "Oh,
I've such a heavenly feeling of laziness, and of
course, I must nip it in the bud!  I'm all right now,
Tom, and so hungry.  Come along."

"Sure you are?" he said, regarding her
doubtfully as she got up.  "Well, don't go tumbling
about like that any more: it scares one."  He held
her arm as they went along the narrow passage
to the dining-room, and kept a wary eye upon her
throughout the meal.  Being well aware of this,
she forced herself to be extremely merry, despite
thee fact that red-hot knives seemed to be running
in and out of her shoulders.

"It's just the beautifullest place that ever was!"
Garth said, blissfully looking up from his bowl
of bread and milk.  "There's lovely sheds, and a
big bench with tools—they's rustier than *your*
tools, Daddy!—and a stable, and such a jolly loft,
with hay in it, and rats!"

"It sounds a jolly place," said his father.  "Are
there more rats than hay, or vice versa?"

"I didn't see any—-any of those things you said,"
answered Garth, slightly puzzled.  "Do they run
about?"

"Not as a rule," said Tom gravely.  "Never
mind; I dare say there are none.  But are there
many rats?"

"I only saw three, but I heard lots."  Garth's
tone was hopeful.  "And Bran was awful excited.
He couldn't get up the ladder, but he raced about
down below, and barked like fun.  Do you think
you could carry him up to-morrow, Daddy?  I
tried, but it's a very steep ladder, and he wriggled."

"And who said you could climb up steep ladders?"
asked his mother.

"But I couldn't have got up into the loft if I
hadn't," said her son.

"That seems to settle it," said Tom, beginning
to laugh.  "We'll have to get used to these things,
I suppose."

"I suppose so," Aileen agreed.  "We really
don't want a prim suburban son now.  Only make
me one promise, Garth, to keep my old mind easy—don't
go near the water until Daddy has time to
teach you to swim."

"I did go, to-day," confessed her son, "but I
won't again.  You'll teach me pretty quick, won't
you, Daddy?  And can I go near the little creek
in the gully?  It's the littlest ever—I can jump
across it anywhere."

"Oh, we can leave you the gully," Aileen
answered.  "And we'll make a swimmer of you just
as soon as we can.  Every one finished?  Then
we'll go and look at our work."

The house reeked pleasantly of soap and turpentine,
and, so far as was possible, it shone.  It had
been fortunate for the workers that Mr. Gordon's
furniture was both simple and scarce, and so had
economized cleaning.  They had arranged it to
more advantage in the bare little rooms, and
already they were homelike, though lacking as yet
the smallest pretence at adornment.  The cretonne
petticoats had been ruthlessly torn from the
packing-case dressing-tables, the shelves and tops of
which were modestly covered, for the present, with
newspapers.  Gay Indian bedspreads lent a touch
of colour to the prevailing dinginess of the brown
walls and linoleum-covered floors of the two front
rooms.

"Don't you feel a holy glow that we took up
those linoleums?" Tom asked.

"When I think of what was under them, I do!"
rejoined his wife grimly.

The lobby was still a scene of wild unpacking;
but in the third bedroom, a tiny apartment off the
dining-room, the American oil-stove stood in all
its bravery of black paint and bright blue enamel,
the glass door of the oven shining invitingly.  A
copper kettle simmered over the flame: on nails
on the wall hung Aileen's aluminium pots and
pans.  A rough shelf held an imposing stack of
cookery books, flanked by a big pile of dish
towels.

"It does look jolly!" Garth said.  "When are
you going to begin to cook, Mother?"

"As soon as I have a clean house," Aileen
answered.  "To-morrow we'll have to attack that
awful store-room: and I foresee heart-to-heart
talks with Horrors on the subject of milk buckets.
His look as if they were washed about once a month.
Tom, how lovely you've made the bath!"

The tin sides of the bath fairly winked at them as
they entered the little bathroom.

"Seeing that I used gallons of boiling water
and about half a ton of soda to it, I should think
it ought to look lovely," said Tom.  "I doubled
myself into the thing for so long that when I finally
emerged, I thought I'd never straighten myself!"  His
eyes twinkled.  "What a heap there is in
housekeeping one never suspected!  I've regarded
Julia and Annie as quite ordinary people for years,
but now they strike me as rather more than human!"

"But is you two people always going to work?"
asked a small voice.  "Nothin' else at all?"

Garth's father and mother exchanged glances
over his head.

"Poor man!  He has never seen us do anything
but play!" Aileen murmured.  She patted his
head.  "We'll have to work a good deal, sonnie,
but there will be time for quite a lot of fun, too.
That has simply *got* to be arranged.  And to begin
with, I think it's high time you showed me things
outside.  It's disgraceful to have come to a new
home and not to have put one's nose out all day.
And outside is so much lovelier than inside!"

"It just is—ever so much," Garth cried.  "Come
along!  I wonder will the pigs have gone to bed!"

"Sure you're not too tired?" Tom asked, a
little anxiously.

"I will be less tired if I go," she said.  "He
hasn't had us for a moment all day."

They went out together, but at the door Tom
turned back.

"Go on," he said, "I want my pipe: I'll catch
you up."

He watched them stray off into the twilight.
Then he went to the forgotten tea-table, cleared
it, and washed the dishes.  He did it very badly,
and with a great deal of mess, never having washed
dishes before; but no one who saw him as he
worked would have judged the work hardly.  Having
finished, he wiped up the mess—of which there was
a good deal—with a clean towel, surveyed the result
with pride, and strode forth to find his family.

"You've been ever so long!" Garth complained.
"Whatever have you been doing, Daddy?"

"Just playing round," said Tom.  "What a mercy
the pigs aren't in bed!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE RIDING OF JANE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE RIDING OF JANE

.. vspace:: 2

A week went by—so swiftly that each day
slipped away on wings, and yet, when they
looked back, it seemed that years had passed since
the grey morning when they left the "House
Beautiful."  It was a week of ceaseless hard work.
At the end of it they looked at each other,
toil-worn, but cheerful: in their hearts a queer pride
in the new home that the "House Beautiful," with
all its charm, had never succeeded in waking.
There, it had been so easy to take things for granted.
But here, only their own hands and their own brains
counted; and they had used each to the full.

It had not been an easy week.  The only really
easy thing, Torn said, was to make mistakes; and
of those, they had made enough and to spare.  But
they very rarely made the same mistake twice.

Now, within and without, the little bush home
was spick-and-span.  Everything had been scrubbed
and re-scrubbed.  Light streamed into it from
wide-open doors and through brightly-polished
windows.  The packing-case furniture swaggered
in new petticoats of gay colours.  From the
barrel-chairs the dingy coverings had been ruthlessly
stripped, and they, too, rejoiced in fresh clothing.
Dainty belongings were scattered here and there:
Aileen's piano, having survived the long journey by
steamer and bullock-dray, stood in a corner of the
sitting-room; and there were books and pictures
and fresh flowers.  They felt that they had reached
a high level of success when Garth sniffed
approvingly, and remarked, "This house is beginning to
smell like you, Mother!"

The kitchen had suffered a transformation.
With the pained assistance of Horrors, it had been
emptied and scraped and cleansed.  Unceasing
warfare had fallen upon the horrified tribe of
cockroaches, and now not one was to be seen, either by
night or day.  No scrubbing would remove the
marks of ancient filth from the walls, and in
desperation, Tom had at length given them two coats of
whitewash, and had painted the tin sink with white
enamel.  At the conclusion of the job it was hard
to say whether more whitewash had fallen on the
walls or the artist; but the general effect was
beautiful.

The colonial oven had been so long a stranger
to blacklead that the first two coats had merely
made it look as if suffering from an attack of black
measles: at which a streak of obstinacy in Tom's
soul developed strongly, and he brushed it daily,
until, at length, it shone with an ebony lustre most
uplifting to behold.  They had routed from its
interior a large collection of socks, in the last stage
of decay—the property of Horrors, who had a
pleasing habit of drying wet and dirty garments
on the warm oven shelves.  The gloom which had
been settling more and more profoundly on Horrors
since their arrival deepened perceptibly when he
discovered that this artless practice must in future
be denied him; and when, in addition, he was set
to scrub the oven with washing-soda and boiling
water, despair seized upon him.

"He's got to the depths," Tom said, laughing.
"Nothing can make him feel worse now.  When
I told him that in future he'd have to wipe his
boots before coming in, he only uttered a hollow
grunt.  I think speech was beyond him!"

"He told me everything was a fair cow!"
remarked Garth.

"That's not an expression you need pick up,"
was his father's comment.

"I didn't pick it up—I was only telling you what
Horrors said," Garth rejoined, somewhat aggrieved.
"And I asked him what was, and he said, 'Soap,
an' scrubbin', an' all that rot!'  He says
Mr. Gordon never bothered him about things like that
and he wishes he was back."

"I don't doubt it," said Tom.  "Under Gordon
Horrors seems to have done little except wax fat!"

"He isn't nearly as fat as he looks," Garth
said.  "He wears all the clothes he's got at once.
He's got three suits on now, and lots of other things
as well."

"Good gracious!".  said Aileen.  "But why?"

"I asked him, and he said 'cause then he knew
where they were."

"Which nobody can deny," said Tom.  "Now
we understand why Horrors isn't what you might
term lissom.  Do you think you could speak to
him like a mother, Aileen?"

"It's almost the only thing I don't feel like
when I look at Horrors," she said.  "No—I think
it would come better from you.  Be brave."

"We pay for his clothes, so I suppose we have
a right to expect that he doesn't wear them out in
batches," remarked Tom.  "Did you gather whether
he ever takes any of them off, Garth?"

"Only the top layer, if he gets very wet," Garth
said.  "But he said he fell into the creek one day
before we came, and got soaked right through."

"He must have hated that!"

"Yes, he did.  He said, 'Why, me *skin* was wet!'—just
as if it hurt him.  So he had to take them all
off and put them in the oven, and he went to bed
till they were dry."

"Well, you have got more interesting information
out of Horrors than I should have believed
possible," said Tom.  "He never does more than
grunt when *I* speak to him."

"He only speaks in grunts, any time," said Garth.
"Only sometimes, if you listen hard, his grunts
seem to mean something."

"You fill me with hope—I'll listen harder in
future," said Aileen, laughing.  "Sonnie, are my
scones done?"

They were sitting in what Garth insisted on
calling "the new kitchen"; Aileen darning socks
swiftly, while Garth and his father sat on the
table—which, having refused to look clean under
any scrubbing, was now covered with white oilcloth.
Preparations for afternoon tea were upon it, and a
pleasant smell of baking filled the air.

Garth hopped down eagerly, and peeped through
the glass door of the oven.

"They've risen ever so, and they're turning a
lovely brown," he announced.  "I'm so hungry,
Mother—don't you think they're done?"

"Very nearly, I think," said his mother, coming
to join the inspection, while Tom lent an inquiring
eye over their shoulders.  "They do look pretty
good, don't they?  Cooking is so exciting; I don't
feel as if I would ever learn to feel calm while I
turned out a pudding!"

"If you go on as well as you have begun you'll
soon cease to worry," said Tom, preparing to make
tea.

"I don't know."  She shook her head.  "Think
of the pie the other day!"

They all laughed.  The pie had certainly been
rather peculiar.  No one knew quite what had
happened to it, but after sampling it, the family
had fallen back on bread and jam.  The pie had
gone to Horrors, who had eaten it all at a sitting,
with the nearest approach to happiness they had
yet seen in him; and had afterwards become, as
might have been expected, extremely unwell, his
complexion for the rest of the day being a delicate
green.

"The pie was an accident, but there's nothing
accidental about those scones," said Tom, as the
scones, light and puffy, emerged from the oven.
"Tea is ready, and I'm hungry enough to eat the
lot.  Sick boys, of course, aren't allowed more
than one, are they?"

Garth uttered a howl of protest.

"I'm not sick!"

He did not look sick now.  Even a week of
Gippsland air had put colour into his cheeks and
brushed away the tired lines from his eyes.  He
was no longer a city boy.  No snow-white collar
encircled his neck; his good suits were packed away,
and he lived in blue jerseys and extremely brief
knickerbockers, beneath which his brown knees
were scratched and bruised.  From daylight until
dark he was in the open air, exploring the country
that was so new and so delightful.  There were
still traces of delicacy from his illness; but already,
watching the light in his eyes and the spring in his
step, the father and mother knew that the great
sacrifice had been worth while.

"He ate two of my tarts yesterday; and as no
ill effects followed I'm beginning to think that
nothing could hurt him," Aileen said.  "It's
difficult to think that only a fortnight ago we were
tempting him with delicate strips of toast!"

"They wouldn't be much good to me now,"
Garth uttered, accepting a large buttered scone
with thankfulness.  "This is the hungriest place
I ever was in: and your scones are scrummy,
Mother!"

"Hear, hear!" said Tom, and took another.

"You're such satisfactory people to cook for,"
Aileen said, "you like everything that is at all
possible, and when it isn't—like the pie—you make
a beautiful joke of it."

"Well, it was a beautiful joke—you ask Horrors!"
said Tom, chuckling.

"Poor Horrors!  I ought to have given him
extra wages, I think, and instead all I gave him was
Epsom salts!"

"He needed them more than wages, I should
say," Tom said.  "No money would have paid
for that pain of Horrors'.  Well, you didn't ask
him to eat the whole of that pie, so I don't think
you need worry.  More milk, Garth?"

"Please," said Garth, surrendering a large
empty mug.  "Daddy, I've got the old pony up!"

"Eh?" said his father, starting.  "How did
you catch her?"

"I've caught her lots of times," said his son,
slightly embarrassed.  "She isn't any trouble if
you take her a milk-thistle.  So to-day I took a
halter with me, only I didn't know how to put it
on, so I just tied it round her neck and led her up.
It's funny how difficult a halter is when it's in your
hand—it's all twists and knots."

"H'm," said Tom.  "Well, you'd better go and
get on her if you want to."

"Oh, Tom——!" began Aileen; and then
stopped.  This was Tom's business.

Garth had flushed, and his eyes were very
bright.

"Truly?"

"Certainly—if you like."

"I—I thought you meant to teach me," the boy said.

"Oh, there's not much teaching in getting on a
pony," said his father unconcernedly.  "You must
find out some things for yourself.  Take her into
the little calf paddock—she can't get away from
you there.  Of course, I'll come and lift you up, if
you'd rather."

"No, thanks," said Garth, his head well up.
"I've finished—can I go, Mother?"  She nodded,
and he clattered out of the kitchen.  The gate of
the yard slammed behind him.

"Tom, is it safe?"

"Was I a brute?" he asked, and smiled at her.
"I do want the little beggar to be independent—and
he can't hurt himself on that old mare, in
a little paddock.  He'll manage all right, and be
twice the boy for it."

"Come into the store-room—we can see him
from the window," said Garth's mother.  She
caught Tom's hand, and they hurried into the
store-room.

The window looked out upon a tiny paddock
where the grass was green and thick, since its calf
inhabitants had long been turned out into a wider
run.  Garth was leading old Jane, the brown pony,
through the gate.  Jane, it was evident, had no
wish to be led; she hung back obstinately, until
the long grass caught her eye.  Then she became
docile, and went through meekly, beginning to eat
at once.  Garth shut the gate, and, returning to
his steed, looked at her.  He wished he could
remember how it was that people got on a horse.
Finally he made a little run and sprang awkwardly
in the direction where he would be.

There was never any sudden movement about
Jane.  Whether she stepped or swerved aside
would have been difficult to say, for it was done
unobtrusively; but the fact remained that when
Garth was at the top of his spring, she was no
longer there, but a yard or two away, eating
peacefully.  Garth came down on all fours in the grass,
and arose, brushing his knees, his colour somewhat
heightened.  No four-footed beast had ever looked
more innocent than Jane.

He twisted the halter round his wrist for his
next attempt and clawed wildly at her withers.
Jane gave a slow wriggle, and Garth found himself
kneeling beside her, caressing his nose, which had
bumped rather heavily against her plump side.

"Old beast—you did it on purpose!" they
heard him say.  He looked around him for means
of help.

An old bucket in the corner caught his eye, and
he went for it, placing it beside the unruly Jane,
who still ate with a peaceful determination not to
be worried by small boys.  The bucket was rusty
and ancient, but Garth was not in the mood to be
delayed by trifles.  He up-ended it, and hopped up
nimbly, catching at the pony's mane.

Jane walked on sleepily, as if looking for another
bite of grass.  For a moment Garth struggled to
hold her back; then the bucket gave way under
his boots and he fell through the bottom, standing
imprisoned in the rusty tin.  His grasp on the
halter brought Jane's head round, and they stood
looking at each other—the small boy red-faced and
angry, the pony with an air of meek surprise.

Tom burst into a fit of silent laughter, and
Aileen, after a struggle, joined him.

"Tom, do you think he can manage it?" she asked.

"If he does, he's going to beat that pony
permanently," said his father.  "Let's see what his
next move will be."

Garth's next move was to extricate himself
from the bucket.  It smote Aileen's heart to see
long, red scratches on his legs, as they emerged—she
sought in her memory for the correct treatment
of blood-poisoning.  The matter did not worry
Garth.  He stared for a moment at Jane, who
cropped the grass placidly.  Then he hauled her
to the fence, and tied her to a post, bringing her
as close to the rails as she would permit.  Jane
stood meekly until the boy inserted his small person
between her and the fence, and mounted the second
rail.

"He'll do it now," Aileen breathed.

Jane knew better.  Just as he leaned towards
her she slued round gently, so that she faced him
again.  Her nose drooped towards the grass so
far as the restraining halter would allow.  Garth
poised on one foot for a moment; then, losing his
balance, dropped off into the grass, his face redder
than ever.  It is regrettable to record that at this
point he administered a hearty kick to Jane, who
looked piously surprised, but otherwise took no
notice.

"Well!" said Garth.  "Of all the old pigs!"

.. _`96`:

He made a sudden angry rush at the pony, and
was on her back before she realized it.
Unfortunately he went a little too far.  For a moment
he lay across her, kicking and clawing to get his
balance; then he shot down, head foremost, and
again found himself in the grass.  Jane stepped
carefully away from him, and continued to eat.

"Shocking bad luck!" was Tom's comment.
"What next?"

Garth pondered.  That he was angrier than they
had ever seen him was clear; but there was a set
look about his lips that told of determination not
to give in.  At this point Horrors sauntered up
from the milking-yard and put down his bucket
joyfully.

"'Llo!" he said.  "Give yer a laig up?"

"Hang that boy!" muttered Tom.

"No thanks," they heard Garth's clear little
voice.  "I want to get up myself."

"Oh, good kid!"  Tom's whisper was joyful.

Garth thought deeply, his eye wandering round
the little paddock.  Once more interrupting Jane's
meal, he dragged her to a corner, and tied her so
that the fence would prevent her sidling away.
Then he stepped back, took a little run, and landed
on her back.  There was a moment's struggle,
bare legs waving in the air, while Jane hugged the
fence as closely as possible in the hope of
preventing him from getting his foot down on the off
side.  Unluckily for Jane, her rotund sides were
against this plan.  Garth struggled to a sitting
position triumphantly, and uttered a whoop.  It
was echoed—silently—by his parents.

"Bless him, the darling!" breathed Aileen,
after the fashion of mothers.  "Come on,
Tom—let's go and encourage him!"

"Wait a minute," said her husband,
restraining her.  "I want to see what will happen when he
realizes he's tied up."

Garth was just realizing it; and so was Jane.
He leaned forward, and, seizing the rope, tried to
haul himself and his steed towards the post, that
he might untie her; and might as well have
tried to haul a mountain down into a plain.  Jane
stood passively, with no faintest indication of
having noticed that any one was on her back.
Garth struggled until he was scarlet, and at length
gave it up.

A bright thought struck him.  It might be
dangerous and rash to be on a pony's back without
even a halter, but that was better than being
ignominiously tied to a post.  Even if she wanted to
run away, she could not, in so small a paddock,
run far; and then, Jane had not shown any inclination
to run at all.  So he leaned forward again,
managed to reach the knot of the halter on her
neck, and began to untie it.

Jane moved forward gently—which Garth welcomed,
since it allowed the rope to fall slack, and
eased the tension on the knot.  It seemed that
she knew when she was beaten.  Her head drooped
lower and lower: sleep apparently stole over her.
Garth went further and further forward, as her
neck declined, his fingers busy with the knot.

There was the slightest upward movement of
Jane's hind-quarters.  It could hardly have been
said that she kicked up; but there certainly was
an elevation, and, slight as it was, it was sufficient
for Garth.  He was already precariously balanced,
and he slid over her head, and landed on his back
turning a neat somersault.  Jane looked at him
sadly.

"You—you old *cow*!" they heard him splutter.

He gathered himself up, a vision of red fury.
To kick Jane was his first task, to untie the halter
from the fence his second.  Then he flung himself
at her, and for once Jane was not ready.  She
backed and sidled, but her activities came a thought
too late.  Garth was already astride of her, gripping
her with his legs, more in blind anger than
in intention.  He brought the end of the halter
down on her neck with a resounding thwack.

"Get on, you old pig!" he shouted

Jane moved on slowly.  This small insistent
person on her back was no longer to be denied.
The anger lingered in Garth's face for a moment;
then, as he found he was actually riding—*riding*—it
died out, and a wide, happy smile took is
place.  It was a vision of ecstatic triumph that
waved gaily to his father and mother as they
appeared at the back gate.

"Daddy—I can ride!"

He drummed his heels against Jane's sides and
the pony, surprised and indignant, broke into a
jog.  Garth bumped happily for a little, not knowing
that his heels were still assaulting Jane.  Then
the jog merged to a shambling trot, and he slipped
first to one side, then to the other, went further,
clutched at her mane to regain his balance, and,
missing it, descended abruptly to the grass.  Jane
instantly stopped, and began to eat.

Garth picked himself up with a wry face.  His
father and mother were by the fence.

"Isn't she an old pig!" he said, his eyes still
dancing.  "I don't care—I did ride her right
round the paddock, anyhow, didn't I, Dad?  Glory,
my wrist hurts!"

"Let's see it," his father said quickly.

Garth held up a wrist for inspection, catching
his breath as he did so, unable to restrain himself
from wincing.  It was queerly twisted.  Tom gave
a short whistle.

"Oh, you poor little kid!" he said.  "You've
put it out, I believe!"

Aileen, white-faced, was through the gate, her
arm round Garth's shoulders.

"Tom!  What will we do?"

"There's a doctor staying at the hotel, I know,"
Tom said quickly.  "I'm afraid to tackle it
myself—I don't know enough about it.  Don't worry
old man, we'll have you right in no time.  Get
ready, Aileen, and put his arm in a sling.  I'll run
the horses up."

He flung himself on to the amazed Jane, who
went out of the gate and across the paddock with
more haste than she considered either pleasant or
proper.  Aileen caught sight of Horrors' gaping face.

"Get the buggy out—quickly!" she told him.
"And have the harness ready."  She watched him
go shambling towards the harness-room before
she turned to take Garth indoors.

"Does it hurt you much, little son?"

"A bit," said Garth briefly, with shut lips.
"What is 'put it out,' Mother?"

"Oh, twisted a little," she told him.  "A doctor
will make it all right very quickly; only it will hurt
you until we get to him."  She looked at the set
little face.  "Garth dear—don't try not to cry,
if it is very bad."

"I would be awful 'shamed if I howled," said
Garth steadily.  "And Dad would think I was a
coward.  Dad wouldn't howl."

"Dad is grown-up, and you are only seven,"
Aileen said.  "He wouldn't expect you to be
able to stand as much as he can.  He will
understand, if it's a bit too much for you, dear."

"I'd hate to howl," said Garth.  "And howling
wouldn't make it better."

"Let me see if this will ease it," she said, her
own eyes full of tears.  She folded a silk muffler
into a sling, and raised his arm, very gently.  Even
under the soft mother-hands the child turned white.

"Oh, my little son, I wish I had it!" she said,
under her breath.

"I'm ... jolly glad you haven't," panted Garth.
His mother put him into a chair, watching him
narrowly, lest he should be faint.

"Sure you're all right, sonnie?"

"I'm—pretty right," he said.  "You'll come,
Mother, won't you?"

"Of course I'm coming."  She pinned on her
hat quickly, throwing her apron into a corner.
"I'll be back in a minute."

Running, she found Tom's flask, and mixed
some weak brandy and water in it, slipping it into
her pocket.  Then there was nothing to be done
until a "Coo-ee!" told them that the buggy was
ready.

Tom lifted the boy very tenderly to the seat,
and they drove out, trying vainly to avoid jolting
on the rough track.  Garth steadied the injured
arm with his free hand, and tightened his lips,
uttering no sound; but at an especially severe
bump he gave a little sigh, and, half-turning, put
his face against his mother's shoulder.  She put
hers down to him, murmuring broken words.

"I wish you'd howl, or something, old son,"
said Tom miserably.  A muffled "Won't!" came
from the hidden face.  They drove on slowly
bumping and jolting.

"Three miles of it!" Aileen thought, in despair.

"He can't stand it!"  She pressed the little face
closer to her.

They turned out of the paddock and down the
lane, winding in and out among the trees.
Presently Tom uttered an exclamation of impatience.

"Cattle!  What beastly luck!"

Ahead, a small mob of half-grown calves blocked
the narrow lane.  A tall man on a brown cob came
riding some distance behind them.  The calves
were feeding lazily, and took very little notice of
Tom's angry shouts; nor did their driver hurry
himself at first.  Presently, however, he seemed to
awaken to the fact that his property was in the
way, and trotted lazily forward.

"I wish to goodness you'd clear your confounded
cattle off this track!" Tom sang out wrathfully.

"One'd think you was in a hurry," said the tall
man easily.  "Ain't I got as much right to the
road as yous?"  Then his face changed as he
looked at Aileen.  "Beg pardon," he said, and
they saw that he was their acquaintance of the
steamer.  "I didn't know it was you, Mr. Macleod.
Is the kid hurt?"

"Dislocated wrist," was Tom's brief answer.
"Do you happen to know if the doctor is still at
the hotel?"

"I know he's not," was the unexpected answer;
and Aileen felt Garth shiver.  "Went away by
this morning's boat."

"And there is no other doctor?"  Tom's voice
was sharp with anxiety.

"Not nearer than Bairnsdale."  The man swung
himself to the ground, leaving the reins trailing
over the brown cob's head.  "Can I have a look, son?"

Aileen slipped away the sling, and Garth held
out his wrist mutely.

"H'm," said the man.  "Rotten luck, eh, son?
Fell down an' trod on it, did you?  Think you can
trust me to put it right?"

"Oh! can you?"  The words came from Aileen
in a gasp.

"I'd like a bob for every one I've done," said
the new-comer.  "Most chaps in the Bush know
a bit o' surgery."  He nodded to Tom.  "Hold
him steady."

He took the little wrist in weatherbeateh hands
that were wonderfully gentle.  "It won't take
not half a second, son—just set your teeth."

There was a moment's quick manipulation, while
Aileen turned sick: a smothered gasp from Garth,
and then a sharp click.

"There!" said the tall man, "all over; and
you stood it like a brick, old man.  Oh, poor
kid—hold him, missus!"  For Garth had suddenly
grown limp and helpless in her arms.

"On'y fainted—can't blame him, neither," their
new friend said.  "Give him to me, missus, an'
I'll lay him flat."

Garth opened his eyes some minutes later to find
himself staring at the sky, with uncomfortable
spears of grass tickling the back of his neck.  His
wrist was tightly bandaged, and there was an
extremely unpleasant taste of brandy in his mouth.
He felt queer, and very lazy; even though the
spears of grass were very uncomfortable, it was
far too much trouble to move.  Then he saw his
mother's face, white and strained as he had learned
to know it during his illness, and he smiled at her
weakly.

"Hallo, Mother!"

"Dear little son!" she whispered, and a tear
fell on his face.

"Had a stiff time, didn't y', ol' chap?" said
the tall man, smiling down from a height which
seemed to Garth about sixty feet in the air.  "Well,
you're a man, anyway.  I tell you, I've pulled joints
in for full-grown men an' heard 'em howl like a
dingo over it."

Garth's eyes sought and found his father's.

"Didn't want to cry," he said feebly.

"I'm proud of you, my son," Tom said.  They
smiled at each other.

"An' you fell off of a pony, they tell me," said
the tall man.  "Well, we all do that, sometime or
other.  When are you goin' to ride her again?"

"To-morrow," Garth whispered.  "Can I, Dad?"

For the second time that day Aileen checked
herself in a quick protest.  She looked at Tom.

"Certainly you can," he answered gravely.
"We'll tackle her together, old son."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`RAIN—AND A FRIEND`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   RAIN—AND A FRIEND

.. vspace:: 2

But it was not to-morrow, nor for a good many
to-morrows, as Tom had probably foreseen,
that Garth was in a position to apply himself anew
to the education of Jane.  He passed a restless
night, and morning found him feverish and heavy-eyed,
his wrist stiff and painful.  He had neither
appetite nor energy, and did not resist his mother's
suggestion that he should stay in bed.

"You can't expect anything else," Tom said
sagely.  "He's had a nasty shock, poor youngster,
and we must remember he isn't really strong yet,
even if he *has* got a little colour in his cheeks."

"Indeed, he has none this morning," Aileen said.

"Don't worry; he'll get it back again."  Tom
was far from feeling as cheerful as his words, but
to reassure the tired girl across the breakfast-table
seemed necessary.  "Just make a baby of him for
a few days, and let the other work rip.  Don't do
any cooking except for the boy."

"And let you starve on tinned things?  I don't
want both of you ill," responded his wife, laughing.
"You give me splendid advice except where you're
concerned yourself: and there you are just no good
at all.  It's a pity, because it shakes my respect
in you!"

"You might remember with advantage that I'm
the head of the house, and treat me with reverence,"
he told her severely.  "I'll be forced to take
steps to make you obey me!"

"I would laugh very much if you did," said his
wife, with conviction.  "Run away and play in
your garden; I'm going to make a pudding as soon
as I have fixed up Garth's room, and I really can't
be bothered with heads of houses!"  She swept
him a mock curtsey, and was gone.

When she emerged from Garth's room half an
hour later the dining-room was neat and tidy and
breakfast cleared away, save for a loaf of bread
ornamenting the writing-table—since the best of
men is apt to overlook such unconsidered trifles in
tidying after a meal.  She laughed softly, and
restored it to the bread-crock.  In the kitchen
Tom was just finishing washing dishes.

"Oh, you blessed person!" Aileen said
gratefully.  "But you shouldn't, really, Tom!"

"Why shouldn't I?" asked her husband.
"You're just jealous, because I wash up so much
better than you!"  A large fragment of ash from
his pipe fell into his dish as he spoke, and clung
lovingly to the saucepan he was cleansing.

"H'm!" said his wife.  "Well, I don't drop
tobacco ashes in, at all events!"

"That's more jealousy, because you can't smoke,"
said he loftily.  "Every one who is well brought
up knows that ashes are invaluable, for cleaning
saucepans!"  He polished vigorously.  "There—look
at your old porridge-pot!"—waving a wet
and gleaming aluminium utensil at her, regardless
of a shower of soapy drops.

"It's lovely," said his wife, accepting the
saucepan and the shower with meekness.  "And you're
a dear, though in the interests of your character I
generally try to conceal the fact.  What vegetables
do you intend to present to your starving family
to-day?"

Tom fell into the speech of the Chinese gardener
who had supplied them in the city.

"Cabbagee, cauliflow', gleen pea an' dly pea,
Flench bean, bload bean, spallowglass!" he
chanted.  "No, not asparagus; but I felt so like
old Ah Chee I couldn't stop!  Just give your
orders, ma'am.  Whatever old Gordon didn't do
on this place, he certainly left us a good vegetable
garden."

"He did indeed," Aileen said.  "Now, having
dangled all these before my eyes, tell me what
ought to be used first."

"Cauliflow'," said Tom promptly.  "They're
blooming like the rose, only more so."

"I'm so glad—it doesn't have to be shelled!"
said his wife.  "Peas or beans would have
embarrassed me this morning.  Where's the cookery
book?  I never can remember whether it goes into
boiling water or cold."

"Does it matter, so long as you leave it there
long enough?"

"I believe it matters exceedingly, though I don't
see why," said she.

"Mere red tape," said Tom scornfully.  "Why
not try both ways, and see which comes out best?"

"Think of your feelings on the day when it
happened to be wrong," said his wife absently,
puckering her brows over her book.

Tom scalded his dish-cloth, wrung it out, and
hung it on the rail he had erected for towels.

"There, that's done," he said.  "Now I'd better
go and catch a cauliflower, since my suggestions
only meet with scorn.  Want any potatoes?"

"Please," said Aileen.  She watched him cross
the yard to the shed, and return with his spade,
and presently heard him singing as he worked—a
gay little snatch of comic opera that was
somehow oddly out of place in the Bush.

"He seems happy enough," she said to herself.
"I wish I didn't hate it so."

She went out upon the veranda, and stared
across the paddocks.  The loveliness of the country
always helped her—even when the realization was
strong upon her that she hated her new life.  Not
for worlds would she have admitted it to either
Tom or Garth; that would not have been playing
the game—and to play the game had been instilled
into her since her childhood as the one thing worth
doing.

She did not always admit it to herself; then it
was easier to be cheery for her two boys.  She met
each day with a laugh and tried to laugh until it
ended.  But sometimes it was hard.  She missed
the "House Beautiful," with its dainty comfort
and luxuries; the ease of the old days, the little
pleasures and excitements, the stir and bustle of
city life.  The loveliness of the country lay like a
weight upon her.  Beyond the blue hills her mind
saw Melbourne, with its broad streets and great
buildings in their setting of gleaming river, and
jewelled parks; the huge shops, the gay streets,
the "Block," with the familiar faces going up and
down.  There were all the friends who had helped
to make life so merry; here was nothing but silence
and green spaces—and work.  How she hated the
work! the dull repetition of each day's tasks, the
grime, the greasy dishes, the hot kitchen, the sight
and smell and touch of raw meat!  In the first
days, while they fought the dirt of the house
together, it had been easier, hard as the fight was
for her unaccustomed strength.  Now she was
settling down to a dull routine of daily tasks, and
her existence seemed bounded by pots and pans and
dish-mops.  It was all very small and paltry: but
then, life nowadays was made up of small and
paltry things, which somehow mounted to a big
whole.  Perhaps it was because she was tired that
morning that it seemed rather too big for her.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Well, I suppose I'll get broken in, in time,"
she said.  "I hope it won't take too long."

Tom came round the corner suddenly, and chaffed
her for idling; and she answered him laughingly,
until a call came from Garth's room, and, with a
cheery, "Coming, sonnie!" she ran to him.  Tom
finished scorning his vegetables, and shouldered his
spade once more.

"Well, it's a queer sort of a life to come to—and
not much of a one," he muttered.  "But thank
goodness, Aileen's as happy as a cricket, so it's all
right!"

There were days that followed when Aileen found
it harder than ever to play at being happy.

The fine weather deserted them, and for nearly
a week rain fell unceasingly.  Mud came up to
their very doors, so that to keep the house clean
was no easy matter.  The garden paths were muddy
rivers, the flowers sodden with wet.  Garth, a
prisoner to the house, and with his bandaged arm
in a sling, moped for lack of occupation, became as
naughty as was possible to his sunny nature, and
openly declared that the country was beastly, and
he wanted to go home.  Even Tom ceased to sing,
and grew bored with long days in the house.  The
hills and the lake disappeared, blotted out behind a
drifting veil of grey rain.  The roof developed
unsuspected leaks, which all Tom's untaught efforts
failed to locate; and, to catch the drips, tubs and
basins sat on the floor in the passage—traps for
the unwary in the dark.  Tradesmen, never very
regular callers, ceased coming altogether.  Their
bread ran short, and Aileen tried her hand at baking,
producing loaves that were responsible, through
indigestion, for much of the family's low spirits.
Tom tramped through the downpour to the township,
and returned empty-handed and in disgust—it
was the weekly half-holiday, and the baker's shop
was shut!  So Aileen baked again—this time the
soda-bread of Ireland, as taught by Julia; and
was more successful.  Meat ran out; they would
have killed fowls, but no one knew how to prepare
them.  It was a dreary time.  They ate strange
dishes made with lentils, and wondered how
vegetarians contrived to look cheerful.

The days crawled by slowly, to the ceaseless
sound of the drip-drip-drip on the corrugated iron
roof.  The tanks ran over, and made rivers about
the house—-they were as yet too new to the country
to be grateful for any sign of a superabundance of
water.  All the firewood was wet and sodden, and
refused to burn: and the chimneys smoked
furiously.  Aileen found, to her horror, that there
were signs that already her temper was beginning
to feel "frayed at the edges"; more than once
she caught herself up just in time to prevent
herself making a sharp answer to some remark of
Tom's.  It made her afraid.

"If I'm like that within three weeks, what
shall I be in three months?" she asked herself.
"Aileen Macleod, you *can't* be a pig!  I'll begin
praying Mrs. Wiggs' prayer every day—'Lord,
keep me from gettin' sour.'  It wouldn't do, with
two boys to look after."

A cry startled her, and a heavy splash, and the
little mother dropped the food she was preparing
and fled to the rescue.  In the passage, now nearly
dark, Garth's boots protruded from the largest of
the tubs.  There was water everywhere: and Garth,
half-choked, and hampered by his slung arm, was
endeavouring to struggle out of the tub.  To her
relief, he was laughing.

"I'm an awful goat!" he said, dripping, but
cheerful.  "Didn't it serve me jolly well right for
being grumpy!"

"Did you hurt your arm?" asked his mother
anxiously, helping him to his feet.

"Not a scrap—wasn't it luck!  But I'm soaked,
Mother."  The small boy gave an irrepressible
chuckle.  "I say, I must have looked funny!
Don't you wish you'd seen me!"

Suddenly, to her astonishment and disgust,
Aileen found that she was crying.  The stupid
little accident was the last straw to her endurance:
her self-control slipped from her in the relief of
finding Garth unhurt.  She struggled in vain to
command her voice, and took refuge in silence;
but presently a stifled sob made Garth lift his head
in amazement, and a tear fell on his upturned face.

"Mother—you're not crying!  Oh, Mother, darling,
I was a pig—I'm so sorry!"

His arm was round her neck and his cheek pressed
to her wet one.  The clinging touch helped to calm
her.

"I'm all right, sweetheart," she told him.  "Don't
worry—I was just a bit tired, that's all.  You
mustn't tell Daddy, or he'd be worried."

"Sure you aren't sick?" Garth asked, greatly
alarmed.  That mother should cry was sufficiently
amazing to mean something very bad indeed.

"No, not a bit.  I was only tired, and I was afraid
you were hurt.  I'm a silly old mother, that's all."  She
was helping him into dry clothes, handling his
stiff arm very gently.

"I've been making you tired—cross beast I
am!" said Garth penitently.  "I won't be horrid
any more, Mother!"  He hugged her again violently.

"Poor old man; you've had a horrid week,"
she said.  "Never mind; Daddy says he thinks
it is going to clear up, and you may be able to get
out to-morrow.  Listen, Garth!"  She raised her
head as the sound of voices came through the thin
boarding of the wall.  "Daddy has a visitor.
How exciting!"

"Who d'you think it is?" Garth asked eagerly.
"Why, we haven't had a sign of a visitor since we've
been here!"

"It sounds like your friend's voice," said Aileen,
wrestling with his buttons.

"That nice man what pulled my arm straight?"
Garth said.  "I'd like to see him.  He did hurt,
but he was jolly quick.  I was getting sick of that
old arm.  He's a—a very decent sort of chap, isn't
he, Mother?"

"Very decent, I think," she said.  "At least,
I never was so glad of any one in my life.  Let's
go and see him, sonnie."

Tom rose as they entered the sitting-room.

"Here's Mr. O'Connor, Aileen."

"Thought it was about time I came to see how
my patient was," said the big man.  "Hullo, old
chap; your Dad says you're nearly all right.  Looks
a bit washy yet, don't he?"

"I'm quite well," Garth said eagerly.  "When
can I take my arm out of this old sling?"

Nick O'Connor laughed.

"Seems to think I'm his doctor, don't he?  Well,
I wouldn't be in a hurry for a few days.  You don't
want a weak wrist, do you?  And when you do
take it out, mind you wear a wrist-strap."  He
turned back to Aileen.  "And how d'you like
Gippsland, Mrs. Macleod?"

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she said.  "I never
saw such a lovely country."

"Oh, it's pretty enough.  But there's no fortunes
to be made here; it's hard scratchin' for
a living.  I was just askin' your husband what he
was thinkin' of doin' with the place."

"I'm hanged if I know," said Tom.  "My
predecessor didn't do much."

"Queer chap, ol' Gordon," said their guest.
"He wasn't the sort of fellow you could talk to
at all: lived by himself, and never spoke to no
one.  Him and that kid Horrors.  I wish I'd
known you were coming in; some of us would a'
done something to the house.  Awful dirty, I
suppose it was, Mrs. Macleod?"

"It was pretty bad," she said.  She caught his
eye, and laughed.

"Pretty bad!" said Tom explosively.  "Of all
the pigsties——!"

"I bet it was a pigsty," said O'Connor, chuckling.
"I was on'y here once, about six months
ago, lookin' for a stray calf: but then I poked me
nose into the kitchen, an' mighty quick took it
out again."

"Well, they hadn't washed it since," Tom remarked.

"Not they.  Well, it's all very well to laugh,
but it was jolly rough on you, Mrs. Macleod.  My
word, you've got the place nice now!  And the
garden's a fair credit to you: it was the on'y part
of the place where old Gordon did any work.  As
long as he could go fishin', much he cared for
anything else.  What was you thinkin' of doin' with
the land?"

Tom gave a short laugh.

"I'm blessed if I know," he said.  "To tell you
the truth, I don't know a thing about it.  I've a
little stock running on it, so I've just been pegging
away at getting things ship-shape before I tackled
farming in earnest.  What would you advise me to
do with it, Mr. O'Connor?"

The big man drew out his pipe.

"Mind me smokin'?  Well, it all depends.  If
you'd bought the place it'd be different; then I'd
start clearin' it up a bit, if I was you.  But you've
on'y got it on a lease, an' so that ain't worth your
while.  Ol' Gordon'd never appreciate it, if you
did clear it for him.  No; you might dairy in
earnest—an' a dawg's life it is; or you might run
sheep an' a few calves.  That's easier, an' it pays.
Young stock does pretty well on these hills."

"That would suit me better," Tom said.  "I'm
too old to start dairying, not knowing anything
about the game: and labour is too hard to get.

"That's so," agreed O'Connor.  "An' when
you've got men to milk, ain't you fair under their
heel!  They're boss, an' they make you know it.
Why, I knew one man employin' six milkers:
Mr. Beresford, up Lindenow way.  Mrs. Beresford
was doin' all the cookin' for them, and she wasn't a
bit strong, either—a delicate lady, she was, an' awful
nice: an' it was hot weather.  They *was* beasts.
If she sent 'em down a stew they'd put earth in it
an' send it back and tell her they wanted joints;
and one day she made 'em a ginger pudding, an'
they chose to think it wasn't good enough for them,
so they plastered up the cracks in the walls of their
hut with it, and sent up word she had to make
something else.  An' she had to."

"Had to!  I'd have seen them shot first!"
Tom exclaimed.

"So'd Mr. Beresford.  But he couldn't see sixty
cows left unmilked.  An' those six beauties of his
would have walked off like a shot an' left his cows.
They've done it on lots of places.  Once you start
dairyin', you can be as proud as you like on your
own account, but you've got to be jolly meek and
humble on account of the cows."

"Is Beresford still at it?"

"Not he.  He sold all his cows, and went back
to sheep; it was a pity, too, 'cause he'd good land
an' a lovely herd.  But Mrs. Beresford was too
delicate, an' he wouldn't have her worked to death.
Anyhow, she did die, afterwards, poor thing!"

"Well!" said Tom expressively.  "That puts
dairying out of the question; one doesn't want
to risk experiences of that kind."

"It's all very well if you're brought up to it,"
said the visitor.  "Then you get used to all sorts
of things.  But you ain't."  He looked at them
reflectively.  "You've both of you got 'city'
written all over you, if you don't mind me sayin'
so.  That bein' so, I couldn't advise you to try
cows."

"Well, look here," said Tom.  "Say I go in for
sheep and young stock, as you said—knowing
nothing about them.  Is there a reliable man—any
settler living near—who would buy them for me—for
a commission, of course—and advise me about
selling, when they were fit to sell?"

"Bless you, I'd do that, without any ol'
commission," said O'Connor cheerfully.

"I couldn't have that.  If I take up your time
I must pay you."

"Take up my time!  Why, you've on'y got to
come to sales with me—I'm always 'goin' to them—an'
let me give you a word of advice: an' I can
come over here now and then, to see how they were
doin'.  That ain't nothing to be paid for.  You'll
want to put in a bit of a crop for winter feed, an'
I'll lend you my plough an' horses an' 'Possum—you
can pay for them, if you like."

"Who is 'Possum?"

"'Possum's me right hand-man," said Nick
O'Connor, with a twinkle.  "Very useful, too.  I
can ride over an' help you get the crop in.  You'll
want to put in potatoes, too, won't you?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Tom said.

"Oh, there's money in spuds," said the big
man.  "And in fruit: you ought to make a bit
off your orchard.  And the hotels will always buy
vegetables—likewise the summer visitors."

Aileen leant forward, a new light in her eyes.

"I can help in that," she said.  "And, Mr. O'Connor,
I want to go in for fowls—lots of fowls:
chickens and ducks and turkeys."

"So you'd ought to.  They take mighty little
feeding: eat insecks and grasshoppers all the
summer, an' they do fine on peas in the winter!"

"D'ly pea," said Tom, laughing at her.

"Yes, dry peas.  We'll make him put in some
for you, Mrs. Macleod—just a little crop."

"But how will I buy fowls?  There are only a
dozen or so here."

"Oh, 'Possum's the one to help you there,"
said the visitor.  "What 'Possum don't know
about fowls ain't worth finding out.  Don't you
worry, Mrs. Macleod, we'll fix it up all right."

"But we can't take up your time and 'Possum's
without paying you," Tom said.  "I know how
valuable a man's time is."

Mr. O'Connor exhibited symptoms of impatience.

"Now, look here," he said.  "You're neighbours;
an' for five years we haven't had not what
you could call a neighbour on this place.  Nobody's
very proud about here, but we do get full
up of a man like ol' Gordon, who thinks himself
too good to speak to any poor Australian.  You
ain't that sort, an' we're jolly glad to have you.  If
I needed advice about buyin' things in the city,
wouldn't you give it to me?"

"Like a shot," said Tom.  "But——"

"Well, thank goodness, I don't!" said Mr. O'Connor,
pursuing his argument.  "But I'll come
to you when I need a lot of shares, or a swaller-tail
coat an' hat, or anything fancy like that.  Meanwhile,
if you won't let us advise you about things
like calves and spuds, where's the fairness come in?
I've said I'll let you pay me for the ploughin',
'cause it's cheaper for you to do it that way than to
buy an outfit an' start learnin' to use it.  But the
rest is on'y bein' neighbours.  So s'pose we don't
say any more about it.  Eh, son—would you like
to learn to be a farmer?"

"Rather!" said Garth, with shining eyes.
"Am I big enough?"

"Oh, you're quite big enough for a start.  I'll
tell 'Possum to keep an eye on you."  He rose,
knocking the ashes from his pipe.  "Well, they'll
be waiting tea for me: I must get along home."  He
shook hands all round.  "We'll make good
Gippslanders of you in no time," he said.  "Jolly
nice drop o' rain we've had this last week, isn't
it?—good thing for your ploughin', Mr. Macleod.
Well, so long!"  He was gone.

"Didn't I tell you he was a jolly decent sort of
chap?" Garth said.  "And he is, too!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"MAGGIE OR SOMETHING"`:

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   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   "MAGGIE OR SOMETHING"

.. vspace:: 2

Morning broke clear and fine, with a golden
sun smiling over a clean-washed world.
Garth greeted it with a merry little shout.

"Hurrah, Mother!  No more rain!"

"Not a drop," answered Aileen from the passage,
where the steady swish of her broom could be
heard.  "It's going to be the most beautiful day!"

"Can I get up to breakfast?" Garth demanded.
"I'm so sick of breakfast in bed, Mother."

"Oh, yes, I think so.  I'll come and help you
in a moment."

"I'm all right," Garth responded.  "I'll be quite
careful of my arm—don't you bother."  He capered
out into the passage, a cheery figure in pyjamas,
flourishing a bath-towel; and disappeared into
the bathroom, whence came presently much
splashing, mingled with snatches of song.

"Bless him!  I'm sure he's better," Aileen
murmured.  Something of the weight on her
heart seemed to be lifted this morning.  Perhaps
it was the beauty of the day: perhaps an added
hope and interest in life since their visitor of the
night before.  She sang as she swept.  That in
itself was not unusual, since singing was a
cheerful exercise, and she believed in encouraging
cheerfulness.  "One's mouth can't turn down at the
corners if one is singing," she was accustomed to
think.  But her song was not forced to-day: and
Tom, coming up the path, caught the happy note
in it, and smiled unconsciously.

"Look here," said he, later, at breakfast.  "I
want to draw the family attention to a painful
fact.  It's more than a fortnight since we came
here; and for that whole fortnight Mother Aileen
has not been outside the house!"

"Why, Tom, I've been——"

"You've been into the garden about three times,
and once to the pigsty," he interrupted.  "I knew
that quite well, but it doesn't count.  Does it,
Garth?"

"'Course it doesn't," said Garth, his utterance
impeded by porridge.

"Not at all.  Your only other excursion was
when you went to poke your nose into Horrors'
room, and nearly fainted at what you saw there!"

"I didn't—though indeed, any one might well
have fainted," Aileen defended herself.  "It was
like a charnel-house!"

"What's a charnel-house?" queried Garth,
much interested.

"Horrors' room," said his father promptly.
"At least, it was, until we went through it with
fire and sword.  Never mind; we're getting off the
subject.  Does the family think it's the square
thing for Mother Aileen never to have been outside
her gate?

"No!" from Garth.

"Certainly not!" from Aileen, amiably.

"I'm surprised to find you so sensible," said Tom,
grinning at her.  "Well, seeing that you have
done nothing but scrub, and sweep, and cook, and
generally behave like a galley-slave since we left
Melbourne, it's time something was done about it.
You're getting thin, and you've no colour, and if
you're not very careful you'll get the blues; and
where would Garth and I be then?"

"You needn't worry: I don't go in for such
stupid things," said his wife, laughing.  A shade of
pink crept into her cheeks; behind the laugh it
made her a little afraid, to think how near the
surface blues had really been.

"Anyhow, it really won't do, old girl;" he said
seriously.  "No one could stand it: and this
last week of wet weather has been enough to try
any one.  Therefore, I propose that to-day we
leave the house to Horrors and the cats, and go
exploring."

"Glory!" ejaculated Garth.

"It sounds nice," said Aileen.  "Let me think
if I can manage it."

"You're not to think at all.  There's cold mutton,
isn't there?

"Lots."

"Anything else?

"Cold odds and ends of pudding.  And Garth's broth."

"There you are—what more do you want?
That's supper, all ready.  We can take out
bread-and-butter and hard-boiled eggs, and make
billy-tea: and that's lunch.  We'll all hurry up, and
finish the housework, so that you can go out
without having awful thoughts of coming back to find
the piano undusted!"

"I can do heaps with one hand," said Garth
eagerly.  "Oh, do say yes!  Mother!"

"What a horrid mother I'd be if I didn't," she
said, smiling at them both.  "I think it would
be perfectly lovely.  Mind you eat a good breakfast,
both of you, for it will be the only hot meal
you'll get to-day."

"The same applies to you," said Tom, placing
another slice of bacon on her plate.  "No, you
needn't dodge!—you know you haven't been eating
enough lately to support a fly.  Garth and I
decline to have you swooning by the wayside from
hunger."

"I wish you would be nice enough to forget the
only occasion in my life when I did 'swoon,' as
you call it," she said.  "I truly won't do it
again—I'm too ashamed of it.  By the way, isn't that
man of Mr. O'Connor's coming over to-day?"

"The chap he calls 'Possum?  I'm not sure,"
Tom answered.  "We won't stay at home on the
chance of his coming, at any rate; we can tell
Horrors to let him know what direction we take,
and he wouldn't mind riding after us.  After all,
we can't go far.  But even a little way will be
better than nothing.  I do want you to forget
cooking-pots for a day."

It was still quite early when they left the house.
The long grass was wet, but overhead fleecy white
clouds swam in a sky of perfect blue, and were
mirrored in the blue of the lake below.  Just the
day for a holiday, Garth said, capering ahead of
his father and mother, while Bran raced in pursuit
of skimming swallows, having been recalled sternly
from the more hopeful pastime of chasing cows.
The spirit of the morning had even entered into
the elderly Jane, who was seen to kick up her heels
and gallop across a hill-side, in stiff-legged imitation
of the more youthful Roany.  Everything was
glad of the rain—especially now that the rain had
ceased.

"Rain is like med'cine," Garth said sagely—"simply
beastly when you're taking it, but it
makes you feel better."

They followed the track leading down to the
lake, skirting the fern gully, where the tiny creek
had become a most excitable stream, leaping
downward in a series of baby waterfalls, with all the
ferns on its banks awash.  The great tree-ferns
overhead dripped steadily, but the sunlight lay
upon their spreading fronds, turning the dewdrops
into jewels.  Far above them, bell-birds, hidden
in the branches of a gum tree, chimed as if they
could not be busy enough in ringing to welcome
the glory of the morning.

The lake itself lay clear and blue, broken now
and then by the splash of a leaping fish.  Just
below their land it turned, widening to a great
pool: but they saw now that it was only an arm
of the larger lake, and, beyond, it narrowed until it
was like a river.  A footpath led along its shores,
and they followed it in single file.  Sometimes the
cleared paddocks came down to the water's edge,
bare of timber: sometimes they passed through
belts of forest where shy Bush creatures slipped
noiselessly away through the undergrowth as they
approached.  They caught a glimpse of a wallaby
hopping off to shelter; and once they came upon a
native bear, sitting in a little gum tree, very still
and solemn.  Garth uttered a shout of delight.

"Oh, isn't he jolly, Daddy!  What is he?"

"His book name is Koala, but we used to call
him just 'monkey-bear' when I was your size,"
Tom answered.  "He's a nice old chap, isn't he?"

"He just is!" breathed Garth, looking at the
soft, grey, furry thing with its chubby body and
wide, innocent face.  "Daddy, do you think I
could take him home and tame him?"

The monkey-bear looked with extreme disfavour
at Bran, who was barking frantically at
the foot of his tree and making ineffectual leaps
towards him.

"Bran wouldn't agree," said Tom, laughing.
"And anyhow, the old bear's no good as a pet.
He's pretty, enough, but he's awfully stupid.  The
fact is, he's practically blind in the daytime—he
can only see at night, and even then he hasn't
much brain-power.  Anything he meets—you, or
a gate-post, or a house—he wants to climb up
immediately, thinking it's a tree.  He's really
uninteresting; and he can scratch like fury!"

"What a pity!" Aileen said.  "He looks such
a dear."

"I don't think he means to be savage," Tom said.
"He only claws in self-defence, if he's touched."

"Why shouldn't he?" said Garth.  "Does he
growl, or roar, or anything, Dad?"

"He may coo to his young, for all I know," said
his father, laughing.  "But he's generally
considered a silent beggar; only if he's hurt or badly
frightened, he cries exactly like a child.  The blacks
have a yarn that he was really a child, ages ago.
I once saw some dogs attack an unlucky little
fellow that was trying to get to a tree, and the
way he cried made me shiver."

"Poor little chap!" Aileen said pityingly.
"Does he ever get tame in captivity?"

"I don't think so: he's too stupid to be really
tamed.  You couldn't make a pet of him."

"Then it's really a pity he looks so jolly," was
Garth's verdict; "'cause it only excites your
hopes for nothing.  I vote we go on; he doesn't
look as if he'd move if we stopped here all day."

"He won't," said his father.  "I always think
he'd make an excellent heathen god, for he looks
so wise, and it wouldn't matter in the least that
he hasn't any brains at all.  His great ability is for
sitting still, and that's quite a desirable quality
for a god."

They went on, through scrub that grew so closely
that the path they followed became a mere
sheep-track, and the bushes brushed their shoulders.
Overhead a laughing-jackass broke into a peal of
wild laughter, and was answered by another some
distance off: and presently they saw one of the
big brown birds alight on a bough, turning up his
broad tail with a jerk as he came to rest, and then
laughing as if the world were one huge joke.

"I'd like to see one of those fellows catch a
snake," Tom said.

"Do they, truly, Daddy?"

"Nothing they like better, I believe.  They
drop on him like a stone, catch him in that big
powerful beak, and take him up into a tree, where
they batter him to death against a limb, and then
eat him.  I should think Mr. Snake must shudder,
wherever he is, at the sound of a jackass's laugh."

"That's a nice, useful kind of a bird," Aileen
said.  "I would like to encourage a dozen or so
to live round the house.  I've never seen a snake,
and I know I should run if I did."

"Not you," said Tom.  "You'd try to kill it."

"Indeed, I would not.  Snakes make me creepy
all over," said his wife.

"I killed them as a boy, but I haven't seen any
since, except in the Zoo," Tom said.  "I suppose
there are plenty in this district, so we shall have
to make up our minds to meet them."

"Don't you try to attack them, Garth," said
his mother anxiously.  "If you meet one, get out
of its way and let it pursue its business in peace."

"But if it came after me?"

"Run," said Tom.  "But they don't, as a
rule: they are only too anxious to avoid you.  A
tiger-snake may show fight, but not often: the
others are of a retiring frame of mind, unless you
happen to tread on them."

"Horrors found one in his boot," said Garth.

"How like Horrors!" remarked his father.
"What did he do?"

"Oh, it was in the dark—he had put on one
boot and was looking about for the other with
his foot.  But he couldn't find it, so he got matches
and lit a candle.  And there was his boot with a
big snake in it!"

"Did he kill it?"

"No; he says he can't kill snakes 'cause it gives
him the cold shudders.  But he yelled, and
Mr. Gordon came and killed it.  And another time
Mr. Gordon found one in his bed!"

"Ugh!" shuddered Aileen.

"He was going to bed, and he thought it looked
lumpy, so he turned down the clothes, and there
was old Mr. Snake coiled up, as happy as possible.
Wouldn't he have felt funny if he'd gone to bed as
usual and put his toes on him?  I bet he'd have
hopped!"

But the vision of the hopping Mr. Gordon was
too much for Aileen, who declined to talk of snakes
any more—much to the disappointment of her
son, who had evidently learned many more stories
from Horrors, and burned to impart them.

"I don't see why you don't like talking about
snakes," he said, aggrieved.  "*I* think they're
jolly things to talk about.  And so does Horrors.
I wonder who that is?"

They were crossing a paddock towards a little
lane that ran down to the water's edge; and riding
along this, with reins loose on the neck of an old
grey horse, was a girl.  As they drew nearer she
stopped, looking at them curiously—a curiosity
which their glances echoed, for they had never
before seen any one quite like her.

She was a tall, angular girl of about sixteen,
dressed in faded blue dungaree—the thick, strong
cotton material of which men's working clothes
are made in the Bush.  Her blouse was a man's
jumper, the collar sagging open, showing her brown
throat: her skirt, home-made, and ornamented with
patches of varying size and different shades of
blue, was short enough to reveal lean legs, and feet
shod with men's blucher boots.  On her head was
a battered old black felt hat, from holes in which
short wisps of yellow hair protruded oddly.  Garth
remarked later that you couldn't see much of her
face for freckles: but somehow, when you had
looked at her face you did not trouble about her
clothes.  For it was a pleasant face, shrewd and
merry, if not at all beautiful.  She had a wide
mouth, showing perfect white teeth; a snub nose;
and twinkling little grey eyes that were very cheery
and friendly.  The powdering of freckles, covered
her brown skin as far as could be seen; but when
she pushed her hat back, her brow was startlingly
white, and without a stain.  She greeted them with
a cheery smile, as they came up to the fence, though
her manner had a touch of shyness.

"Hullo!" she said: and then, looking at
Aileen: "You're Mrs. Macleod, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Aileen, smiling in return.  They
looked at each other across the fence.

"Me Dad sent me over," said the stranger.  "I
went to your place, an' your boy Horrors told me
you'd gone this way.  I thought I might cut you off
at this lane, if I had luck."

"It was very nice of you to come," Aileen said,
faintly puzzled, not knowing whether to regard
this business-like young person as a caller.  She
certainly did not look like an ordinary caller: but
to Aileen all things were possible in the Bush.
"Will you tell me your name?"

"Me?" said the girl.  "Oh, I'm 'Possum."

"'Possum?  But——"

"Me Dad always calls me that, so it's kind of
stuck," said the owner of the name.  "I b'lieve
I got another, but it never seems to matter: it's
Maggie or something."  The puzzled faces before
her seemed to demand further explanation.
"Mr. O'Connor's me Dad," she added.

.. _`"'Mr. O'Connor's me dad,' she added."`:

.. figure:: images/img-128.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "'Mr. O'Connor's me dad,' she added."

   "'Mr. O'Connor's me dad,' she added."

Aileen began to laugh, and Tom followed suit.

"I'm sorry we were so stupid," Aileen said.
"But from the way your father spoke we quite
thought you were a man!"

"Blessed if I don't think he thinks so, most
times," said 'Possum, her eyes twinkling.  "It's
a way Dad's got.  An' I got to be a man, most
times, so I s'pose he gets accustomed to it."  She
grinned at Garth.  "How's the arm?"

"Better, thanks," Garth answered.  "Did
Mr. O'Connor tell you he cured it?"

"Said he pulled it straight.  Hurts, don't it?
I had mine put out when I was a kid."  She grinned
at him again; and from that moment Garth and
'Possum were friends.  "You just knew," said
Garth afterwards, "that she was a real decent sort."

"I'm so sorry you had the trouble of coming
after us," Aileen said, "We were going for a
day in the Bush: the rain has kept us indoors for
a week.  Won't you come, too?"

'Possum shook her head.

"Sorry," she said.  "Me Dad's left me some
sheep to bring home from Nelson's, an' it'll be a
bit of a job, 'cause they're leavin' young lambs, an'
drivin' 'em 'll be a caution.  A mercy it ain't dusty
an' hot; if it was they'd simply sit down in the
road an' look at me.  But it'll take me all me time,
as it is.  I just wanted to ask about that bit of
ploughin' you wanted done."

Tom laughed.

"Hasn't your father told you how ignorant I
am, Miss O'Connor?  I don't know a thing about it."

There was a twinkle, polite, but irrepressible, in
'Possum's eye.

"Well, he did say you'd need a bit of coaching,"
she answered.  "Him an' me had a yarn about
your place last night, an' we reckoned that the
little paddock where your calves are running now
'ud be about the best for cultivation.  How about
puttin' oats into the highest part, an' then some
field-peas?  An' maize ought to do real well on
that low-lyin' strip goin' down to the creek.  That
'ud give you about all the feed you'll need.  And
there's a corner beyond the creek I've had me
eye on this long while.  I'd like to try lucerne
in it."  She paused for breath, looking at him
eagerly.

"It sounds attractive—but large," said Tom,
hesitating.  "I don't know that I can take all
that on, Miss O'Connor."

"Why, it ain't much—the whole paddock's not
that big," said 'Possum.  "I'll get it ploughed in
no time with our disc-plough.  An' Dad'll come an'
help us get the crops in.  Then there's potatoes—I
s'pose you'll put them in in Mr. Gordon's little
potato paddock?"

"Yes, I thought so," he said.  "Look here,
I'm not proposing to stand by with my hands in
my pockets while you and your father do my work.
Can you teach me to take a hand?  I mean"—he
flushed—"will I be too much of a new chum to
learn to be decently useful?"

"Why, we'll teach you as easy as wink," she
said.  "There ain't nothing difficult about it, if
you ain't afraid of work.  I only know what me
Dad's taught me—you'll beat me in no time.
We"—she paused, and for the first time looked
embarrassed—"we think it's jolly rough on you
people comin' into a place like this, not bein' used
to anything.  If there's anything we can do, you
just let us know."

"It seems to me we're casting ourselves on
your mercy," he said: at which 'Possum looked
blank, and murmured something unintelligible.
Aileen broke in.

"We're terribly ignorant people, but we do want
to learn," she said.  "What about me, Miss
O'Connor?  Can you teach me how to make an
enormous fortune out of fowls?"

'Possum grinned.

"Well, I ain't learned that meself, yet.  But
there is a bit to be made out of 'em, if you go the
right way about it, an' have decent luck.  We'll
try, Mrs. Macleod.  Me Dad said you wanted to
buy some?"

"Yes."

"Well, ol' Mother Coffey, up the lake, has plenty
to sell.  She's givin' up keepin' a lot—gettin' too
rheumaticky.  But if you don't mind me sayin'
so, she'll raise the price on you if she thinks it's a
new chum buyin'.  Say you let me do the buyin'?
I bet I'll get 'em pretty cheap."

"I'd be delighted," Aileen answered gratefully.

"Well now, look here," 'Possum said.  "I'll
come over to-morrow with the plough on the dray,
an' then we can settle about the crops so's I can
get straight ahead with the ploughin' next day.
Then I'll jog on with the dray to ol' Mother Coffey's
an' buy them chooks, an' bring 'em back.  That
gives us a good start.  Got any setty hens?"

"There are three who sit on their nest—it's the
same nest—all the time, and use very bad language
if any one goes near them," Aileen said, laughing.
"Is that being setty?"

"That's it," said 'Possum, grinning.  "Well,
wouldn't you like to start 'em on some aigs?
Nothin' like rearin' chicks for yourself—-it's cheaper by
a long way than buyin' other people's."

"It sounds tempting," said Aileen.  "Can I
learn how?"

"Bless you, yes," said 'Possum, startled by a
depth of ignorance of which she had not dreamed,
"I'll show you."  She turned her friendly glance
upon Garth.  "We'll put you on that job—shall we?"

"Oh—could I!" exclaimed Garth, and capered.
"I'd love to."

"Me little brother Joe always helps rear ours,"
said 'Possum.  "An' he's only six."  She gathered
up her reins.  "Well, I must be goin', if I want to
get them old ewes home before dark.  I'll be over
to-morrow, Mrs. Macleod.  So long."  She dug her
heel into the old grey horse, and wheeled round.
Suddenly she looked over her shoulder.

"If you wouldn't mind just callin' me 'Possum,"
she said.  She flushed hotly, and cantered away.
They saw that she rode on a man's saddle, sitting
easily sideways, with her leg crooked over the
pommel.

Tom sat down on a log and stared at his family.

"Well, of all the amazing young women!" he
said slowly.  "Do you think there are any more
at home like her?"

"I think she's ripping!" said Garth.

"I'm not sure that I don't agree with you,"
his father answered.  "But....  Oh, my stars,
Aileen, I never felt so small in mv life!  She can't
be seventeen—and I'm a baby beside her in
everything that matters!"

"Well, so am I," said his wife, laughing.  "But
after all, it's in the bringing-up.  We must just
be grateful for having neighbours who are willing
to take pity on our ignorance.  And we're going
to learn, Tom."

"There is certainly plenty to learn," he said,
grimly.  "However, we'll try.  They're bricks,
anyhow.  Now I think it's time we found a good
camping-place, and boiled the billy—and the first
thing I've to learn is how to make a fire out of damp
wood!"

They wandered home towards evening, tired, but
content.  Something of the homesickness that
had lain like a cloud on Aileen's mind had passed
away.  Life did not seem so much a thing bounded
by the four walls of a kitchen.  Whether the long,
peaceful day in the Bush had helped, or the tonic
of 'Possum's cheery, practical voice, she did not
know.  But she felt better.

As she came through the yard a low snarl greeted
her from a box.  The three "setty" hens resented
any one's passing by their seclusion.

"Hopeful old souls, those," said Tom, laughing.
"They're sitting on a half-brick and a hard clod,
and I think they expect to hatch out a half-acre
allotment and a town hall.  Goodness knows
how long they have been doing it.  No wonder
they're bad-tempered."

"Well, we mean to give them eggs to sit on
to-morrow," was Aileen's response.  "I suppose
'Possum knows how to move them—I should have
thought it as much as one's life was worth.  Do
hens bite deep, Tom?"

"I don't know," he said.  "But I guess you'll
know to-morrow!"

.. vspace:: 2

Meanwhile, Miss Maggie (or something) O'Connor,
known as 'Possum, had collected her ewes and
driven them slowly homeward through a long
afternoon, during which they endeavoured
unceasingly to return to their lambs, and bleated
woe at being denied.  It was dusk when the last
entered the home paddock, leaping high in the
gateway after the idiotic manner of sheep.
'Possum rode slowly down the hill to her home.

As she took the saddle off the old grey horse, her
father came up.

"Well?" he said.  "Ewes all right?"

"Yes.  Travelled jolly badly."

"Sure to.  See the Macleods?"

"'M."  'Possum nodded.  "Goin' to take the
plough over to-morrow."

"That's right.  Nice people, aren't they?"

"Yes, they're nice."  She moved towards the
house, and then stopped.  "But, Lor!—who ever
let 'em out!" she said.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`'POSSUM TAKES HOLD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   'POSSUM TAKES HOLD

.. vspace:: 2

'Possum arrived next morning with the old
grey horse in a dray which contained, besides
herself, a small, silent brother, a plough, and
a box of eggs.

"They're me best Wyandottes' aigs," she explained.
"Oh, yes, you can pay me for 'em.  Will
we set the hens now, Mrs. Macleod?"

They went off to the shed, the invariable
storehouse of Bush lumber—containing much rubbish
and many treasures.  Among the latter were three
small empty cases upon which 'Possum pounced.

"Do first-rate," she said.

She found her way, as if by instinct, to the
tool-shed: and Garth and Aileen watched her as she
split an old fruit-case into laths, nailing them on
the open sides of her boxes, an inch apart.  Larger
pieces she reserved for doors, hanging them in
position by short strips of leather cut from an old
boot.

"Just you keep old boots like that," she said,
tenderly regarding the green and mouldy relic she
had disinterred from a rubbish-heap.  "Never
know when you won't want a bit of leather on a
farm: and gen'lly-as-a-rule, when you most want
it, it ain't there.  Now that's all right.  Any
straw?"

Garth knew where there was straw, and fled for
it delightedly: and 'Possum made a nest in each
box, securing the straw from escaping by keeping
it in place with bits of brick.  It was all done very
quickly.  She carried a box to a quiet corner of
the fowl-yard—and turned to remonstrate at finding
Aileen bearing the second in the rear.

"I say—you oughtn't to do that!"

"Yes, I ought.  It's my job," said Aileen,
panting, but smiling.

"But you ain't used to it," said 'Possum unhappily.

"Then the sooner I get used to it, the better!"  Aileen
returned for the third box, but, being easily
beaten by her determined assistant, had to content
herself by bringing the eggs in her wake.

"Thirteen to each," said 'Possum, disposing the
eggs swiftly in the nests.  "There—look nice,
don't they?  Always makes me feel almost like
setting myself.  Now for them old hens.  D'you
want to learn to handle 'em, Missus?"  It was
clear that she abandoned "Mrs. Macleod" with
relief.

Never had Aileen wanted anything less.  The
infuriated old hens filled her with such forebodings
as might be felt on approaching an angry hyena.

"Yes, please," she said, with an effort.

"Then you get a pair of old gloves.  Got any
leather gardening gloves?"

"Oh, yes—run for them, Garth."

"Gives you great pluck, to have gloves on,"
remarked 'Possum.  "Not that they'll peck you,
if you're quick—but sometimes you ain't quick
enough.  Now, you watch."

She stooped before the box where the three hens
clustered angrily, greeting her with hisses and
snarls.  For a moment she watched, then her
hand shot out swiftly and grasped the nearest hen
by the neck.  Quick as she was, the second hen
was quicker—a red mark showed on the brown
hand as she rose with the struggling captive.

"Got me," she said cheerfully.  "But it don't
hurt.  See, Missus—I just slip me hand under
her, but I don't let go her neck.  Then she travels
nice an' easy, but she can't use her old beak.  Come
an' we'll put her on the aigs."

Snarling and struggling, the hen was gently
deposited upon the nest, and the door secured.
'Possum covered the box with an old sack.

"There:—she'll get quiet enough when she can't
see.  Some people swears by settin' 'em at night,
but it don't matter when they're as setty as these
fellers.  Like to try your hand with the next one,
Missus?"

Aileen did her best.  She plunged her hand at
the second hen, but missed it, thanks to warlike
action on its part; and the hen arose, bestowing
a hearty peck on her glove as it passed, and fled
into the open, uttering loud squawks.  'Possum
grabbed the third as it was about to follow.

.. _`"The hen arose, and fled into the open, uttering loud squawks."`:

.. figure:: images/img-144.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "The hen arose, and fled into the open, uttering loud squawks."

   "The hen arose, and fled into the open, uttering loud squawks."

"That's the worst of catchin' 'em in daylight,"
she remarked.  "They see too much of what you're
after.  Well, we'll have to leave her, Missus.
She'll go back after awhile.  D'you think you
could get her to-night?"

"Yes, if it takes me all night!" said 'Aileen
sturdily.  Her attempt had failed, but it had
taught her that the task held no especial terrors.
"My husband will help me."

"Oh, you'll be all right," said 'Possum, securing
her captive, and draping a sack over her wrathful
protests.  "Sit on them aigs, now, you silly old
cuckoo, an' get busy!  Well, that's that.  Now,
about buyin' them fowls?"

They discussed ways and means, and 'Possum
made brief notes on the back of an old envelope—a
laborious task.

"I'll get 'em," she said at length.  "An' I
must get along.  I seen the Boss in the paddock as
I come down, an' fixed up about them crops.
Ploughin' to-morrow.  So long, Missus—I'll be
back this afternoon with them fowls.  Come along, Joe."

"But your dinner—won't you stay?" Aileen
protested.

"Got it in the cart," said 'Possum, indicating a
newspaper parcel.  "Catch young Joe starting out
without his dinner!  Thanks very much, all the
same."  She clicked to the grey horse, and he
shambled off reluctantly.

It was some hours later when she returned, her
arrival heralded by the voices of many birds.
Ducks added their quackings to the notes of the
hens; and a turkey's long neck protruded from
a hole in a box, gazing on the scene with meek
bewilderment.  Aileen and Garth met the cart at
the yard gate.

"You did get them!" said Aileen delightedly.

"You bet," said 'Possum briefly.  "And they're
good, too: you'll make plenty out of those chaps,
'cause I got 'em real cheap.  Ol' Mother Coffey's
anxious to get 'em off her hands: she's stiff as a
poker with rheumatics.  Them turkeys is a real
bargain.  They had her beat altogether, 'cause
turkeys stray most awful, an' she couldn't get
across the flats to yard 'em in."  The simple joy
of Miss O'Connor in the affliction of Mrs. Coffey
was touching to behold.

"Well, let them go—and come and have some
tea," Aileen said.  "You must need it."

"I could do with a go of tea, but I can't let
these fellers go without cuttin' a wing of each,"
said 'Possum.  "Mother Coffey ain't got no garden
to keep 'em out of, but 'you wouldn't care to have
them rampagin' over yours.  Got a strong pair o'
scissors?".

They watched little Joe hold each bird while his
sister deftly cut one wing as short as possible.

"Why not two wings?" Garth asked.

"'Cause they can fly as well as anything if you
leave 'em both the same.  They can balance, then.
But you watch that chap."

"That chap" was a handsome young pullet,
apparently maddened by her trials.  She stared
wildly for a moment when released: then,
perceiving a quince tree, decided that safety lay in
its branches, and endeavoured to fly thither.  Her
spring carried her a little way into the air: then,
lacking one wing, she overbalanced and fell
sideways, with terrified squawks.  Reaching the ground,
she bolted for shelter into Bran's kennel: and,
being greeted with an amazed and indignant yap
from Bran, who was already there, fluttered
backwards in a state of horrified panic, and, shrieking
her woes, fled down the hill-side and was lost to
sight.  The onlookers gave themselves up to laughter.

"Will she ever come back, do you think?"

"Oh, she'll come back all right when she feels a
bit lonely," 'Possum rejoined.  "Why, she ain't
goin' to keep away from a place where she's had all
that fun!"

Tom came up as the last of the fowls was released.
Under 'Possum's advice he had spent the
day in the cultivation paddock, with Roany
harnessed to a sledge, picking up logs and roots which,
would be in the way of the plough.

"That paddock looked quite clear: but I've a
stack of wood that will last us for a fortnight, and
an appetite to match it," he said.  "That's a
great lot of fowls!  Are they what the fortune is
to be made out of, 'Possum?"

"Some of it," said 'Possum.  "The rest's coming
out of that lucerne crop."

They went in to tea—and for the first time they
saw 'Possum awkward.  Outside, in the saddle,
driving the heavy dray, or dealing with tools and
fowls, she was simple, capable, and thoroughly at
home; but the sitting-room, with its pleasant
litter of books and papers and the music open on
the piano, was evidently a strange world to her, and
she became silent and ill at ease.  The patched and
faded blue dungaree, and the rough men's boots,
which had fitted into the working scene, were
suddenly all wrong: she looked at Aileen's dainty
print frock, and felt the difference she could not
put into words.  It was in Aileen as well.
Outside, she had been shy and awkward, ashamed of
her own ignorance and helplessness: here, she
was on her own ground, as she had been in the
drawing-room of the "House Beautiful"; the
perfect hostess, courteous and sweet-mannered.
But all her tact failed, for a while, to loosen the
mantle of shyness in which the unhappy 'Possum
was wrapped.

Help came through little Joe.  Nothing on earth
could make Joe shy, though he was a gentleman
of few words.  Here, however, was tea, which he
needed: with large fresh scones and a big cake
which Mr. Macleod—a man of understanding,
evidently—was cutting into generous, plummy
slices.  Cake did not often come in little Joe's
way, and he greeted it with a wide smile.

"Ain't that scrummy, 'Poss?" he said, indicating
the cake with a grubby finger.

"Be quiet!" said 'Possum in an agonized whisper.
"Behave yourself!"

Joe's mouth drooped at the corners.

"Can't I have some?"

"But of course you can: and it is scrummy!"
said Tom cheerfully.  "I know, because I helped
to make it!  Don't you mind 'Possum, Joe: she
can boss us when it comes to ploughing, but not
when it's eating cake."  He smiled at the girl
over the small boy's head.  "Have a scone,
'Possum."

'Possum accepted a scone unhappily, and held
it as if doubtful of how to eat it, sitting miserably
on the extreme edge of her chair, and grasping her
cup with a clutch born of despair.  Visions of
flight stole across her: she wondered if it would
look queer if she said that the old grey horse would
not stand, and so might escape for home.  But
the grey was certainly asleep, with his nose against
a post: and little Joe was sitting up to the table,
eating scones and cake together with perfect
contentment.  Wild horses—let alone the old grey—would
have found it difficult to move little Joe.

"Can't 'Poss come an' sit at the table too?"
queried Joe suddenly, with his mouth full.  "It's
comf't'fler: an' she'll spill her tea, to a dead cert.,
if she sits over there!"

"Joe!" burst from his sister.  "Haven't you
any manners?"

"Well, you always say you like sittin' up to a
table," Joe defended himself.  "Come along."

Aileen laughed delightedly.

"It's not a bit of good to hope that small brothers
will behave the way one expects them to, 'Possum,"
she said, pitying the girl's scarlet face.  "Never
mind, he's full of good sense.  Come, and we will
all sit up to the table; it is comf't'fler."

"I always told you it was," Tom said, drawing
up his chair with joy.  "I never could see why
people should be condemned to do circus performances,
balancing cups and plates, when there
was a good sound table near.  Good man, Joe.
Pass him the scones, Garth."

'Possum's hot flush died away.  These people
were comprehending, even if their room was
"sweller" than any room she had ever seen: and now
that she was at the table her blucher boots and
patched skirt were hidden, and that was a comfort.
She wondered if she ought to have removed her
hat: but the certainty that her short yellow hair
would be standing on end—it always did—made
her feel safe in having kept it on.  She decided
that she might as well eat, and bit into her scone
gingerly.  It was a good scone, and the tea was
good, but very hot—and she was thirsty.  She
poured some into her saucer and blew upon it to
cool it—and then turned a hotter scarlet than ever,
finding Garth's eyes on her curiously, and realizing
that she was the only one so employed.

"Cake, Garth?" said Tom.  He secured his
son's attention to his plate, giving him a warning
glance.  "Aileen, you've made this tea awfully
hot."

"More milk?" queried Aileen.

"No, thanks: it's very good."  He poured
some deliberately into his saucer, and blew upon
it—and gave inward thanks that 'Possum did not
perceive Garth's glance of utter bewilderment.
Over the saucer he met the girl's eyes calmly.
"How long do you think it will take to plough that
paddock, 'Possum?"

"Oh, a few days," 'Possum answered.  "The
rain will have made it easier work: the ground
was jolly hard before that."  She had regained
her calmness; the trick of the useful saucer was
evidently familiar to Melbourne tea-tables.

"And can you plough it all?"

"Well, I sh'd hope so," 'Possum said.  "I bin
ploughing since I was thirteen—you've only to
sit on the seat and keep the horses straight.  It's
a bit hard on hills, but it's easy as wink on plain
ground."

"'Possum ploughs straighter furrers than Dad!"
volunteered Joe.  "You ask any one!"

"Keep quiet!" said his sister.

"Well, you do."  He turned to Tom, secure of
a sympathetic hearing.  "An' 'Poss never does
what Dad did—he was ploughin' on the side of a
hill, an' he let the ol' plough topple over, and him
an' the plough went rollin' down like fun.  You
orter seen him!"  The memory induced deep
chuckles.  "C'n I have some more cake?"

"Joe, you ain't got no manners!" said his sister
miserably.

"I got cake," said Joe, with great cheerfulness.

Tom and Aileen burst out laughing.

"Don't worry about him, 'Possum," said Aileen.
"Do have another cup.  And I want to know how
many of you there are at home."

"Well, there's Dad," said 'Possum, bestowing a
glance of great scorn on her brother.  "Mother
died when Joe was a baby.  Joe's six, even if he
ain't got no manners, an' Polly's seven, an' Bill's ten,
and Bertha's twelve.  The twins 'ud be fourteen,
on'y they died on us when they were kids."

"And who looks after the children?"

"Why, I do—on'y mostly they looks after
themselves."

"But who cooks and looks after the house?"

"Me an' Bertha.  I used to do it all till Bertha
lef' school: she's quick, an' she passed all her
exams., an' got her certif'cate last year.  Now she
helps, an' I will say she's as handy as a pocket
in a shirt.  Never saw a kid take to cookin' like
Bert.  That's all she cares about—as long as she
can dodge round in the kitchen she never wants
to put her nose outside."

"But you did it all until last year?" Aileen
asked in amazement.  "And brought up the children?"

"With a bit of ploughing thrown in!" came
from Tom.

'Possum flushed.  She was not quite sure that
they were not laughing at her.  But their faces
were very kind.

"Well, y' see, there wasn't any one else," she
said.  "Dad was too busy on the place.  He got
a woman at first, but she was always drunk, an'
stole things, an' hit us, an' bossed us round.  I
tol' Dad I'd run the house if he'd send her away,
so he did.  My word, we was glad!  She never
passed any of the kids without givin' them a clip
on the ear for luck!"  Her head went up.  "An'
they're good kids, mind y'—'cept Joe!"

Joe grinned happily.

"But how did you manage everything?"

"Oh, I dunno.  It wasn't hard.  Kids in the
Bush look after themselves a lot, y' know.  They
get handy in no time.  Bill's cut all the wood
for me since he was seven, an' he an' Bert milked
before they wont to school.  Bill an' Polly's goin'
still, of course.  I had to leave school when Mother
died, an' I was on'y eleven then, so I hadn't learned
much.  I was always a fool, too!"

"A fool!" said Tom.  "Good Heavens!"

"Oh, I was—true.  I never could make head
or tail of books.  More I tried, the stupider I got.
Sums, too: ain't they silly things?  But I used
to wish I'd had time to learn a bit more, 'cause I
did want to bring the kids up decent.  Mother
was very partic'lar.  But I jolly well seen to it
that *they* went to school reg'lar.  Joe's goin' next
year.  I s'pose I oughter sent him this year, but he
was the baby, so he's got a bit spoilt."

The queer, disjointed speech stopped, and
'Possum disappeared behind her tea-cup.

"And what does your father do?"

"Dad?  Oh, he looks after the place, an' goes
to sales, an' does a bit of dealin'.  Dad's a great
judge of stock," said 'Possum proudly.  "He
does a lot of odd jobs of shearin' too—he used to
be ringer in a shed on the Murray before he married
Mother.  He makes the place pay, all right—lucky
he does, with all of us to buy clothes and tucker
for!  An' he potters round an' talks to men over
the back gate.  Men always have a heap to talk
about, don't they?"

"They do," said Aileen promptly, sending a
laughing glance at Tom.  "It is their nature to."

"Well, you can't blame 'em," said 'Possum.
"But I do think it's a good thing women aren't
like that."

"But they are!" wailed Tom.

"Not in the Bush, anyhow.  They simply
wouldn't have time.  It's a funny thing—no matter
how busy a man is, he's always got time to prop
up a gate an' yarn if any other man comes along.
But a woman just can't—she'd think of the dinner
not cooked, an' the spuds not dug, an' the washin'
up not done, an' like as not no wood for the fire
if she didn't cut it herself, an' the kids' pants not
patched.  An' they're all things that can't be left,
'cause men expects to be fed, an' if you leave pants
when they begin to need patchin', there's mighty
soon no pants to patch.  Joe's pants, anyhow—an'
Bill's."

"Did you do all the sewing, 'Possum?"

"Most of it," said 'Possum—"'cept what I
just couldn't do, an' Dad had to buy those at the
store.  Then when Bert an' Polly started goin' to
school I made him buy their dresses—I couldn't
have 'em laughed at for being howlin' frights!
There's always something very bad about the
clothes I make: y' see, I never learned how,
prop'ly.  I just clamp 'em together somehow.  It
don't matter so much when no one ever sees them."

She flushed a little.

"I make all me own," she said.  "It don't
matter about me—an' I'd wear out anything but
dungaree with the rough work outside.  Dad's
away a good bit, y' see, so then I have to run the
place; an' when you're doin' odd bits of ploughin'
or fencin' or scrub-cuttin', you can't bother about
clothes.  I know mine are pretty rum."

"I think you manage them wonderfully," said
Aileen, her eyes suddenly dim.  "You make me
ashamed of doing so little."

"Lor', we all think this is awful rough on you!"
exclaimed 'Possum.  "You ain't used to it—an' I
know this place was a fair pigsty.  I saw it once,
an' it was a disgrace."  Her eyes wandered to the
door.

"Would you like to see how I have arranged
it?" Aileen asked, fathoming the glance.

"My word, wouldn't I!"  'Possum jumped up
eagerly.  "I think this is the nicest room I ever
saw!  Would it be botherin' you, Missus?"

"I'd like to," said Aileen.  She led the way out
of the sitting-room.

It smote her heart to see the girl's frank delight
in the little rooms.  To her, fresh from the "House
Beautiful," they seemed unutterably small and
poky: but to 'Possum they were visions of
bewildering splendour.  Most of all, to Aileen's
astonishment, she admired the bright new bedsteads.

"They *are* pretty," she said.  "There ain't one
in our house that ain't home-made, mattresses and
all.  Dad made 'em out of packin'-cases.  I taught
the kids some of their letters off 'Johnson's
Whiskey' brand on the end o' mine.  An' you
have such pretty things on 'em."  She touched the
Indian coverlets lightly.  "Fancy a tiny little
chap with a grand bed like this!  Do all the people
in Melbourne have this kind, Missus?"

"A good many, I think," Aileen said.  "But I
dare say they are not one bit more comfortable
than yours, 'Possum."

"No, but they're awful pretty!" 'Possum said.
"You must feel so jolly nice when you wake up in
'em.  An' everything is just as pretty as the beds."  Her
glance travelled over the fresh curtains, the
pretty cretonnes on the box-tables, and the pictures
on the walls.  "It's the loveliest house I ever was
in, since you came."

"Don't you know any of the houses in the township,
'Possum?"

'Possum shook her head.

"Never go there, 'nless I can't help meself.  It's
five miles from us, y' see, an' I'm too busy,
gen'lly-as-a-rule: an' I don't like goin'.  They laugh at
me, 'cause me clothes are queer, an' me hair's
short.  Well, I just hadn't time to keep it tidy,
so I got Dad to cut it.  But Bert's and Polly's is
awful pretty hair.  Polly's is that curly you couldn't
think.  So they can laugh.  I got to go in the
summer, when there's veg'tables an' things to sell,
but I just get me business done an' cut straight
home again.  I say, I must be gettin' home now:
it's gettin' awful late."

A sudden thought struck Aileen as she followed
the girl out to the yard.

"Are you coming every day to plough, 'Possum?
Then, wouldn't you like to sleep here and save
yourself the trouble of going home each night?"

'Possum's shyness returned in full blast.

"'Fraid I couldn't," she said, her voice abrupt.
"I got me own work at home, an' some one must
keep an eye on the kids.  Thanks awfully."  Then
her face grew suddenly wistful.  "Not but I'd
like ever so to sleep in one of them lovely beds!"
she added.  "Well, I'll just fix up that third ol'
setty hen for you, while I'm thinkin' of it, an' then
I'll make tracks for home."

She fell upon the hen swiftly, and transferred it
to the eggs.  Joe, recalled with difficulty from the
hay-loft, appeared with his person largely
concealed under straw, and had to submit to a vigorous
brushing-down by his sister.  Then they jogged
off together in the twilight.





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.. _`FARMERS IN EARNEST`:

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   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium bold

   FARMERS IN EARNEST

.. vspace:: 2

Two months passed, and spring deepened
into summer.  The gold of the wattle,
which had covered the hills when the strangers
came to Gippsland, faded; its tiny yellow balls
floated down on the surface of the river, carpeting
it with a rippling sheet of gold, until the current
took them away to sea.  The hot winds breathed
upon the creamy tangles of clematis, and turned
them to hanging masses of dull brown.  The tiny
orchids in the gullies sighed for the wet spring,
drooped, and died.  But the convolvulus and the
purple sarsaparilla went on blossoming bravely,
climbing through the densest masses of the scrub;
and the tiny eucalyptus capsules burst, flinging
their wee caps afar, and releasing bunches of
perfumed stamens, so that all the air was filled with
sweetness.  Out on the hills the grass turned
yellow and the ground was hard.  But the gullies
were always cool, their rich earth moist under the
great green tree-ferns, about whose roots the little
streams gurgled, winding away to the lake.

Garth loved the gullies.  Now that Mother and
Daddy were so busy all day there was much time
on his hands.  A small boy of seven cannot always
help, no matter how willing he may be; there were
times when all his jobs—and they were many—were
done, and he was free to wander off into the
paddocks, where the cool fern-glades were
storehouses of wonder for the little city lad.  Books
were forbidden him nowadays; but his brain held
old stories of fairies and elves and gnomes, and
it was easy to people this new country with them all.

Best of all he loved the days when 'Possum
worked upon the little farm.  'Possum never was
too busy for a small boy.  Her day's work was a
generous one, for she came early—rising at no one
knew what unearthly hour to finish her home-tasks
first—and stayed late, riding away in the
dusk with her blue skirt flapping against the side
of the old grey; and she was a swift, tireless
worker, with a rare ability for using her head as
well as her hands, so that she never made two
strokes where one would suffice.  But she
managed to include Garth in most things.  If she were
ploughing, he knew that by waiting at the end of
the furrow he could have a few words with her as
he watched the fascinating business of turning
the big disc-plough; and if the going were good,
there might even be the wild joy of sitting in its
curved iron seat, and holding the reins while
'Possum turned the horses.  Always at the end of
the day he was there to help her take them out of
the plough; and then, each mounted on a broad
bare back, with the harness jingling, they would
jog home together to the stable, and he would help
to rub down the horses and feed them.  'Possum
always let him help.  It was one of the things
Garth liked best about her.

He was fast turning into a country boy.  All the
dull business of putting in the crops was a
gloriously interesting matter to him—partly because
it was so interesting to Daddy, and because Daddy
was learning, even as he was.  They watched
together for the first shoots of the oats, the tiny
tender leaves of the field-peas, and the slender
spears of the maize; and Garth was a proud
boy because it was he who first found the potatoes
sending green messages above the brown soil he
had helped to prepare.  Later, 'Possum showed
them how to "hill" them, so as to protect the
tender stems: just as she taught them the points
of the new calves that were now running in the
paddocks, turning from good veal into better beef,
and of the sheep that dotted the rises.  Her father
showed Tom how to buy them: or rather, he
bought them while Tom looked on, vainly trying
to see why a beast should be good value at 30*s*.,
and another, looking—to him—very like the first,
should be ruination at 35*s*.  Nick O'Connor, for
all his kindliness, was not good at explaining.
But 'Possum knew almost as much as her father
about stock, and her knowledge was always at
their disposal: so that light gradually broke upon
Tom, and with it an added interest in his new work.
Garth listened with all his ears, and picked up
crumbs of information.  Already he knew a
Hereford from a Shorthorn, and could tell you which
was likely to turn into the best beef.

But there were times when 'Possum laid aside
business, and became simply the best mate
imaginable.  Sometimes it would be when she had come
especially early, and so could squeeze a spare hour
out of the tail of the day: sometimes on a Sunday
afternoon she would appear, and take possession
of Garth, and they would vanish into the Bush.
'Possum taught him all her own learning: how to
find all manner of birds' nests, for which she would
climb like a monkey; where the wallaby and
wombat hid by day, and which were the holes that
might hide her namesakes, the 'possums.  She
had queer stories of the Bush fairies, and taught
him to recognize the rings their dancing left in the
grass, where mushrooms would come up in the
autumn.  They came back from these rambles
laden with treasures: yams, dug with sharp sticks,
which 'Possum cooked in the fashion of the blacks;
clumps of rare fern; strange fungi; cool mosses;
birds' eggs of delicate hues.  'Possum would never
take more than one egg from a nest.  "Don't
you reckon a bird's got feelin's, same's you?"
she would ask the abashed Garth.

She was always a little shy of Tom, even while
she taught him his new trade of farmer.  There
was a twinkle in his eye that was disconcerting
moreover, his manners were so good, and his politeness
so invariable, that she never got over an uneasy
feeling that he might be laughing at her.  She
liked him very much, and referred to him in her
own mind as "a real gent."  But the shyness was
always there.

She worshipped Aileen frankly.  Something in
the dainty sweetness of Garth's mother appealed
to the Bush girl who had never known daintiness.
Not a line of the slender body in the fresh print
frocks was lost upon her: not a ripple of the smooth,
shining hair.  Even in the midst of hard country
work Aileen's well-groomed look never left
her—partly because of the extreme simplicity of her
dress; and it was this quality of fresh neatness
that captivated 'Possum most.  It never occurred
to her that it would be possible to imitate it.  Torn
and shapeless dungaree frocks were her portion
in life, and though she hated them she regarded
them as inevitable.

Already Aileen's poultry farm was flourishing.
The three bad-tempered hens had applied themselves
to their duties with such concentration that
three dozen half-fledged chicks now followed them
about.  Others had been set to rear turkeys and
ducks, and these, too, flourished; although the
unpleasant propensity of young turkeys for
expiring without warning had done much to age Garth,
who fed them once an hour with clockwork
regularity.  The fowls purchased from Mother Coffey
had done well.  Garth knew all their nests
which was saying something, as the Bush fowl
changes her nest frequently, in the hope of finding
a corner sufficiently well concealed to prevent
prying humans from robbing her of her eggs.  In
the store-room kerosene tins in steadily increasing
numbers held eggs, put by in waterglass to sell in
the winter; and meanwhile the hotels and stores,
and the summer visitors, demanded all that could
be spared, and paid good prices for vegetables,
at which Tom and Aileen worked early and late.
'Possum did the marketing, with her own goods,
unwillingly accepting a small commission.  "I
won't let you do it unless we pay you," Aileen had
said.  "And think of the wretched prices I should
get!  I should never have courage to ask half the
money you make people pay!"

"I'm gettin' more meself than I ever did,"
'Possum had answered.  "Look how you've learnt
me to get things up dossy, to sell—strawb'ries an'
gooseb'ries in little nests of leaves, an' veg'tables
lookin' pretty enough to put in vawses in a
parlour!  I used to dump me things in anyhow.  It's
no wonder they fall over themselves to buy things
like you send 'em in.  Flowers, too; it never
even entered me head that summer visitors 'ud
like 'em—an' they rush me for 'em!  I do think I
was a silly ass all these years!"

Melbourne seemed to have faded away.  Sometimes,
even yet, a pang of homesickness swept
over Aileen; but for the most part she was too
busy and too interested in her new rife to spare
time for hankering after vanished fleshpots.
Outside occupations had taught her the folly of
cooping herself too much in the house.  Work, too,
had grown easier as method developed; she was
just as "house-proud" as ever, and the little
cottage shone throughout, but it no longer claimed
all her time.  Garth was an excellent helper, and
Tom always willing to lend a hand; and a woman
had been found to give a day weekly to washing
and scrubbing.  Even Horrors was responding to
training which had demanded the patience of Job,
and could be trusted to wash dishes and scour
saucepans, getting himself extremely wet in the
process, but arriving, in the fullness of time, at
cleanliness.  Cooking was simple, for they lived
mainly on their own produce, and had appetites
that required no tempting.  They took many
meals in the open: grilling chops over a fire in
the Bush, boiling the billy, and making the most
ordinary meal into a picnic.  "Saves a heap of
washing-up, and it's healthy," said Tom.

It was certainly healthy.  Already the simple
life had set its seal on them all.  Garth had grown
and broadened, and his brown face and clear eyes
were sufficient proof of the wisdom of Dr. Metcalfe's
advice.  Aileen, Tom declared, grew younger
and prettier every day, and was herself astonished
at her muscular development; while Tom, lean
and bronzed, and hard as nails, showed the perfect
physical condition of a young colt.  They rose
early, and went to bed early: worked hard, lived
in the open air, and had appetites that would have
alarmed the Julia of old days.  Interests which
had meant much to them once upon a time were
now small matters beside the rain that came when
the crops were just needing it, the price of eggs
and vegetables, or the calf that strayed away into
the scrub and remained lost for three days.  It
was Garth who found it, at last, and his pride was
all but sinful—not that he had found it, but because
he managed to follow its tracks along the bed of a
creek!

Life on the whole was very happy.  There
were bad days, of course; days when the oil for
the stove failed, and all the firewood was wet and
declined to burn—or when there was none at all,
and Tom and Horrors were away in the paddocks,
so that there was nothing for Aileen to do but take
the axe and go for some herself.  She developed a
queer fondness for using the axe, and preferred
it to any other form of exercise; it was so interesting,
she said, to see how seldom you could hit twice
in the same place!  Days came, too, when, everything
went wrong: when cooking was a failure,
and ironing only scorched the clothes, and the
baker failed to come and the milk turned sour for
no apparent reason; and worse days still, when,
perhaps, a headache or a bad night made the world
go awry, and everything seemed to conspire to
irritate; when Garth might be provoking or Tom
be so busy in the paddocks as to forget dinner-time,
arriving in a leisurely fashion half an hour late.
Those were days when sharp words sprang to the
lips unbidden, and had to be fought back.  It was
sometimes necessary to pray very hard at her
quaint little supplication—"Lord, keep me from
gettin' sour!"

She helped herself by contrasting her lot with
that of hundreds of women whose life was so much
harder—who had half a dozen little children about
therr busy feet, and perhaps half a dozen rough
men for whom to cook and clean.  She knew what
therr homes were like—comfortless, rough, and bare,
with neither daintiness nor convenience.  She had
every labour-saving device that Tom could procure
her: they had nothing but such primitive
arrangements as their grandmothers had had when the
country was new.  They worked early and late and
grew old and worn-out long before their time; but
still, they worried along, and reared their swarm
of babies into tall men and women, a credit to their
country: and they were happy, and would not
change their lot, so long as the babies lived, and
the husband was kind.  She felt herself a butterfly
beside them—even when she looked at her roughened
hands, stained with earth, and contrasted them
with the memory of the pink nails she used to
manicure in the "House Beautiful."

Life was not all work.  They took long drives
into the country, jogging behind Roany along
lanes where the narrow track wound in and out
among clumps of tea-tree and stunted gums,
skirting fallen logs and ancient stumps.  Aileen
and Garth learned to drive, as well as to harness
Roany and get the buggy ready.  Tom laughed
at her for insisting on the last, but Aileen stuck to
her point—a woman in the Bush could not be too
independent, she said.  Garth's education in
riding had gone ahead as soon as his wrist was strong
enough; and now he and Jane had fought many
a tussle together until Jane unwillingly admitted
that the small boy was master, and submitted
with meekness, if not with enjoyment, to being
galloped round the paddocks barebacked.  Best
of all was the motor-boat—no new thing to them,
since in the old days they had often made
excursions in one up and down the Yarra and into the
great, placid expanse of Port Phillip Bay.  But
boating near the city was a different matter to
exploring the by-ways of the lakes, away from the
track of steamers and fishing-boats, finding little
hidden bays and islands, and coming home brown
and hungry, and laden with fish.  On the hot
days they bathed in these quiet corners: or
sometimes, landing on the farther shore, climbed the
hummocks until they came in sight of the Southern
Ocean, pounding on the narrow strip of land which
holds it back from the lakes.  Then came the
most glorious bathes of all—when they ran down
the sand-hills and into the sea, each holding a hand
of Garth's—and the great rollers came curling in
and took them and buffeted and battered them,
until they were swept far up on the smooth beach,
breathless and laughing, and ready to run back and
dive into the next breaker.  Then, when they were
too breathless to fight the rollers any more, it was
good to dress quickly in nooks in the hot sand; to
climb back to a sheltered hollow in the hummocks,
where the sea-breeze could not scatter the ashes
of their fire, and boil the billy and grill fish over
driftwood embers—fish that had been swimming
in the lake an hour before.

Once or twice they made a day's excursion to
Bairnsdale—going up by the early steamer through
the morning freshness of lake and river, spending
a few hours in the pleasant town on the bank of
the Mitchell, and returning in the afternoon—no
longer the tired strangers that had made the first
journey in the spring, but worthy settlers happily
coming home.  The peach orchards had flung a
dress of palest pink over the sunny Bairnsdale
hillsides when they first came: now they were densely
green, with splendid fruit turning rosy under the
leaves; and the flats along the backwater were
bearing stately crops of maize.  It was pleasant
to be in a town again; to wander about the wide
streets and trim gardens, and to see new faces;
and to dine at an hotel was a real excitement—not
to know, as Aileen said joyfully, what the pudding
would be, nor to care who would wash up
afterwards!  But there was happiness in going home to
the little house on the hill, where the bright
sitting-room smiled a welcome, and even Horrors' stolid
face would expand into a grin as they approached.
Nothing would ever make Horrors intelligent.
But kindness and cleanliness had had a softening
effect upon him, and he had developed a queer,
dog-like affection for them all.

The farm showed signs of paying.  Fruit and
vegetables brought in a small but steady income,
and as fast as one crop was exhausted another was
sown.  Ignorance and brains combined do not
make a bad working outfit.  Tom Macleod knew
his limitations, and was thankful for Nick O'Connor's
guidance and 'Possum's helping hand; but in
addition he read widely on farming matters, studied
his land, and sent samples of the different soils
to Melbourne for analysis.  Expert advice as to
manures came back; and since his business
training had taught him what many farmers never
learn—that it is wise to spend money in order to gather
it—he bought artificial fertilizers for his land and
food for his calves, and already had some reward
in the promise of heavy crops and in sleek,
quickly-growing animals.  It left them with very little
money to spend.  But then, it was comforting that
there was not much chance of spending.  The
farm gave them butter and milk and cream, fresh
eggs and chickens, fruit and vegetables and honey.
One pig had already been converted into pork and
bacon, under the direction of Mr. O'Connor;
another promised a further supply for the winter.  The
lake was close at hand, swarming with fish;
occasionally a rabbit fell to Tom's gun, and there
were visions of duck-shooting ahead.  Garth and
Aileen scarcely ate meat at all: Tom ate less than
he had ever done, and felt all the better for his
change of food.  Except for their modest supply
of groceries, there was little need to spend.

Meanwhile, their coming meant wealth to 'Possum.
When she worked for them, using her father's
horses, she carefully handed half her day's pay to
Nick; but on the days when she jogged over on
her own old grey and used only her own muscles,
the money went to swell her little account in the
Savings Bank—the only building in the township
that she was supposed to enter with pleasure.
The account had grown but slowly before the
Macleods came; now it was swelling in the
most delightful fashion.

"What are you going to do with it, 'Possum?"
Aileen asked her.

"Oh, I d'no," 'Possum answered.  "You never
know when you'll want a bit of money.  Me Dad's
all right about payin' for boots an' things, so
long as we don't come it too strong; but he'd
never understand some ways of spendin' money."

"What ways?  Tell me, 'Possum."

"Well, there's the kids.  Bill may want to go
to Melbourne for the Show some day, or to the Cup;
an' Bert an' Polly'll be gettin' bigger, an' p'raps
there'll be parties an' darnces comin' along, an'
they got to have decent clothes.  Dad 'ud never
understand; he'd think they could go all right in
whatever they happened to have on.  But they
got ideas.  They been with other girls at the school,
y' see.  I couldn't have 'em cut out by a parcel of
kids not half as good-lookin' as they are.  I'm
goin' to get them dresses for the regatta on New
Year's Day.  All Sale an' Bairnsdale comes down
then, an' my kids got to look as well as any of 'em."

"What about yourself, 'Possum?" Aileen
asked.  "Don't you ever want to go to regattas
and dances and jollifications?"

"Me?" said 'Possum, with blank amazement.
"Oh, I'm too old—an' I ain't got no time."  She
stuck out a roughly-booted foot and looked at it
critically; then gave an irrepressible little chuckle.
"Wouldn't I be a rummy spectacle at a darnce,
now, Missus?"  But the laugh did not last long,
and Aileen thought it was followed by a sigh.





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   CHAPTER XII


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   SAILING

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"Christmas is coming!" announced Garth
at the tea-table.  "Isn't it scrummy?"

"Very scrummy," said his father; "but then,
Christmas always is.  Still, I'm a little worried
about old Santa Claus."

"Why, Dad?"  Garth's tone showed swift
alarm.  Santa Claus was absolutely real to him,
and his visit was one of the very greatest events
of the year.

"Well, it was all right in Melbourne, of course,"
Tom answered gravely.  "He knew his way about
there; and then, it's very easy to get about, in
decent streets—don't you remember how you
thought you heard the feet of his reindeer trotting
along Orrong Road?  But it's a very different
matter to be here in the Bush, where there are
mostly no tracks at all.  I don't believe reindeer
could haul his sleigh round here.  Why, Nick
O'Connor couldn't manage a sledge with a team
of bullocks the other day—it simply rolled over on
the hill-sides.  Santa Claus' sleigh is much more
lightly built than a sledge, I should think."

Tom ceased, and retired behind his tea-cup.
Garth's face had lengthened.

"I never thought of that, but I suppose it *would*
be hard for him," said the small boy dolefully.
"And of course, he doesn't know we've moved!
It's—it's pretty hard luck, isn't it?"  He tried
to make his tone unconcerned, and Aileen's
mother-heart rebelled.

"*I* think you're two very foolish people, and
you don't deserve to have Santa Claus come at all,
for not trusting him!" she remarked.  "Do you
suppose he neglects all the little children in the
Bush?"

"Well, Joe's never heard of him," said Garth;
which was something of a poser, but Aileen rose
to it manfully.

"I believe he does miss out some people who
have never believed in him," she said.  "But he
very seldom forgets any one he has been good to.
I wouldn't worry, if I were you, sonnie.  I think
he'll come."

Garth still looked doubtful.

"But how about his reindeer?  It is bad country
for them, isn't it?"

Aileen pondered.

"I don't believe he has reindeer at all in rough
country," she said.  "I believe he has a team of
big black swans, and his sleigh will float; and when
he comes to the lake, or to a river, the swans just
swim and pull the sleigh along the water, but when
he has to cross mountains or rough parts of the
Bush they mount into the air, and fly over with
him.  Don't you think that would be a really
sensible plan for him, in Australia?"

Garth bounded in his seat.

"Oh, that's a ripping idea, Mother!  Of course
he must do it!"

"Well, we know he must be a sensible old chap,
or he never could get through all the jobs he has
on Christmas Eve," said his mother.  "I've often
thought he must have a wonderful head for business.
So it's only natural to think that he accommodates
himself to different countries.  I dare say
he uses elephants in India, and camels in the desert
of Gobi."

"Or whales in the Red Sea!" suggested Tom dreamily.

"Certainly not—he has Pharaoh's chariots there,
all handy!" rejoined Aileen.  "At all events, he
won't neglect his jobs for little difficulties about
transport.  So I would just not worry if I were you,
Garth."

"You're an awful comfort, Mother!" said
Garth gratefully.  "I've finished—can I go, please?"

"Where are you off to?" asked his father.

"Got to shut up the young turkeys.  'Possum
said she heard a fox last night, so we can't be too
careful."  They heard him race through the back
yard, whistling for Bran, then the bang of the
gate in his wake.

"Isn't he getting a man?" Aileen said, laughing.
"Why do you torment the poor soul?"

"Just to give you a chance of smoothing away
his difficulties," he said, and smiled at her.  "Isn't
that what you're for?"

She smiled in return, and then grew thoughtful.

"I've been thinking about Christmas, Tom,"
she said.  "Have we any money?"

"Not a heap, when I've paid for the last lot of
fertilizer," he said.  "Not enough to give you a
diamond necklace, I'm afraid—I'm sorry!"

"It would be so handy to me here that it seems
a pity," she rejoined.  "The spectacle of
Mrs. Macleod hoeing turnips in a diamond necklace
would be interesting, to say the least of it!"

"It would," he agreed.  "But, apart from
diamonds, I can give you a little money, dear.
How much do you want?"

"Oh, a very little," she answered.  "We'll
plan Garth's presents together, of course; but I
want to do something for 'Possum, Tom.  'Possum
has been very good to us."

"I quite agree—she has done a great deal more
than she has been paid for," Tom said heartily.
"What do you want to give her?"

"I want to give her a pretty, dainty print frock,"
said Aileen, leaning her elbows on the table, and
speaking rapidly, with shining eyes.  "Not
blue—she never wears anything but blue dungaree:
pink, I think, with a little white collar and cuffs.
And some simple pretty under-things and a petticoat
to wear with it, and a pair of nice stockings
and neat shoes, and a simple, pretty hat.  Is that
too much, Tom?"

"If you mentioned how much these glories would
cost——" he began, laughing.

"Oh, very little.  I'll make all the things myself,
and the material will cost hardly anything.  I
have a hat that will do—she has never seen it: and
the shoes and stockings will be very plain.  Would
about a pound for the whole be too much?"

"I'll give you thirty shillings," he said.  "Then
you can buy yourself chocolates with what is left.
How about fitting her?"

"Oh, I can guess about the dress," Aileen
answered.  "And she can wear my size shoes, though
you would never guess it to see her feet in those
enormous boots.  I made her put on one of my
slippers the other day when she lost a boot in the
creek, and we had to dry it after we had fished it
up.  And I saw her looking at her foot in my
slipper with a kind of hungry expression in her
eyes.  She does love pretty things, Tom; I think
one reason why she likes coming here is because I
have them."

Tom laughed.

"She likes coming here because she has fallen
badly in love with you and Garth," he said.  "But
she's a good sort, and I'm grateful for all she has
taught me.  Do you know, I think she tries to
imitate you.  She looks cleaner, somehow—and
I'll swear she brushes that queer short mop of hers
more than she used."

"I know she does," Aileen said.  "I've seen a
difference ever since I told her casually that I gave
mine at least a hundred strokes with the brush
every night.  And she has a tub regularly—she
told Garth so—and I know she scrubs her hands.
But her terrible clothes don't give her a chance;
and, of course, she spends nearly all her spare
time on the children."

"She's a queer mixture," Tom said.

"Isn't she?  She has mothered those babies, kept
house, cooked and washed, cut scrub, fenced and
drained paddocks, put in crops, and broken in
horses; and she can hardly sew on a button—decently,
I mean; she 'clamps 'em on,' she says;
she has never made a pudding or a cake, never
been to Church, and never ten miles from her home.
She told me all the religion she had.  'Mother
learnt me to say prayers, so I says 'em; and I
learnt the kids.  Father, he don't care.  The kids
goes to school, so they picked up more'n me; but
I keep 'em up to the mark.  Mother said you say
prayers to God, so that's how I know He's there,
an' that's all there is about it—there'd have to be
Some One somewhere, wouldn't there—no get-out
of that!"

"Poor little soul!  Well, she's straight enough,
whatever her religion may be, and she's bringing
up those kids uncommonly well," Tom said.  "A
man was telling me that young Bill stole some
apples, and told a lie about it; 'Possum found it
out, and dragged him five miles to the owner of
the fruit to own up and ask for a thrashing!  Said
she couldn't look their mother in the face if they
grew up liars and thieves.  I believe young Bill
has been extremely reliable since!"

"It's like her," Aileen said.

"The same man told me that she can swim
like a fish, and handle a boat as well as any
fisherman on the lakes.  Her father used to own part
of a fishing-boat, and she has been out with him
on the wildest nights.  Yes, you'd certainly call
our 'Possum a young lady of mixed accomplishments.
But I suppose one would find a good many like
her, if one went hunting in the Bush districts.
She's just what her upbringing has made her."

"I don't think you'd find many with 'Possum's
straight, clean soul," Aileen said slowly.  She
went to the doorway, and stood looking out across
the paddocks to the blue glimpse of the lake, where
'Possum, had she known it, was at the moment
fighting one of the toughest battles of her life.

It was at breakfast that morning that Nick
O'Connor had announced his intention of taking his
small sailing-boat and crossing Lake King to a
settler's farm on the farther shore.  There were
pigs to be looked at: if he approved of them he
might even bring a couple home in the boat.
Therefore he would need help.

"Suppose you can come, 'Poss?" he said.

"Oh, I s'pose so," 'Possum answered.  "I was
goin' over to the Macleods' to look how their lucerne's
comin' on, but I guess that'll keep till to-morrow.
Bertha'll look after the kids."

Bertha nodded.  She was a small stout person
of few words, who had been born old, and had never
become young.

"Right," said her father.  "You get in wood,
Bill, an' milk in good-time if I'm not back; an'
don't you forget them pigs an' calves."

Bill nodded also.  He was deeply engaged with
his third plate of porridge, and relieved, on the
whole, that no more tasks had come his way.

"Then we'll hurry up, 'Poss," said Nick.  He
got up from the table, his great form seeming to
fill the little kitchen.  "When'll you be ready?"

"Oh, as soon as you get the boat, I expect,"
she said.  "Just give a coo-ee when you're ready
to start."

"Right," said her father.  He gathered up pipe,
tobacco and matches, and strode from the house,
and 'Possum disappeared in the direction of the shed.
There was a sick calf to be tended, and instructions
to be given to Bertha and young Bill as to its
feeding during the day, with a dozen other jobs that
needed her before she could leave the house with
an easy mind.  She was not, indeed, finished when
she heard her father's coo-ee, after which there
was a wild rush, which did not include time to
make any additions to her toilet.  Not that it
mattered, she reflected; the Simpsons would not
be likely to know whether she had a dress on or not.
Blue dungaree was good enough for them.

Nick O'Connor, for a wonder, looked at his
daughter, when they had pushed out from shore
and were gliding gently down the arm of the lake
to the broader water beyond.

"That ol' dress of yours has seen its best days,
hasn't it?" he said.  "Seems to me it's more patch
than dress."

"It is so," 'Possum answered.  "Can't make
'em last for ever.  Anyhow, dungaree lasts twice
as long as anything else."

"What else 've you got?" inquired her father.

"Why, I ain't got nothin' else but dungaree,
except me oilskin, an' me old thick skirt," 'Possum
answered, in some astonishment.  "It's the most
useful; an' I never have time to put on other
clothes.  I got three of these—enough to get 'em
washed when they want it."

"H'm," said her father thoughtfully.  "Well,
it looks a bit rum.  You'd better get a new
one, I think, an' give that ol' rag a rest: it looks
about fit to make good floorcloths."

"Right," said 'Possum cheerfully.  Even of
dungaree, a new dress was a pleasant, almost
exciting experience: albeit dungaree when new
is more like petrified wood-pulp than anything
else, and only ceases to scratch the wearer severely
after many washings.  She wondered, would she
depart from her usual custom of buying a man's
jumper for the blouse, and, instead, try to make it
a little like some of Mrs. Macleod's working dresses
Then, with a shrug, she gave up the idea.  She
knew she could not fashion the harsh, unyielding
material into anything pretty—even if she could
sew well enough.  "An' you jolly well can't,"
she told herself.  "You ain't the kind to wear pretty
things, anyhow."

They had reached the lake, and were running
along half a mile from the shore.  It was a hot day,
with a fitful wind coming in puffs off the land,
where, probably, it was scorching things considerably;
but here, tempered by their swift motion,
and by its path over the water, it was only cool
and refreshing, and made their journey an easy
matter.  'Possum had done a hard week's work:
it was pleasant to sit idly in the boat, watching
the water cream away from the bow, and the waves
sparkle under the sun's rays.  They passed
fishing boats, hurrying in to hand over their catch
to the Bairnsdale steamer; and one or two
motor-launches from the hotels, crammed with
gaily-dressed summer visitors bent on a long day's
picnic, crossed their bows, the occupants glancing
curiously at the unkempt girl in the sailing boat,
who drew her battered felt hat over her brows,
and concealed herself after the fashion of the
ostrich.  'Possum disliked all summer visitors.
They were a useful species, in providing a market
for eggs and vegetables, but nothing could have
induced her to believe that they did not laugh at her.

They reached their destination in good time, and
received the usual Bush welcome from Mr. Simpson,
a lean and silent settler, and Mrs. Simpson,
who was also lean, but not at all silent, as well
as from a large horde of little Simpsons, to whom
visitors were an infrequent and glorious excitement.
Nick disappeared with his host in the direction of
the pigsty, while 'Possum remained in the kitchen
and nursed the last baby and the last but one,
between whom there seemed but a slight difference
in point of age.  In the intervals of this
employment she peeled potatoes, washed cabbages, and
gave slices of bread and treacle to any little
Simpson who demanded them—which occurred with
extraordinary frequency; and later, finding her
hostess' bed still unmade, rectified this, and swept
the room.  Mrs. Simpson was grateful.

"There's some people comes into the house and
they wouldn't lift a finger to do a hand's turn for
you," she remarked.  "But I do say you're not
like that, 'Possum O'Connor.  I never seen your
equal for findin' out things to be done.  It's a
comfort to see how that baby takes to you, like.
She ain't been well, an' she howls the whole blessed
night an' most of the day.  Makes you fair tired.
Not as what you ain't always tired, with seven of
'em under your feet all day.  But a woman's born
to be tired, so it ain't no use to grumble.  Delia
O'Hea, across the lake, she grumbles, an' her
husband he up an' hit her the other day.  Said he was
full up.  I wouldn't blame him, neither.  Well,
thank goodness, Jim ain't never lifted a hand to
me yet.  I wouldn't advise him to, neither—he's
smaller'n me.  Well, ain't you got any news,
'Possum?  Might as well be in the Equator for all
the news we get here."

"No, I don't think there's any," 'Possum answered,
dancing the last baby until it roared with
joy.  "I never go anywhere, except to sell aigs
an' veg'tables.  Sellin' flowers, too, this year.
Mrs. Macleod put me up to that."

"Oh, tell us about the Macleods," Mrs. Simpson
begged, pausing, rolling-pin in hand, in smoothing
out dough.  "Jim, he saw Mr. Macleod at the sales
one day with your father, an' he said there was
none of old Gordon's style about him.  Said he was
a toff, all right, but none o' your stand-off toffs.
Jolly, too, Jim said, an' didn't mind sayin' straight
out that he didn't know a thing about calves.
Nor he didn't neither, Jim said."

"Well, you wouldn't expect him to," 'Possum
said.  "And it don't matter not to know anything,
if you know you don't know.  It's when
you think you do that you fall in."

"That's right," agreed Mrs. Simpson, falling
anew upon the dough.  "Tell us about Mrs. Macleod,
'Poss.  I s'pose she's a toff, too.  Does
she dress very swell?"

"Yes, she's a toff," 'Possum said slowly.  "But
she dresses as plain as you or me, almost.  Just
print things, an' not one scrap of trimmin'."

"No trimmin'!  But I s'pose she has lace collars
an' things?"

"No, she hasn't.  I never see her with a bit of
lace on.  Just plain white collars.  Washes an'
irons 'em herself, too—leastways, she did till she
got ol' Mrs. Todd to do the washin'.  But she irons
'em.  I seen her."

"Fancy her dressin' like that, an' comin' straight
from Melbun," said Mrs. Simpson, marvelling on
such misuse of opportunities.  "But what's she
wear when she goes out, 'Poss?"

"Well, sometimes she just wears her old prints.
If it's cold she puts on a coat an' skirt—made most
awful plain."

"An' a trimmed hat?" said her hostess eagerly.

"No.  Her hats is plain, too."

"Well, I never!  She must look queer!"

"No, she don't," said 'Possum hotly.  "She—she'd
look lovely, no matter what she had on.
An' even if her clothes is plain, they're just right.
You'd say so, if you saw 'em on her."

"Is that so?  Well, I s'pose I would, if you
say so, but I must say I do like a bit of trimmin',"
said Mrs. Simpson.  "I seen a picksher of a dress
in a paper Jim brought home the other day:
marone, it was, with a vest an' collar of tartan
silk, an' some cawffee lace on it, an' big pearl
buttons.  My, it did look a treat!  You'd think
any one comin' from those big shops in Melbun
'ud have lots of dresses that sort.  But is she as
pretty as all that, really, 'Poss?"

"She's awful pretty," 'Possum said.  "Very
tall, an' yeller hair, an' blue eyes.  An' whatever
she puts on seems just like it ought to be."

"Go on!" said Mrs. Simpson, greatly interested.
"Fancy, now!  An' she's doin' her own work?"

"My word, she is.  Inside an' outside, too—an'
she's got that place a picksher," said 'Possum.
"An' the veg'tables she grows! you'd ought to
seen them.  Works in the garden like a cart-horse.
An' fowls, an' all sorts.  They're goin' to make
money off that place, you take my word!"

"Lor'!" said Mrs. Simpson.  "Jim was sayin'
you've been workin' there, 'Poss?"

"I been doin' a bit o' ploughin' an' odd jobs."

"An' they do treat you nice?"

"Couldn't treat me nicer, not if I was a member
of Parliament!"

"Go on!  Well, that sort is real toffs, an' no
mistake!  An' what about the kid?"

"He's a darlin'," 'Possum said.  "I never seen
a boy with such nice manners.  Well, you'd hardly
believe it, but that boy's seven, an' I ain't seen
'im rude to any one yet!"

"Well, I never!" said her hostess feebly.

"No.  An' he looks after his mother as if she
was a bit of china an' might break.  He'd look
after me, too, if I'd let him.  Many's the time when
I've been workin' there on a hot day he come down
the paddock to me with a billy of tea or a bottle
of lemon syrup.  An' they'd no more let me go
without havin' me afternoon tea than they'd fly!"

"Brings it out to you?"

"Not they; they come an' haul me into their
sittin'-room.  My word, you ought to see it—all
pickshers, an' books, an' flowers, an' a lovely pianner.
An' she plays a fair treat."

"But aren't they awful well off?"

"No, they ain't.  They got jolly little money.
They had plenty in Melbourne, but he had to give
up his billet there when they come here.  An' they
say they don't care a button, 'cause the kid's gettin'
strong, an' he nearly died in Melbourne."

"Don't s'pose they would," said Mrs. Simpson,
rescuing the last-but-one baby from the wood-box,
and bestowing it outside the door, with a spank
and a kiss, both of which it received without
emotion.  "Oh, lor'! here's your dad an' Jim,
an' I'll bet the potatoes ain't cooked!"

Dinner at the Simpsons', being complicated by
the seven little Simpsons, was a long and stormy
affair, from which 'Possum and her father escaped
before it had raged its way to a close.  Nick
O'Connor had bought a pig, and was anxious to get home.
Mr. Simpson conveyed it to the water's edge in a
wheelbarrow, tied in a sack, through a hole in which
its head protruded, while it emitted the agonized
shrieks peculiar to pigs.  It redoubled these on
being dumped into the boat, having, apparently,
an aversion to a sea-faring life; and under cover
of its wails 'Possum and Nick screamed their
farewells to their host, and pushed off.

The breeze was still choppy, and they made but
slow progress, tacking frequently.  On land, it had
been very hot, and the Simpsons' crowded kitchen
had been stifling.  Even on the lake, when the
breeze fell, the sun was hot enough to make Nick
throw off his coat.  They zigzagged backwards and
forwards across the lake; the boat went sluggishly,
and both her passengers were sleepy.  The only
wakeful individual was the pig, who had ceased
to yell, more from lack of breath than from any
pleasant inclination, and was steadily employed
in widening the hole cut for its head.

A sharp puff of wind came off the land.  Simultaneously,
the pig freed himself from the sack, and
started for home, oblivious of the fact that his
hind legs were still tied together—a fact which
checked its first leap, and sent it rolling, with an
ear-splitting yell, against Nick's legs.  That
gentleman awoke with a start, and instinctively put the
helm over, just at the wrong moment.  The gust
of wind struck them suddenly, and the boat heeled
over, too far to right itself.  The sail struck the
water, and in an instant Nick, 'Possum and the
pig were struggling together in the waves.

The pig's troubles were quickly over.  The rope
round its hind legs, knotted by the capable
Mr. Simpson, held firmly, and the water soon choked
its cries as it sank for the last time.  'Possum
and her father swam to the boat, which lay on its
side, and clung to it, looking at each other.

"Well, of all the born fools!" spluttered
Mr. O'Connor, a vision of soaked wrath.  "I oughtn't
to be let out.  D'you know what happened?"

"I don't—I was asleep," 'Possum admitted.
"First thing I knew, I was swimmin'."

"Well, you'd a right to go to sleep, but I hadn't,"
said Nick furiously.  "That darned pig got loose,
an' barged into me just as the wind struck us.
Now we're in a lovely fix, an' I've lost a jolly good
pig, an' it hardly paid for an hour.  And me hat.
Well, I ought to be kicked for a careless fool!"

"Can't be helped," said 'Possum cheerfully.
"It was awful easy to go to sleep, sittin' still after
havin' dinner in that hot kitchen."

"All very well for you to talk—you ain't got to
pay for the pig!" said her father morosely.  "I
say, you climb up on the boat."

'Possum scrambled upon the boat, which lay on
its side, held in position by the sail under the water.
Then her father tried to follow her example; but
the little craft ducked so ominously under his great
weight that he slipped back into the lake.

"That'll never do—she won't hold both of us,"
he said.

"Then I'll get off," said 'Possum.  "I can
easy hold on."

"You will not," said her father decidedly.
"Sit where you are, an' behave yourself.  Tell you
what—I'll work round an' stand on the mast:
that'll be some support, an' it'll divide the weight
better."

He made his way round the bow until he could
feel the mast with his feet, and gingerly stood on
it.  It creaked, and the boat swayed over; and
for a moment Nick prepared to jump off again.
Then, however, as the boat showed no further sign
of sinking, he sighed with relief.

"You wouldn't call it exactly comf'table, but
it's better than hangin' on in the water," he said.
"Can you see any sign of bein' picked up?"

'Possum scanned the lake.

"Not any one in sight," she said.  "We're a
bit off the usual track, aren't we?  Do you reckon
we'll drift into shore?  It ain't far away."

"I don't," said Nick.  "We're out o' the way
o' currents, as well as boats.  Still, you never can
tell where people'll cut across the lake; an' them
hotel launches ought to be comin' home about this
way.  Well, we just got to stick it out.  I'd give
a dollar if me matches an' baccy hadn't got wet!"

The slow hours of the afternoon crept on.  No
one came near the castaways.  Once or twice
their hopes rose high, as a fishing-boat or a launch
crossed the lake; but they were not seen, and their
shouts died unheeded on the water.  It seemed
extraordinary that they should not be perceived,
for the shore was not a mile away, and houses
looked peacefully down upon them; it was
maddening to see the cheery smoke curling upward
from the chimneys, and to realize how near lay
deliverance.

They changed places after a while.  Nick's
great height made his position on the mast
unbearably cramped, and when he had slipped off twice,
'Possum became firm.

"It's silly," she said.  "I can stand on that
stick quite easy; it's different for you, an' you six
feet four.  Why, it doubles you up something
cruel."  She descended into the water, and occupied
the position on the mast before the cramped man
could regain it.

"I b'lieve the boat'll hold you all right, if you get
up gently," said she.  "Go on—you're about due
for a rest."

Nick scrambled to her former seat, the boat
merely swaying beneath him.  He looked at her
gratefully.

"My word, it's good to sit down!" he said.
"That place is a fair terror, 'Poss; I ain't goin'
to let you stay there long.  Hot above an' cold
below, it is—your feet an' legs is near froze, an'
on top you're gettin' sunstroke.  You just tell me
when you want a spell."

"Oh, I'll stick it all right," said 'Possum.  "I
had a mighty long spell already."  They relapsed
into silence.  There was nothing to talk about.

They shouted, from time to time, until they were
hoarse and weary; but no one heard them, and
at last they ceased.  Nick was growing very weary.
Once he slipped off, half asleep, and 'Possum had
to swim after him and bring him back to the boat.
He seemed half-dazed, and a sick fear came over
her that the heat of the sun on his bare head had
been too much for him.  She splashed water over
his face, and he became more alive.

"Thought I might swim ashore," he said thickly.
"But I s'pose I'd better get back."  He climbed
laboriously upon the boat once more, and 'Possum
returned to her perch on the submerged mast.

The sun went down slowly, a red ball of fire,
into the lake.  It was a relief to be without its
fierce rays; but as the short Australian twilight
deepened into dusk the wind blew coldly on their
soaked garments, and they shivered.  O'Connor
opened his heavy eyes, and looked at his daughter.

"I dunno how you can keep on there," he said.
"I'm near done, an' I'm twice as comf't'ble up
here.  Well, if you come out of it an' I don't,
'Poss, there's a sort of a will in the drawer where I
keep the strychnine for the foxes.  It'll fix up all
about the farm."

"I say, chuck it, Dad!" 'Possum said unsteadily.
"You ain't goin' to give in."

"Not if I can help it," he said.  "But I'm not
far off done."

There came across the water the dull beat of a
screw and a red light showed faintly through the
dusk.  It was the Bairnsdale boat hurrying down
to her night's rest; and the sight galvanized the
weary castaways into fresh efforts.  But the steamer
passed them half a mile away, deaf to their shouts.
Her gleaming lights fell across them as in mockery
before she throbbed away towards the Entrance.

"Well, that does me," O'Connor said, after a
long, silent pause.  "I'll drop off soon, 'Poss.
Then you come an' perch up here."

"I won't," 'Possum said, with a sob.  "You
ain't goin' to give in, Dad.  Think of the
kids—I can't manage them boys."

"I'm near done, 'Poss."

"No, you're not.  The Sale boat'll be along in
less than an hour now.  She'll pick us up, I bet you."

"It'd be a miracle if she did," Nick said.  "What
with the row of her engines, an' her passengers all
talkin', how on earth's any one to hear us in the
dark?  It's no good, my girl.  I'll drop off."

"If you do, I'll only come in after you, an' finish
the way you do," said 'Possum between her teeth.
"It ain't like you, Dad, to be such a jolly old coward.
You *got* to hang on, for the kids' sake."

"I'll try a bit longer," said her father meekly.
"But I'm dead beat, 'Poss."

They fell silent again, save for the water lapping
gently against their poor place of refuge.
Unbearable pains were beginning to torment 'Possum;
her feet, from standing on the narrow mast, were
swollen and agonizingly painful, and pains like
red-hot wires shot up her legs.  Sometimes she
let herself go into the water altogether, holding
to the boat; but she was too weak to cling for
long, and soon she was forced to climb back to her
place of torture.  Her father no longer spoke.
She could see him dimly, leaning forward astride
of the boat, and breathing heavily.

Somehow the hour dragged by, and again the
low throb came across the lake.  'Possum strained
her eyes.  At first the gloom was too thick to pierce,
but presently she made out a dull glow from the
steamer's lights, and could see the red gleam of
the lantern at her mast.  'Possum cried to her
father.

"Dad!  It's the Sale boat.  Yell!"

.. _`"'Dad!  It's the Sale Boat.  Yell!'"`:

.. figure:: images/img-192.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "'Dad!  It's the Sale Boat.  Yell!'"

   "'Dad!  It's the Sale Boat.  Yell!'"

O'Connor grunted heavily, half asleep, and utterly
exhausted.  She could get nothing more from him;
and as the steamer drew nearer, she left the
half-conscious man alone and uttered cry upon cry
for help.  Nearer and nearer yet the gleaming
lights rushed upon her.  She spent all her strength in
a last cry, which ended in a sob as the steamer
passed on.

"They've gone!" she gasped.  "Well, we're
done, anyhow!"

A bell clanged sharply, and with it a shout.

"Coo-ee!  Who's there?"

She screamed in answer.  The steamer was
slackening speed, coming round in a half-circle;
she could hear each clang of her telegraph.  Voices
came loudly.

"Who's there?"

"Any one in trouble?"

"Want help?"

But 'Possum had no words.  She could only utter
broken cries, that grew fainter and fainter.  Her
feet were slipping from the mast: she clung to the
side of the boat with nerveless fingers that slipped
and clawed for a fresh hold, and slipped again.
Then, very dimly, it seemed, she heard the clash of
oars in rowlocks, and a deep voice close to her.
And then—nothing more.

She woke in a little cabin.  There was a faint
light.  Her feet and legs were full of pain, but she
was wrapped in blankets, and even the pain could
not keep her from feeling gloriously warm and
comfortable.  A kind-faced woman came forward.

"Where's 'Dad?" 'Possum asked feebly.

"He's all right—asleep in a cabin."

"Where am I?"

"You're in the ladies' cabin on the *Omeo*," said
the woman.  "And I'm the stewardess, and
we're tied up at Cuninghame, and you're not to
worry about anything, you poor child.  Drink this."

'Possum did not know what it was: but it was
hot and pleasant and soothing, and the woman's
kind voice was like music.  There did not seem
anything to worry about; she might as well go
to sleep—and did so.





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.. _`AMATEUR SURGERY`:

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   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   AMATEUR SURGERY

.. vspace:: 2

"Aileen!  Aileen!  Are you there?"

It was very early on a hot December
morning.  Tom Macleod came up the yard hurriedly.
His wife appeared at the back door, broom
in hand.

"What is it, Tom?"

"It's a poor beggar of a scrub-cutter," Tom said
hurriedly.  "You know there are two men working
up the Lake?  Well, one has just been down to
borrow a pony.  He says his mate has broken his
leg—the limb of a tree fell on him: and he's gone
to bring him in here: we're the nearest people.
I say, you studied first aid, didn't you?"

Aileen's heart turned to water.

"I did—but it's ages ago," she said.  "And I
have never had any practical experience.  I would
be afraid to touch him."

"Well, something ought to be done," Tom said,
obviously disappointed.  "Don't you remember
anything about it?"

Aileen racked her memory.

"I could try, of course," she said slowly.  "But
I should be terrified of making it worse."

"I think any sort of bandaging is better than
leaving it altogether," said Tom.  "Let's try, at all
events.  It's the lower part of the leg that's broken."

"That's easier than the thigh, at all events.
Come on.  I'll leave you to chop out splints while
I run for an old sheet for bandages."  She ran
towards the wood-heap, but paused on the way to
pick up an old paling.  "That will do, I think,"
she said, and knitted her brows, striving to think
of long-forgotten instructions.  "I can't be perfectly
certain of the lengths, but if you will cut it
here—and here—it should be about right."

She came back in a few moments, and together
they tore and rolled bandages swiftly.

"It's the worst of luck that the motor has gone
wrong, and I can't take the poor chap down in the
launch," Tom said.  "It would have been such
easy travelling.  Now we'll have to lay him flat in
the buggy, and you know what the jolting of that
road is."

Aileen thought a moment.

"There's a better way than letting him lie down,"
she said.  "I read of it the other day.  You lash
a padded board, stretching across from the seat to
the splashboard, and let the patient sit up in the
ordinary way—the good leg hanging down, and the
broken one strapped to the board.  The paper
said the patient would hardly feel a jolt."

"Well, I know the lying-down position is simply
torture, so we'll try your way," Tom said.  "With
luck, we may catch the Bairnsdale boat with him—it
doesn't go until nine, and it's only seven o'clock
now.  I hope they won't be long.  The fellow who
came in said he could manage to get him here on the
pony, so I thought it was better for me to wait and
get things ready here.  I'll fix that board, if you
will find something to pad it.  Is Garth up?"

"He's in his bath, I think."

"You might tell him to hurry and run the horses
up as soon as he's dressed.  I'll get the buggy out.
I expect the poor beggar will want some
nourishment—and a drink."

"We'll give him brandy before I touch the leg;
and I have some strong soup I can 'hot up' for
him to take afterwards."

"That's good," Tom said approvingly.  "If
time is short, you could drive him in, couldn't
you? and I'd ride ahead and try to hold the steamer
back.  I'm sure the captain would wait, under the
circumstances."

"Splendid idea!  I'm certain he would wait.
But perhaps we won't need to," Aileen said.  "I'll
go and get everything ready, and fix up some
breakfast for Garth."

"Get something to eat yourself," Tom called
after her.  She shook her head, smiling, as she
hurried in: breakfast for herself was the last thing
to be thought of.  But Tom came after her with
long strides.

"Be sensible, dear," he said.  "It may be an
ugly job; and you don't want to turn faint or have
unsteady hands, for the poor chap's sake."

"That's true," Aileen admitted.  "Aren't you
sensible!  Well, I will eat something."  She
smiled into his eyes, and was gone.

Garth, half-dressed, went flying down the paddock,
and was soon urging the horses up the hill,
with shrill shouts, to the stockyard.  In a few
minutes the buggy was ready, with the padded board
in position.  Just as Tom tied up the horses Roany
whinneyed; and turning, he saw Jane, led by the
scrub-cutter, coming up the hill, the injured man
riding.  A "Coo-ee!" brought Aileen hurrying
out.  She ran to the gate.

The patient was little more than a boy.  He was
crouched on the pony, leaning forward: one hand
steadying himself on Jane's withers, the other under
his knee, supporting the broken leg.  As he saw
Aileen his white face twisted into a smile, and he
freed the hand under his knee that he might lift
his hat.  The leg sagged downwards.  A cry broke
from her.

"Oh, please, don't!  Take care of your leg!"

The effort was almost the finishing touch to the
long agony of the ride.  The boy went forward
helplessly, and, abandoning Jane, Tom and his
mate lifted him off and laid him on the grass under
the quince-tree.  A little colour came back to his
lips, and he gasped, "Sorry!"  Tom slipped a hand
under his head, holding brandy to his lips.

"Cow of a trip!" said the other scrub-cutter.
"Had to carry him downhill and across the creek
on me back, an' you know what the scrub is there!
I fell twice with him.  Mighty good luck the bone
ain't through the skin, but it ain't.  It's broke in
two places, though."

Aileen was on her knees on the grass, feeling the
leg gently.  Before, she had been sick with
nervousness; but in the presence of the boy's agony,
every thought but one fled from her—to help him.
She was perfectly cool.

"I'm afraid I've got to hurt you," she said.
"I'll be as quick as I can."

She ran her hands up and down the leg, feeling,
with an involuntary shudder, the bones grate
under the skin, She must get it straight, she knew.
Gently, but firmly, she pulled it into position.
Once she heard him gasp, but her hands did not
falter.  It was straight at last, and she signed to Tom.
"Hold it—just like that."

She laid the splints in position, and bandaged
them tightly, forgotten deftness coming back to
her.  Round and round the firm hands went
steadily, until the leg, swathed like a mummy,
stuck out stiffly before her.  Then she sat back
on her heels.

"That's all I can do," she said, finding her lips
stiff and dry.  The voice was not like her own.
"Look carefully, Tom, and tell me if you think
it is straight."

"As far as I can see—perfectly," Tom said,
peering at the leg.

"I guess it's straight," said the patient
cheerfully, "'cause it don't hurt now, hardly a bit.
An' it was a fair caution before you touched it.
Where'd you learn how, mum?"

But Aileen had no power to answer.  She found
herself suddenly shuddering, and drenched in
perspiration.  Tom put his hand on her shoulders, and
made her drink a little brandy.

"Oh, I was so afraid!" she whispered, "so
dreadfully afraid!  Are you sure it's straight?"

"It must be," he said gently, "or he wouldn't
be out of pain.  Pull yourself together,
dear—remember we haven't much time.  And he must
have the soup."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said.  "I'm all right, Tom;
don't worry.  Will you two get him into the buggy
while I bring the soup?" She hurried away.

When she came back, with the steaming cup in
her hand, the patient was sitting up in the buggy,
wearing a wide smile, while Tom strapped the leg
to the board above the knee and at the foot.  Garth
stood sentry-fashion at the horse's head, his eyes
shining with excitement.

"By Jove, that's good!" said the broken-legged
one, tasting the soup.  "And I'd hardly know me
ol' laig was broke, I'm that comfortable.  You're
a great doctor, ain't you now, Mrs. Macleod?"

"I hope I didn't hurt you much," she said,
smiling at him faintly.  She was still trembling.

"Not you.  That ol' pony hurt like fury, an'
it was a fair caution when Bill fell down with me.
Twice, he did; Bill's a great hand at fallin'."  He
grinned at Bill.

"Thank y'r lucky stars I was big enough to
carry y'r great carcase," said that worthy, not at
all abashed.  "Might as well be decently grateful:
I can tell you, you ain't no luxury to carry!"

"Finished?" Tom asked, handing the empty
cup to Garth.  "Get the place tidy, son; mother's
going to drive in.  We'll be back soon."  He helped
Aileen to the driver's seat, handing her the reins.
"You haven't too much time.  I'll go ahead and
try to hold the boat.  Jump up behind"—to the
mate.  "I'll leave the gates open as I go, and
you can shut them."  He swung himself upon the
pony, and trotted down the hill.

It was with a shiver of dread that Aileen felt
the first severe jolt as they jogged over the rough
paddock track.  She glanced anxiously at her
patient.

"Did that hurt you much?"

"'Ardly felt it," said he.  "This dodge of yours
is the best ever I see.  Every one else puts a man
full length on a mattress, an' crikey! don't it hurt!
Every little jolt'll make a man howl.  But this
is like bein' in an armchair, and the jolts don't
seem to worry you at all."  They bumped heavily
over a tussock, and his calmness bore out the truth
of his words.

She was thankful for it, for there was no time
to waste.  Her patient, smoking and chattering, was
apparently indifferent as to whether he caught the
steamer.  "I don't reckon any ol' doctor is goin'
to make a better job of this laig than you done,"
he said, carelessly.  But to Aileen it was unthinkable
that they should not catch it.  She had no
belief in her own ability to set a broken leg properly.
That the boy should be cheerful, and almost out
of pain, was a kind of pleasant miracle, but she
could not realize that her unskilled hands could
possibly have caused it.  She would not have been
surprised if, at any moment, he had broken down
again in shivering agony.  The dread lest she
should have made some mistake almost choked
her—how could she ever face him in the future
if the leg she had doctored were crooked, or shorter
than the other?  He was such a boy!  She could
not bear to think that he might be crippled, and
because of her.

"I say!" said the patient, suddenly alert.
"There's a snake!  Do stop, Mrs. Macleod, and
let Bill kill the brute."

"Not for fifty snakes!" said Aileen firmly.  She
brought down the whip with emphasis on Roany's
back.  The snake, a big brown one, slid away into
a patch of bracken.

"I don't believe in letting snakes go," said the
patient severely.  "You never can tell where it's
going to turn up again.  It's like leavin' poison
lyin' about loose where there's kids.  You wouldn't
like your own kid to meet that chap if he was runnin'
about in the scrub, not thinkin'."

Aileen had a feeling of having been put in the
corner by a small boy.

"I know," she said meekly.  "And I truly
would not leave it, if we had time.  But this is a
lonely part, and there are no children—and it is
very important to get you to a doctor quickly.
If we miss the boat, you know, it means waiting
a whole day."

"Ah, doctors!" said the boy scornfully.  "I
knew one once in South Gippsland where a chap
broke his laig, same as me, and some one set it, and
got him pretty right for the time bein'.  They took
him home an' wired for a doctor to a place ten mile
away, tellin' him what was the matter, so's he'd
bring the proper fixin's.  He come along after a
bit, took off the setting an' looked at the laig, an'
said it was set all right, an' he'd left the splints an'
things at the hotel, an' he must go an' get them.
So he left that laig with nothin' on it but a blanket,
an' went off; an' he didn't come back for seven
hours!"

"But why?"

"Why?  'Cause he was playin' billiards an'
havin' a good time.  That's why.  They sent
ever so many messages to him, an' the poor chap
lay there, with his laig swellin' something cruel.
Then the doctor come back at last, an' if you'll
believe me he'd never brought a thing with him!  He
took them old bandages an' rough bits of wood
they'd used for splints—the things he'd taken off
an' chucked aside in the morning—an' put 'em
on the laig again: all dirty, they was, from bein'
against his ol' workin' pants."

"But why did he not bring the proper things?"

"Nobody never knew.  He didn't, anyhow.
When that laig was set first, by the chap as did it
in the Bush, it was as straight and comft'ble as
anything could be.  But when that beautiful doctor
done it, it wasn't straight.  He put on the things
quite loose and careless.  The man's mate was
there, an' said so, an' the doctor flared up like &
packet of crackers.  'Do you think I don't know
me business?' says he.  'I'm blooming well sure
you don't,' says the mate."

"What did he say to that?" Aileen asked.

"Not a thing.  You couldn't insult him—he
hadn't no decent pride.  He just finished tyin'
up the poor bloke's laig, an' went off, sayin' he'd
come back in three days an' look at him.  But
the chap suffered very bitter in his heel all night,
an' next morning his foot was stickin' out turned
half-ways round.  They sent five mile into the
Bush for the man that had set it first, to come an'
straighten it an' set it again."

"Did he?"

"No, he had sense.  He said he couldn't take the
responsibility of touching it.  So they packed the
poor chap an' his laig up on a stretcher, with the
laig just as the doctor had left it, an' sent him up
to the Melbourne Hospital.  They said it was the
laughin'-stock of the whole place—they asked was
it a doctor as had done it, or a goanna?"

"I never heard of such a thing!" Aileen
breathed.  "Did he—was he lame afterwards?"

"Well, he wasn't, but it was luck.  And it was
ages before he was better, an' him out of work all
the time.  So that's why I ain't in any hurry to
get to any ol' doctors.  Me laig's comft'ble now,
an' I'd like it to stay so."

"But all doctors aren't like that, thank
goodness," Aileen said.  "I know one who saved my
boy's life.  And when he comes into a house where
there is sickness, you feel as if he had suddenly
shouldered all your troubles."

"Oh, I suppose there's good and bad in all
trades!" her patient admitted handsomely.  "Only
that fool Englishman in South Gippsland was the
only one I ever met very intimate, so to speak.
But I've heard they're good in Bairnsdale."

"I know they are," Aileen assured him.  "And
there's a big, comfortable hospital where you'll
be splendidly looked after.  You see, it's all very
well now, when you haven't had time to get tired;
but you will be glad enough to be in bed after a
while."

"I s'pose I will; but I never was in bed a day
in me life," he said ruefully.  "Oh, well, if I'm
fool enough to let a limb hit me, I got to pay for it."

They were approaching the outskirts of the township.
Scattered houses came in view, and the roar
of the surf grew plainer as they drew near to the
narrow lagoon that lies between Cuninghame and
the sand hummocks of the Ninety Mile Beach.
Above it came three long discordant hoots.

"My word, that's the steamer!" said the man
at the back.  "Can you get a bit more out of that
ol' pony, mum?"

Aileen was already plying the whip, much to
Roany's disgust.  He shook his head angrily from
side to side, and finally broke into a lurching canter.
Tom came in view, riding to meet them.

"Hurry all you can!" he said briefly.  "The
captain has kept the steamer almost as long as he
dares; you see, he carries the mail from some
places.  I'll tell him you're coming."

They turned into the esplanade, and rocked
down past the houses and the stores.  Near the
wharf a knot of people waited, gazing curiously at
them.  The paddle-steamer was at the wharf,
smoke pouring from her funnel.  Aileen could see
the tall figure of the captain leaning over the
railing.  He shouted something she could not hear.
She pulled up near the wharf, with a sigh of  relief.

There were plenty of willing hands to help to
carry the patient to the steamer.  The captain
had offered his cabin, but the boy begged to be left
on deck.

"I'll be inside four walls long enough, I expect,"
he said.  "Let's stop out here."  So they propped
him up where he could look across the lake, with
his bandaged leg sticking stiffly out in front of
him.  He looked at it with a wry smile.

"A nice object, you are!" he said.  He held
out his hand to Aileen.  "Thanks, Mrs. Macleod.
If I've ever the luck to be able to do a good turn
for you, I'll do it."

"But you would do that if you'd never hurt your
leg," she said, laughing.  "I think all Gippslanders
are ready to do good turns!  Take care of
yourself, and good luck!"  She turned to his mate.
"You'll let us know how he gets on?"

"My word, yes," said Bill.  He also shook
hands vigorously.  "Great bit of luck we struck
you, mum, anyhow!"

The steamer gave an agonized hoot, and Tom
and Aileen sought the wharf hurriedly.  They
stood, watching, while the big, top-heavy-looking,
boat moved slowly out from the wharf, with great
churnings of her paddles, and set off down the lagoon
towards the lake opening out ahead.  Aileen
suddenly realized that she was very tired.

"And the washing-up not done!" she said.
"It's very bad management to begin the day with
such dissipation!  Come home, Tom."

"Right-oh!" Tom answered.  "I'll lead Jane,
and come with you in the buggy."  He helped
her in, and they jogged back along the esplanade.
"Are you very done up, my girl?"

"Oh, a little bit tired," she said.  "I think it's
more from fear than anything else."

"Well, you had no reason to be afraid," he said.
"Your job was all right.  I was proud of you!
But it wasn't an easy thing to tackle.  However,
none of us need worry now when we break an odd
limb or two: all we have to do is to get as
comfortable as possible, light a pipe, and wait for you!"

"If you dare——!" said his wife, laughing.

"Why not?  But apart from joking, Aileen, our
'Possum has been having adventures.  They told
me about it when I was waiting for you at the
wharf."  He told her the story of the wrecked boat.

"And where is she now?" Aileen asked anxiously.
"Is she ill?"

"Her feet and legs are pretty painful, they said.
But she wouldn't see a doctor, or stay in
Cuninghame; and her father was better, so he took her
home yesterday."

"I must go over and see if I can do anything,"
Aileen said decidedly.

"Well, I thought you'd like to.  But are you
fit for it, dear?"

"I shall be quite all right, especially when I have
some tea!" she said.  "Tea is the one thing my
soul craves for."

"I'll brew the largest teapot in the house directly
we get home," Tom said.  "And you will just keep
quiet and take things easy.  You won't need to do
any cooking, will you?"

"I should like to take a basket of things over
to the O'Connors," she said.  "But I won't do
much, really, Tom.  I'll starve my poor family on
'Possum's account!"

"If I believed that you would, I'd be contented,"
he said.  "But I know you better.  When shall
we go over?"

"Oh, after dinner.  We'll take Garth—the poor
man has had a horrid morning."

Garth did not consider that he had had a horrid
morning at all.  It was not every day that the
thrilling excitement of a broken leg came his way;
and later, he had found enormous satisfaction in
dusting and tidying the house, and in spurring
Horrors to amazing efforts in the kitchen.  The
housework was done by the time the buggy drew up at
the back gate—if the corners were not above
reproach, Aileen knew better than to look at them.
She looked instead at her little son's glowing face,
and kissed him, with moist eyes; and Tom's deep
"Well done, old man!" sent Garth into the seventh
heaven.

There was a big basket stowed in the back of the
buggy when they set off early in the afternoon:
such things as might relieve the anxieties of a
crippled housekeeper and of a cook of twelve.  A big
piece of cooked mutton; a crisp, brown loaf of
soda bread, and a bundle of scones tied up in a fresh,
white cloth; a big cake of the kind that invites
hungry people to cut and come again, and, in a
special corner, a glass of jelly and a sponge cake,
warm yet, and light and puffy: things to tempt an
invalid.

"Won't it be 'strordinary to see 'Possum in bed?"
Garth chattered.  "Do you think she has
dungaree nighties, mother?"

O'Connor's farm lay two miles away, in a dark
valley between hills covered with gum trees.  There
was no gate leading into it: only heavy slip-rails,
fitting into rusty horse shoes nailed to posts on
either side.  Like their own farm, it had scarcely
any homestead track: they bumped over tussocks
and rough ground, and wriggled a tortuous way
round logs and clumps of scrub.  'Possum and her
father nearly always rode; and the children walked
two miles across the paddocks to the little Bush
school.  There were few wheel-marks on O'Connor's land.

Little Joe was playing on the wood-heap near
the door as the Macleods drove up.  He greeted
Garth with a grin of joy, and Garth's father and
mother with shy pleasure.

"How is 'Possum, Joe?" asked Aileen, descending.
"Is she asleep?"

"'Poss?  Asleep?  Gwacious, no!" said 'Possum's
brother, in amazement.  "She's feeding
the calf.  Come on down to the shed."

He led the way across the untidy yard.  The
shed was a half-open place, tenanted by a dray,
two ploughs, a harrow, sundry old iron, and a calf.
The calf was tied to the wheel of the dray, and at
the moment was strenuously objecting to take
nourishment, which 'Possum, seated on a
wheelbarrow, was endeavouring to administer by means
of a baby's bottle.  The efforts of the calf to
withdraw were frustrated by the combined muscles of
Bertha, young Bill and little Polly, who held it firmly
in position and talked to it in good plain terms.
The calf, however, was obdurate, and at last
'Possum gave up the attempt.

"Oh, let him go!" she said, without noticing
the new-comers.  "I wouldn't mind if it was on'y
his feed, but it's his med'cine as well.  We'll hot
it up after a bit, Bill, an' try him again."

"Might as well try 'n' pour milk into a gate-post!"
said young Bill, disgustedly, prodding, with a
bare toe, the calf, which had lain down thankfully
on its straw.  "Brute!  I dunno how Daisy come
to have such a mis'rable little runt of a thing!"

"Jolly careless of her," said 'Possum.  "Now
you just turn me round, an' wheel me up easy, Bert.
Don't go an' pitch me out, like you near did comin'
down!"

"Let me help," said Tom, stepping forward.
Every one jumped, and 'Possum turned a lively
pink.

"Sorry," she said gruffly, looking at her bandaged
feet, which were thrust over the edge of the
wheelbarrow, "I'm lame, like the silly ass I am,
so the kids have to wheel me round—that fool of a
calf won't drink for Bill, but he gen'lly-as-a-rule will
for me.  Don't you bother, Mr. Macleod; Bert can
get me up all right."

"I don't believe Bertha's half as good in the
shafts of a barrow as I am!" Tom retorted.  "I've
been broken in ever so much longer than she has;
I wouldn't trust her not to kick!"  Which pleasantry
reduced Bertha to suppressed giggles, until
she grew alarmingly red in the face.

Tom wheeled the barrow up the steep yard,
and paused at the kitchen door.  It was a dark,
low room, lit only by one small window; but it
was spotlessly neat and clean.  A rough home-made
sofa, from which a coarse rug had been flung
back, stood under the window.

"Is that your camp?" Tom asked, indicating
the sofa.  'Possum nodded, looking more
wretchedly uncomfortable than before.

"If—if you'n' missus 'ud go into the front room, I
can get to it," she muttered, crimsoning.

"You can't walk, 'Possum?"  Aileen put a
hand on her shoulder.

"No, but I can manage."  She dropped her voice
to a whisper.  "Please do take the boss away!"

"I say!" said Tom unhappily.  "It isn't fair
to shunt me like that, 'Possum."  He turned to
the silent children.  "How did she get to the
barrow, Bill?"

"Crawled 'n' rolled," said young Bill briefly.
"An' it hurt her like fury."

"Well, you aren't going to crawl and roll this
time," said Tom, with decision.  "And you can't
sit in that barrow all day.  Now you just behave
yourself, 'Possum; I'm going to make believe
you're Garth.  You've no idea how handy I got
as a nurse when he was ill."

Without giving her time to make any further
protest he lifted her gently and carried her across
to the sofa, putting her down as easily as though she
had been a featherweight, and arranging the rug
across her knees.  He talked fluently all the time,
without looking at her.

"This is a sort of hospital day for us," he said.
"You've been trying to drown yourself and fill the
lake with cold pork, and the Missus has been setting
broken legs until her brain reeled.  And Garth
has been cook and bottle-washer, and what the
family would have done without him I tremble to
think.  He even made Horrors hurry, and I guess
you know what sort of a job *that* would be, 'Possum!
Horrors showed signs of swooning from overwork and
brain-fag by the time Garth had finished with him.
The missus will tell you all about it.  Now I'm
off to talk to that calf, with Bill.  Come along, Bill.
I don't think the calf likes a crowd any more than
I do when I've medicine to take."  He took the
calf's rejected bottle, to which 'Possum had clung
instinctively, and went out, Bill at his heels.

"Jus' fancy him carryin' me like that!" 'Possum
uttered, her eyes shining.  "Ain't he the limit!
Oh, you were good to come, Missus!"

"Of course we had to come," Aileen said, shaking
up a cushion, and putting her back upon it
gently.  "Wasn't our station-manager ill!"

'Possum's pale face expanded in a delighted grin.

"Oh, I'm all right," she said.  "Leastways,
nearly!  Me laigs'll be on strike for a few days,
they say."

"No chill?" Aileen asked.  "Are you truly
all right, 'Possum, dear?"

It was not often that a word of endearment came
in 'Possum's way.  Her eyes, as she raised them
to the tall girl bending over her, had something of
the utter devotion of a dog.

"Lor, I dunno how to be ill!" she answered.
"Don't you bother about me, Missus.  If it wasn't
for me silly old laigs I'd be as right as pie.  I was
a bit tired, but I slep' in this morning—never opened
an eye till eight o'clock!  Nice state the place 'ud get
into if I was to do that often."

"And your father?"

"Oh, he's pretty right.  Looks a bit washed
out, but he's gone off to Coffey's to try an' get
another pig.  Did they tell you 'about it?  Wasn't
it rotten luck losin' that other one?  He was a
real good pig, too!"

"We might have lost you," Aileen said.  She
bent and kissed the girl lightly on the forehead.  A
swift wave of colour dyed 'Possum's face, and
she caught Aileen's hand and held it tightly for a
moment.

"Now we're going to have tea with you, and
I'm going to help Bertha get it," said Aileen
cheerfully.

"It ain't fit for you—we on'y got enamel cups,"
said 'Possum unhappily.  "An' goodness on'y
knows what there is to eat.  To-day's bakin' day,
by rights, but of course nothin's got done.  Have
we got any butter, Bert?"

"You've probably pounds and pounds, but I
brought some over, just because I was so painfully
proud of its colour!" said Aileen, beginning to
unpack her basket swiftly.  "It wouldn't 'come'
last night; I churned it until my arm wouldn't
churn any more, and then I hung it in the well all
night, and attacked it again at six o'clock this
morning.  Then it came quite meekly.  It's the
only way to deal with it in summer, isn't it?"  The
butter emerged, firm and yellow, from a wrapping
of wet cloths and cabbage leaves.  "Put that
meat in the safe, Bertha, like a good girl—it's a
great day for flies.  Polly, that's cake; you unwrap
it, and if you don't say it's a good cake, I won't
be friends with you.  Now we'll have scones to
try my butter.  What have you eaten to-day,
'Possum?"

"Well, I ain't had much feelin' of fancyin'
anything," 'Possum admitted.  "I tried me porridge,
but it was too hot; this ain't much of a day for
hot things, is it?  You can't eat much on a blazin'
day like this."

"She won't eat nothin'," said Bertha, in a high,
miserable voice.  "I tried an' tried, an' fried her
an aig, an' it wasn't any good.  Leastways, the
aig was good, but she wouldn't eat it.  I dunno
what to do with her."

"We brought you some of my jelly, and you've
just got to eat it," said Garth happily.  The jelly
glass came from its jar of wet salt, with its contents
clear and golden and quivering.  'Possum's eyes
rested on it hungrily.

"Now!" said Garth.  He demanded a teaspoon
of Bertha, and advanced upon the sofa, jelly in hand,
and looking ridiculously like his father.  "Just you
behave yourself, and eat this!"

"It's lovely!" 'Possum whispered to him gratefully.

Aileen, after the first glance, did not look at the
sofa.  'Possum never liked eating with an
audience—but Garth did not count.  He leaned against
her, chattering in his eager little voice; and the jelly
was disappearing.  So Aileen busied herself with
Bertha and Polly, making tea and buttering scones.
Everything was ready when Tom loomed in the
doorway, with young Bill at his heels.

"Bill and I think you people don't understand
calves," Tom announced.  "You don't take them
properly.  That fellow leaned up against us, and
kissed us, and drank his bottle like any other nice,
well-behaved baby.  Now Bill and I want
ours—don't we, Bill?"

Bill chuckled deeply, casting adoring glances
at this cheerful person, who might be "a gent," but
nevertheless treated him as a man and a brother.
Garth brought the jelly-glass triumphantly to the
table.

"She's eaten every bit!" he cried.

"That's lovely!" said Aileen, and smiled at her.
"Now she's going to eat my sponge cake and tell
me if it isn't good."  She took it to 'Possum's
side, with a cup of tea, and turned an empty box
into a bedside table; and they were all very merry,
and ate enormously, while 'Possum nibbled her
cake and watched Aileen's smallest movement,
and sighed now and then with a content that
not even bandaged, aching feet could take away.

"You will take care of yourself, won't you,
'Possum?" Aileen said, when the time came for
good-byes.  They had all washed up together,
and Tom had insisted on sweeping the kitchen, to
the great anguish of mind of the sisters O'Connor.
"Don't try to walk too soon; and promise to get
Bertha to rub you twice a day.  You will, Bertha,
won't you?"

"My oath!" said Bertha, firmly.  "No matter
what she says!"

"That's quite right," said Aileen, laughing.
"And hide her clothes, Bertha, if she tries to get
about before she should!"

"I'll plant 'er boots," said Bertha.  "That'll
fix 'er!"

Young Bill had helped Tom to put in Roany,
and the buggy waited, with the O'Connor family
in extended order to bid them good-bye: 'Possum
watching from her window, while Bertha helped to
stow the empty basket under the seat and tuck
in the dust-rug; and Polly was at the gate of the
yard, her curls shining in the sun, and ahead, Bill,
on a bare-backed pony, careered across the
paddock to let down the sliprails.  It was something
like a Royal Progress; and from the shed came a
loud "Ma-a-a-a!" as though in farewell.  It was
the calf!





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.. _`A BOATING HOLIDAY`:

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   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   A BOATING HOLIDAY

.. vspace:: 2

"Dad!"

"Yes?"  Tom Macleod paused in his
task of staking peas, and looked inquiringly at his
little son.

"It's a lovely day," Garth said, conversationally.
"Isn't it?"

"It is.  Did you come out to tell me that?"

"Well, not exactly," Garth hesitated.  "Only,
it *is* a nice day.  And mother and I were thinking
we hadn't had any fish for ages.  And we thought
it wouldn't be any wonder if the motor got
indigestion again, through not being used!"

Macleod grinned.

"You and mother are a pair of old conspirators,
and I am your unhappy victim!" he said.  "This
means, I suppose, that I am to stop earning both
your livings and play about in a silly motor-boat
all day!"

"You know it isn't a silly boat—it's a beauty!"
Garth protested.  "And it isn't waste of time,
'cause we'll catch such a lot of fish that it'll save
the butcher's bill no end.  And there's meat-pies
to take out for lunch: mother made 'em
yesterday, and they're lovely!"

"I never heard a more convincing set of reasons,"
Tom said.  "Well, if I don't come I suppose you
and mother will go off by your wild lones, and eat
all the pies, so I suppose I'd better be meek.  I
say, though, what about bait?"

"'Possum and I caught a lovely lot of shrimps
yesterday," said his son demurely.

"Oh, did you?  I'd like to know was it the
sight of your shrimps that made mother make the
pies, or the sight of the pies that sent you after
shrimps?"

"It wasn't neither, truly," Garth answered.
"She made 'em while I was away.  She says it
was a brain-wave!"

"I have noticed mother have that species of
brain-wave before," said Tom, staking vigorously.
"Well, I'll come; but I must finish this row first.
Even to catch fish and eat pies I won't leave my
precious peas to trail in the dust.  Peas are money,
young Garth!"

"I'll help you," Garth said eagerly.  "If I
hand you stakes you'll get on ever so quicker."

"True for you," said his father.  They worked
together until they came to the end of the row, and
Tom stood up, glad to stretch his aching back.

"People with long cheap backs like mine ought
never to be asked to double them up," he remarked.

A grey horse and a flapping blue skirt came
into view, mounting the hill towards the house.

"There's 'Possum!" Garth-cried.  "I wonder
would she come with us?  May I ask her, Dad?"

"Yes, of course," Tom answered.  Garth shot
across to the garden gate, and he followed more
slowly.

'Possum had lost all outward traces of her accident,
except that she walked a little stiffly, and was
not yet capable of any hard work.  She did as
much as possible in the saddle; but for the most
part her father had suddenly put down his foot
where work for her was concerned—the result of a
conversation with Aileen—and the girl was
experiencing a most unusual holiday.  It almost
troubled her: leisure had so little come her way.
Now, her father performed all her rough tasks;
and Bertha and young Bill gathered the fruit and
vegetables, and prepared them for market, while
Polly and little Joe tended the fowls, fed the broods
of baby chickens, and gathered the eggs.  As a
kind of favour, 'Possum was permitted to market
her produce—with Bill or Bertha as attendant,
to jump in and out of the cart and carry the loads
into the houses.  'Possum did not enjoy it.  "I
ain't used to being a lady," she said.

She fell back thankfully on the Macleods; and
there were few days when she did not ride up to the
cottage on the hill—to potter about the farm with
Tom and Garth, and look at the crops and the
stock, or to watch Aileen as she worked in the
garden or in the house.  Aileen was busy with a
good deal of sewing in those days, most of which
she was careful to conceal when she heard
'Possum's step.  One day 'Possum surprised her in the
act of working at some pale pink print, and laid
her hand gently on the stuff.  "Your things is
always so pretty," she said wistfully.  Whereat
Aileen smiled, and remarked vaguely that pink
was a good washing colour.

To-day 'Possum professed herself as very willing
to join the fishing party: and they set off happily,
laden with baskets and quart-pot, to the boat-shed,
where Tom dealt mysteriously with the motor.
The launch was only a tiny one, fitted up by
Mr. Gordon for his fishing expeditions: five or six
people filled it comfortably, and it drew so little
water that it could be run into the shallowest of
bays and creeks.  Tom settled 'Possum and Aileen
comfortably in the stern, and Garth took up his
usual position, as far out of the bow as he could
hang his small person with safety.  Bran whined
distressfully on the shore.  Ordinary boating-trips
were permitted him; but to bring leaping fish
into the boat upset all his calmness, and sent him
into such paroxysms of barking that when fishing
was part of the programme he had been condemned
to remain at home.  Garth sorrowed over it, and
talked severely to him on the subject of gaining more
sense: orations which Bran heard with respect,
but which had so far produced no effect.

"Orders, please, ma'am," Tom said, looking up
from the digestive apparatus of the little engine.
"Where do you want to go?"

"I want to explore this arm of the lake," Aileen
replied promptly.  "You know, we have never
been up to the end, and we've always planned to
do so.  We might get some fishing in the pools,
'Possum says; and if we don't, we could go down
to the lake itself after lunch and fish in earnest.
Does that meet with your worshipful approval?"

"Sounds very jolly," Tom said.  "All right,
then, we'll go exploring first.  Ready?"

They slid away from the little jetty, and turned
up the arm of the lake.  It was like a river pushing
itself in among the hills.  Near its outlet it was
wide, and on stormy days there was a choppy sea
at its mouth; but as it wound its sinuous course
inland it grew smooth and tranquil and even
narrower, save that now and then at a sudden turn
it broadened into a deep and quiet pool.  Then it
would wind away again, each time seeming the
last, until at length it narrowed to nothing, and the
blue water vanished in a tangle of driftwood and
rubbish brought by the slow tide to the end of its
tortuous journey.

They swung round bend after bend.  Gum and
wattle trees bordered the water: and sometimes
they came to a little clearing, where a settler's
cottage stood, trim and neat in its setting of orchard
and garden, with fowls pecking contentedly near
the homestead fences, and perhaps barefooted
children running about.  One such clearing led
to 'Possum's home, though the trees hid the house;
they passed the little jetty where lay the sailing
boat which had so nearly cost two lives—little the
worse apparently for its long immersion.  Two
fishermen had towed it in next day and righted
it—empty of all spare gear, but without damage.
'Possum gave a little shudder as she looked at it.

"No more sailing for me just yet awhile!" she
uttered.  "I seem to have lost me taste for it!"

They went on and on, winding and twisting
through the forest, which grew thicker and thicker.
Often it seemed certain that they had come to the
end, as they entered a pool with no apparent
outlet; but, as they glided farther, the water opened
before them in another bend, and yet another, and
another.  Deep fern gullies came down to the
water's edge, dark and beautiful, and full of the
chiming of bell-birds: and sometimes they heard
the quick swish and crack of the stockwhip bird.
They landed in one gully, where 'Possum said she
had twice seen lyre-birds: and by great good luck,
and patiently sitting on a log for twenty minutes,
they actually caught a glimpse of a pair of the queer,
shy birds, dancing solemnly on a mound, uttering
strange sounds.

"They're copyin'—they're just born mimics,"
'Possum whispered.  "Listen—they've heard a
sawmill somewhere!"  And indeed the sounds
were nothing but the harsh rip of a saw through
timber.  They changed in a moment to the yap of
a dog: which so enchanted Garth that he fell
bodily off the log, and the lyre-birds promptly
disappeared.

"Well, you are a goat!" said Tom.

"I just am," Garth admitted penitently: "I
don't know what made me overbalance.  I'm sorry."

"Well, you hadn't much log to lie on," Tom
said, relenting as he looked at the tiny limb where
the small boy had been perched.  "Can't be
helped, at all events."

"You had jolly good luck to see 'em at all,"
'Possum said.  "I been about the Bush all me
life, an' I haven't seen 'em half a dozen times.
But that gully's always a haunt for birds—nobody
hardly ever goes there.  Look—there's a blue wren."

"Oh!—the lovely thing!" Aileen breathed.

He was certainly a lovely thing—a proud little
person of black and enamel-blue, with a blue cap
and a deep-blue tail nearly as long as his whole
body.  He was very busy, strutting happily about
the ground or fluttering from twig to twig with a
rapid flight that made him look like a glancing
jewel.  Finally he perched on a bough and broke
into a little song as exquisite as himself: and then
dashed off in a great hurry to find his mate.

"What a jolly little chap!" Garth uttered.

"He's a dear, ain't he?" 'Possum said.  "An'
his little mate's as plain as he's pretty, but she's
a dear, too.  Look—there's a couple of
honey-eaters!"  She pointed out a pair of dainty black
and yellow birds, hanging head downwards under
a patch of eucalyptus blossom.  They had long,
curved, slender beaks, in and out of which darted
busy tongues ending in little brushes that swept
the honey from the flowers.

"But they're exquisite!" Aileen uttered.  "I
didn't know we had anything so lovely."

"There's dozens of different sorts of honey-eaters,
an' they're all lovely," 'Possum said.
"Some day we'll go out, will we, Missus, an' spend a
whole day watchin' birds?"

"I would love to," Aileen said.

"Bert came home from school once, an' said
they'd been reading a bit o' poitry by some bloke
that said Australian birds hadn't any songs,"
'Possum said, with disgust.  "Well, I s'pose a bloke
has to be clever to write poitry, but I don't reckon
he knew much about Australia.  I wouldn't ask
anything better than our own of magpie singin' in
the early morning, or the thrush, or that little blue
wren, or any of the warblers—an' there's dozens
an' dozens of others..  Even the ol' butcher-bird
can sing a fair treat.  I reckon he was a silly bloke,
don't you?"

Aileen ventured a mild defence of the poet.

"I don't think he meant that we have no songbirds,"
she said.  "I think he only tried to say
that some of our handsomest birds were songless."

'Possum tilted her nose.

"Well, people that make up poitry have a right
to be careful," she said severely.  "Kids in schools
pay an awful lot of attention to what they say,
an' it's up to them not to lead 'em wrong!"  After
which Aileen defended no more.

They went back to the boat, and journeyed
on, presently coming on a new sight for the
Macleods.  A blacks' camp stood on a natural clearing
near a creek that ran down into the lake-arm: a
rough "wurley," built of interlaced boughs, with
a bit of sacking hanging down for a door.  Hot as
the day was, a little fire smouldered between two
big stones.  The only person visible, at first, was
a tiny black baby, tumbling about on the ground
without a rag of clothing; but as Tom stopped the
engine, the sacking over the door was lifted, and a
man and a woman came out.  They were young,
and the woman was not bad-looking, and her dress
was fairly neat; but the man was an evil-looking
creature, ragged and slouching, with a furtive,
unpleasant gaze.

The woman picked up the baby, and they came
down to the water's edge, looking curiously at the
boat and its occupants.  The man held out a
rough boomerang he was making, and offered it
for sale.

.. _`"The man held out a rough boomerang he was making, and offered it for sale."`:

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   :alt: "The man held out a rough boomerang he was making, and offered it for sale."

   "The man held out a rough boomerang he was making, and offered it for sale."

"I've no money with me," Tom said.  "Would
you like it, Garth?  I can tell him to come to the
house to be paid, if you would."

"Don't you!" said 'Possum, in a quick whisper.
"It ain't worth buyin'—those fellers don't know how
to make a decent boomerang.  They're on'y sham
things, made to catch silly visitors——"  She
pulled herself up, and turned scarlet.  Tom laughed.

"Bless you, 'Possum, I always get truth from
you," he said.  He shook his head at the man.
"No, thanks," he said; and the black fellow looked
surlier than ever.  The woman uttered a quick
jabber of words that included something about "bacca."

"Oh, they can have that," Tom said.  He took
a piece of tobacco from his pocket and tossed it to
the man, who caught it deftly, his heavy face
lightening for a moment.  Then the boat chugged
her way onward, and they lost sight of the little
clearing.

"'Fraid I was a bit rude that time," said
'Possum.  "But if you once let one of those fellers
come to your house, you're never free of them.
They'll turn up at any hour and want tucker and
baccy; an' what's more, they'll tell their friends,
and you'll have them callin' too.  And they'd steal
the very clothes off your back.  Nothin's safe
from them—the washin' out on the line, an' the
chickens, an' the things in the shed.  They're a
caution when they take to hangin' round a place."

"But won't they come in any case?" asked Aileen.

"Oh, they may, of course.  But they're queer
people; if once they're told to call at a place they
seem to think they've got a hold on it for keeps,
an' they'll come back for years an' years."

"Where do they live, 'Possum?"

"Those people have most likely been in one of
the settlements—Ramahyuck or Lake Tyers.  The
woman's dress looks like it: she'd never be as neat
as that if she hadn't been in a mission station.
They treat 'em jolly well there—give 'em decent
little cottages to live in, an' just enough work to
keep 'em going.  But they always break out now
an' then, an' one or two'll clear out to the Bush
an' camp for a while.  They'll go back when the
cold weather comes—or before that, if they aren't
pickin' up enough food.  An' they don't much
mind where an' how they pick it up, I can tell you."

"Why wouldn't you let Dad buy the boomerang,
'Poss?" asked Garth.

"I'd make you a better one meself," 'Possum
answered.  "It's really only the old men who know
much about either makin' or throwin' boomerangs:
none of these young ones'll bother themselves.
You could throw that affair he was makin' into the
air, same as you could any old stick, but it wouldn't
return to you.  Most people don't know the
difference"—she grinned at Tom shamefacedly—"an'
they get a sale for all sorts of rubbishy stuff among
the summer visitors.  But it's no more real black's
stuff than I am.  That gets harder to buy every
year, because the old men who used to make the
things are dying out."

They had been gliding along gently, the water
growing steadily shallower.  Suddenly, they came
upon the end of the arm—a pool like hundreds of
other pools through which they had passed, save
that in each of the others there had been an outlet,
and here there was none.  The water ended.  All
round them the trees frowned down upon the still
surface, where leaves and sticks floated idly, never
to get away: doomed to wash into the rubbish
along the shore, or to become water-logged, and
finally to sink to the muddy bottom.  There was
something unnaturally eerie and still about the
place.  Even the birds had deserted it: there
was no longer the happy sound of their singing
and twittering.  Far overhead a fish-hawk sailed lazily.

"Ugh!" said Aileen, shivering a little.  "I
don't like this place.  Let us turn back."

So they turned and drifted into wholesome blue
water, passing the blacks' little camp and the
gullies and clearings that led back to the country
they knew.  In one gully they moored the boat
and made their fire, eating their luncheon among
the limbs of a fine old tree that had fallen and lay
upon its side, its gnarled-boughs making splendid
natural arm-chairs.  The birds were very tame:
one little brown honey-eater came hopping near
them for crumbs, and finally perched on the toe
of Tom's boot, where it remained in a quaint
attitude of alert attention.  Then they fished the
pools, with varying success, and at last gave it
up and travelled swiftly down the arm until they
reached the lake itself.  For the last half-mile there
was little need for the engine.  The current had
been steadily growing in power; at length it
whisked them round bend after band, until it
brought them out into the open water, and set
swiftly towards the Entrance, where the great grey
piers guarded the lane of water that led out to the
breakers.

"You wouldn't have much chance if you drifted
out here without oars," 'Possum remarked.  "The
current joins the one that sweeps down the lakes
from ever so far up, an' don't they just race out to
sea!  There was a party of girls in a boat—visitors—got
into that current last year, an' went bobbin'
along towards the Entrance.  They'd been told it
was risky, so they lost their heads an' dropped an
oar, an' then, of course, they had no chance at all."

"Were they taken out?" Aileen asked.

"No, but it was luck they weren't.  They were
mighty close to the Entrance when some people in
a motor-boat saw 'em an' chased 'em—just
managed to stop 'em in time.  They'd have been in
the surf in three minutes, an' no boat could live
there unless it was jolly well handled.  You'll see
the fishing-boats comin' in sometimes, when they've
been out with the nets after a shoal of salmon, and
it just is exciting!  Even with four good men
pullin', it's risky enough to bring a big boat through
those breakers.  Dad seen one turned clean over
one day, an' one man was caught underneath it
an' killed.  An' that was a great big sea-goin' fishin'-boat,
not the sort of little cockle-shell thing that
people pull round on the lakes."

"Poor chap!  I did not know that the fishermen
went outside the entrance: I thought they only
fished in the lakes," Tom remarked.

"They fish wherever they can earn a livin',"
said 'Possum drily.

They came out upon the wide surface of the lake,
and ran across to a bay that nearly always held
fish.  To-day it lived up to its reputation, and
soon they were hauling out whiting and big pink
schnapper, whose sides were like live opal as they
came out of the water.  Tom fished scientifically,
with a rod that was the pride of his heart: the
others bobbed cheerfully with hand lines and
sinkers, and were filled with joy because their results
were as good.  Their basket was full when they
turned homewards in the evening.

"Tell about the time when Joe got bushed,
'Possum," Garth pleaded.

"That ain't anything to tell about," said 'Possum
reprovingly.  "And besides, you know already."

"Yes, but I like to hear it again," Garth begged.

"We haven't heard, at all events," Tom said.
"Go on, 'Possum."

"Well, it's nothin' much," 'Possum said, reluctantly:
to tell Garth stories was one thing, but it
was quite another to be forced to retail them to
Garth's parents.  "Joe went off on his own into
the Bush one afternoon—on'y four, he was—an'
next thing I knew was, it was near dark, an' no
Joe.  Dad was out in the boat that night, so I
left word for him, an' put all the other kids to bed
an' made the fire safe, an' started off."

"Into the Bush?"

"Yes, of course.  That's where Joe was.  Well,
I pounded through the jolly old scrub all night—no
luck, an' I was pretty worried, 'cause Joe
wasn't no more'n four.  An' all me clothes got
tore, an' I was scratched near to bits, an' I kept
thinkin', if that was all the fun I was gettin' out of
it, an' me past fourteen, how about poor old Joe?"

"But you found him, 'Possum?" Garth cried eagerly.

"Just about daybreak, I did—in an old hollow
stump.  Crawled in, he had, an' there he was,
lyin' asleep, happy as Larry.  Not any trouble
for Joe.  He woke up, an' I was the first thing he
saw, an' he laughed all over his dear old dirty face.
'Where's me porridge, 'Poss?' he says.  He
always was just about the limit!"

"What about your father?" Aileen asked.

"Oh, he got home about two o'clock, an' seen the
note I left, but he reckoned if I couldn't find Joe
he couldn't, so he turned in.  Dad never worries
about things.  He says everything'll come out in
the wash, if you leave it long enough."

They reached the jetty, and ran gently alongside.
'Possum hopped out nimbly, in spite of her
sore feet, and helped to steady the boat while
Aileen followed more carefully with the fish
and the empty luncheon baskets.  They left Tom
to put the engine to bed, aided by Garth, and went
slowly up the hill.

"Christmas will be in three days," Aileen said.

"I suppose so," 'Possum answered.  "It don't
make much difference to us.  I'll have to kill a
turkey for the kids' dinner, I suppose."  She
paused at the gate.  "I won't come in, Missus:
it's late, an' I better be gettin' home."

"You must take some fish," said Aileen, quickly
halving the catch and placing 'Possum's share in
an old sugar-bag.  "No, that's not too much at
all: there are more of you to eat it.  And you
know Polly loves fish!"  They exchanged a fishy
hand-grip.  "Oh, and, 'Possum, come over to see
us on Christmas afternoon, won't you?"

"Seems to me I come most days," said 'Possum,
laughing.

"But we want you on Christmas Day.  Will
you come?"

"Why, yes, I'll come—thanks," said the girl,
laughing.  "Catch me stayin' away, when you'll
be bothered with me.  Well, so long!"  She
limped off to where her old horse slept peacefully
under the quince tree.





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.. _`SANTA CLAUS AND CLOTHES`:

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   CHAPTER XV


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   SANTA CLAUS AND CLOTHES

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Garth woke to a blissful Christmas morning.

The end of his bed gave ample proof that
his father's dismal forebodings about Santa Claus had
not been needed: a bulky stocking, with strange
hollows and protuberances, ornamented one post
and yielded such treasures as a new bridle, a pair
of leather leggings, and a stockwhip, with other
offerings showing clearly that the saint fully
realized that this particular boy had moved from the
city.  That was good: and good it was, on his way
to his bath, to meet Bran, resplendent in a new
collar.  But when an enormous bundle on his
chair at breakfast-time revealed the very desire of
his heart, a dainty, light saddle, Garth was
speechless.  He could only hug his father and mother
again and again, and feel the saddle lovingly, and
smile at them in a silence that they quite understood.

Aileen was smiling, too, at what she found on
her plate: books and music, a very new aluminium
saucepan, a soap-saver for the kitchen, and, tucked
away under the rest, a little brooch within which a
black opal gleamed mysteriously, full of dark fire.
Aileen loved black opals: but she regarded them
as belonging to the old times when evening dress
and balls and theatres were as common as working
overalls and fowl-rearing and hoeing now.  She
shook her head at Tom.

"You shouldn't—bless you!"

"Oh, I had to!" he said; "I couldn't help
it.  I haven't altogether forgotten the girl who
liked pretty things."

"She's very contented to have put them away,"
said Aileen.

"I know.  But I wanted to see her in one," he
said obstinately.  Whereupon Aileen, to please
him, pinned the brooch in her overall, and found
herself greatly enjoying it as she prepared dinner.

They jogged to church behind Roany, and
exchanged greetings with a few people they knew
and with many to whom they were strangers—except
that every one knew that they were "the
new, hard-working lot that's come to Gordon's
farm," and being simple, kindly-minded Gippsland
settlers, saw no reason why they should wait to be
formally introduced.  Then they came home to a
happy Christmas dinner—everything cold, and
therefore as it should be, with the thermometer at
95°—after which, by mere force of habit, Aileen
was about to go to work in the garden, but was
restrained by Tom, who remarked that there were
some things not done in decent families, and
placed her forcibly in a long chair on the veranda
with a new book.

'Possum came through the house presently.  A
feeling that something was due to a day which
evidently meant far more to the Macleods than it
had ever done to her, had induced her to put on
her new dungaree dress, and she was stiffly
uncomfortable.  Dungaree obligingly fades as soon as it
is washed: when new it is a rather deep hard
blue, and the wearer looked hot and red-faced, and
crackled as she walked.  She stood in the doorway
looking down at Aileen, who had put on a white
frock in honour of Christmas, and, with her shining
hair against the pale green canvas of her long
chair, was like the spirit of spring and coolness.
She put up a slim hand and took 'Possum's
work-roughened one.

"I'm too lazy to get up, 'Possum," she said.
"Come and sit down."

"It ain't often one sees you lazy," 'Possum answered,
leaning back in a chair, and promptly sitting
up again, since the position brought her great
boots too baldly into view.

"I have been bullied shamefully," Aileen said,
casting a severe glance at Tom, who bore it with
cheerfulness.  "Goodness knows my broad beans
are calling for me, but I'm not allowed to go near
them.  What have you been doing, 'Possum?"

"Oh, the usual thing.  Dad's away shearin', so
I've got to be pretty busy again: and anyhow, it's
about time I was; my feet are all right, an' I'm
full-up of loafin'.  Seems to me," said 'Possum,
"that loafin's all very well for a bit, an' then it
gets on your nerves.  The kids have been jolly
good, an' I pretend not to see a lot o' things they
do or they don't do; but there's lots o' times I'd
give me ears to be doin' the work myself."

"That is pride, which is a thing all you women
suffer from," Tom said.  "She"—indicating Aileen—"has
violent attacks of it whenever I wash up, or
sweep a room, or do any of the things she imagines
she does better than I do.  Of course, it's only a
delusion on her part, because I'm really a first-class
housemaid: but there it is.  It's a pity,
because otherwise she has rather a nice character!"

'Possum grinned.  She was beginning to understand
what she called Tom's "foolin'," and was no
longer bewildered and slightly alarmed when he
chaffed her.  Nevertheless, she had not yet come
to the point of chaffing in return, and so she thought
it more prudent to change the subject.

"Where's Garth?" she asked.

"Garth is careering over the hills and far away
on a brand-new saddle—and Jane," said Tom.
"There is also a new bridle, and he has new
leggings—the latter must be exceedingly uncomfortable
on a day like this, but he insisted on putting
them on.  He's awfully pleased with himself.  I
don't think it's much of a Christmas for Jane; she
probably prefers him bare back."

"My word, he must be proud!" 'Possum uttered.
"He told me the other day he was goin' to save
up for a saddle, 'cause he couldn't go askin' you to
get it, with you buyin' so much fertilizer: an' he
wanted to know how long it would take him.  Said
he'd got ninepence.  I didn't know what to say
to the poor little kid."

"Well, he has the saddle now, and I sincerely
trust I won't have so many pairs of knickerbockers
to mend," Aileen remarked.  "Bare back riding
may be fun for a boy, but it's destruction to his
trousers!"

"Yes, ain't it?" 'Possum agreed.  "I'm always
preachin' to Bill, but of course he don't take any
notice—you wouldn't expect him to!"

"You wouldn't let young Bill hear you say
that," Tom remarked.

"Not much I wouldn't," 'Possum grinned.
"Bill's too much inclined to kick over the traces
as it is, without me givin' him any encouragement.
I reckon I'll have me hands full with him yet."

"Poor old Bill!  I see storms ahead for him,"
said Tom, rising and stretching his long form.
"This is a hard country for men since women
got the vote!  I think I'll go and find Garth, and
we'll compare notes on our troubles."

"Don't be late for tea, or 'Possum and I will
eat all the Christmas cake!" Aileen called after
him.  "You'll feel that more than anything I
can do with my old vote!"  He flung a laughing
rejoinder at her, and vanished round the corner of
the veranda.

For a few minutes after his footsteps died away
Aileen was silent.  She was wondering how to
make her gifts to 'Possum without hurting the
girl's feelings.  Underneath the queer, abrupt
exterior she knew there lay a sensitiveness so easily
wounded that only the most delicate handling would
succeed—and 'Possum's independence was a sturdy
growth.  She might resent the presents altogether:
for a moment Aileen grew almost sorry that she
had prepared them, now that the time came for
them to be given.

"I believe I've got stage-fright," she thought.

'Possum opened the way herself.

"I wish we bothered more about Christmas—the
way you do," she said.  "It'd be nice for the
kids.  I remember we used to keep it up before
Mother died.  But now we never bother."

"I love Christmas," said Aileen, "especially
since I had Garth.  He makes a great difference,
because he believes in every bit of it, particularly
Santa Claus!  And it's such fun, preparing
presents, even if you spend very little on them: it's
the doing it that is the fun."  She hesitated.  "I
wanted you to be in our Christmas, Possum."

"Jolly good of you," said 'Possum gruffly.
"But I'm not much good to any one."

"That isn't for you to say," Aileen rejoined.
"Come into my room, 'Possum."  She led the way.

"I say!" said 'Possum, entering.  "Oh, ain't
that pretty!"

There was a dainty pink frock on the bed, with
white cuffs and collar: very simply and plainly
made, but well cut in every line.  Near it was
underwear: plain also, but good, and beautifully
ironed.  A pair of black shoes accompanied neat
black stockings: a straw hat, swathed with palest
pink muslin, lay on the pillow.  There was even a
pretty handkerchief on the frock.  Nothing had
been forgotten.

"Do you like it?"

"Like it!  Why, it's like the inside of a shell!
I never seen such a lovely colour.  But you do
always have pretty things, Missus."

"I'm glad you like it," Aileen said.  "Because
it isn't mine, 'Possum.  I made it for you."

'Possum flushed to the roots of her hair, staring
at her.

"Me!" she said at last.  "I say, you're
gammoning, aren't you, Missus?"

"No, I'm not," Aileen said.  "I've had terrible
work keeping those things out of your sight—and
it has been such fun making them!"  She watched
the flushed face uneasily.  "You're not cross
with me, 'Possum?"

"Cross with you!" 'Possum uttered.  "Well,
I *would* be a beast.  But I'd rather not take them,
thank you very much, all the same."

"But why?"  Aileen flushed in her turn.

There was a pause.

"I'm not the sort as wears those sort of clothes,"
'Possum burst out at last.  "I'm just a workin'
hand, same as a man: this old dungaree's my
style, not lovely things like that.  It's no good me
thinkin' I could pretend I was a lady—an' them's
only a lady's things."  Her voice broke, and she
stood staring at her rough boots.

"Aren't you just a dear old stupid!" Aileen
said softly.  "We're all working-hands, and we
wear old clothes at our work because any other
things would be silly.  But you haven't been just
a working-hand to us: you've been more like a
godsend.  You put heart into me, when I hadn't
any.  I didn't love making those things because
you had helped us, but because you're my friend."

'Possum's eyes glowed suddenly.

"Me your friend!" she said.  "I'd sooner be
that than any blessed thing on earth.  But I ain't fit."

"You might let me pick my own friends without
sitting on me!" Aileen said, laughing.  "Ah,
'Possum dear, don't be a duffer!  You can't refuse
to be friends, for if you do I shall go over and sit
in your kitchen, and talk to you, and be extremely
in the way; and you simply won't be able to shake
me off.  'Possum, be nice to me: I do want to see
you in those clothes!"

'Possum gave a long sigh.  It was the sigh of
capitulation.  She picked up the dress and held it
against her cheek.

"It's just the loveliest ever!" she said.  "And
I just can't say thank you, but I reckon you know.
Will I put them on an' come over to-morrow, Missus?"

"No—I can't wait for to-morrow!" Aileen
cried.  "You're going to look so nice that I've
got to see you at once!  I'll go and get tea,
'Possum, and you can put them on."

"What—now!"  'Possum's tone was doubtful,
but her eyes were eager.

"Yes.  Hurry!"

"I wouldn't put them lovely things on unless
I had just had a bath," 'Possum declared.  "I
had one last night, but that's not the same.  I
reckon it 'ud be a sin to put 'em on after these
hot ol' things.  New dungaree's such smelly stuff,
an' these just smell of freshness, the way all your
things do!"

"Well, there's the bathroom," Aileen said,
laughing.  "I'll leave a towel in there.  Run
along!"  She gathered up the new things in her
arms.  "Don't forget the shoes, 'Possum!" she
cried, and hurried off.

It was half an hour later that Tom Macleod,
coming in from the paddocks with Garth at his
heels, stopped abruptly at the sight of two figures
standing near the window.  A stranger had called,
he reflected; he looked hard at the tall girl in pink
standing by his wife, wondering who she was.  Then
she turned, and he saw that it was 'Possum.

But a new 'Possum.  The pink dress fell in soft
folds, hiding the angularities that the dungaree
horrors always accentuated.  Its extra length made
her yet more tall and slender, and the colour was
reflected in her cheeks, while the light in her eyes
had never been there before.  The white collar
fell away from a neck that was brown, but very
shapely.  Her fair hair was parted a little at the
side, and brushed until it shone like Aileen's.  Now
that the old felt hat was removed, it showed a crisp
little wave that made amends for its shortness.

For a moment Tom forgot his manners, and
stared.  Then, as a hot wave of colour surged into
'Possum's face, he recovered himself, and came
into the room, making a casual remark upon the
lucerne crop—even as he spoke, it seemed incredible
that the pink vision before him and the girl who
had ploughed the ground and helped to put in the
crop were the same person.  He tried to make the
remark sound ordinary, but Garth interrupted
him.  Garth, as his parents afterwards remarked,
had small occasion for tact.

"I say, 'Possum, I didn't know you!" cried
the small boy.  "Isn't she swagger!  Mother,
doesn't she look ripping!  'Possum, weren't you
awfully s'prised?"

"I just was," said 'Possum.  Even her voice
seemed different: it was somehow softer.  When
she smiled down at Garth she was very winning.

"Well, as these matters have been mentioned
so boldly, I don't see why I should stand out,"
said Tom.  "I won't, either!  'Possum, you look
nicer than nice, and pink's your colour.  Isn't it,
Aileen?  Carried unanimously.  Is tea ready?"

Tea was ready, and they made it a merry meal—longer
than usual, because no work was to be
done on Christmas Day, save by the luckless
Horrors, who could be heard, bucket-laden, clanking
his way towards the cow-yard.  'Possum did not
talk much.  But her face was so happy that words
did not matter!

She went with Aileen into her room when it
was time to change into the old dungaree and go
home: poor little Cinderella!  Aileen thought,
wondering if she had done well to be fairy
godmother.  There seemed no prospect of any Prince
waiting for the Cinderella of the Bush.

"I was wonderin'," said 'Possum, and hesitated—"if
you'd very much mind me leavin' these
things here.  You see, if I take 'em home I'll never
wear 'em, an' they'll get grubby an' crushed.  But
if I could put 'em on sometimes when I come
over—not to feel such a pig when you make me come
into tea, say.  Then they'd be a terrible comfort
to me!  I do love 'em so, but it's here I want to
wear 'em.  If I take 'em home I'd take 'em out
every day an' look at 'em, but I'd never put 'em on,
for fear of spoilin' 'em."

"But, 'Possum, it's only cheap print," Aileen
protested.  "It will wash beautifully.  Why should
you be so particular about it?"

"Well, you see, it's all I got," 'Possum returned.
"Oh, I simply couldn't bear to spoil 'em, Missus!"

Aileen pondered.

"Of course you can leave them here," she said.
"That's quite easy.  But, 'Possum, why should
it be your only pretty dress?  Can't you buy some
print, and bring it to me, and we will make it
together?  You've no idea how easy it is, with a few
lessons.  Then you could keep your dungarees
for work, but put on fresh frocks in the evening,
or when you went out."

"Print costs money," said 'Possum.

"But your father——"

"Dad 'ud take a fit if I asked him for any," said
the girl.  "He thought he was doin' a tremenjous
thing when he give me this dungaree the other day."

"Well, you have your own money.  You earn it
thoroughly enough.  Surely you could spend a few
shillings of that."

'Possum drew a long breath.  Then she put the
temptation from her.

"I don't reckon it's mine: it's the kids'," she
said.  ("It was as though she had said, 'Get thee
behind me, Satan!'" said Aileen to Tom later on.)  "I
couldn't touch it.  That bit o' money's a big
comfort to me."

"Bill is twelve, and you can't let him go to the
Cup by himself until he's grown-up—and you're
saving for it now!" said Aileen.  "Oh, 'Possum,
be sensible!"

"I reckon I am," said 'Possum firmly.  "There's
other, things besides Cups.  I couldn't do it."  There
was a hint of a sob in her voice.  "Please
don't ask me, Missus; you're a brick to say you'd
help me, an' you don't know how I want them
dresses.  But I got to go without.  Don't you
worry about me—you been awful good to me already."

"Now I wonder would O'Connor mind?" Tom
reflected, when they discussed the matter after
Garth had gone to bed.  "I don't believe he's
close-fisted—and, though he probably wouldn't
admit it, he's very proud of 'Possum.  Do you know,
I think a lot of women are afraid to ask their
men-folk for money, when there's really no need to be
afraid?  Most men like to see their daughters
decently turned out."

"Then I'll ask Mr. O'Connor myself!" said
Aileen decidedly.

She did so some days later, meeting the big man
on the road to Cuninghame, where she was hunting
for strayed turkeys; and, having explained the
matter, had the satisfaction of seeing Nick flare
up, as his daughter would have said, "like a packet
of crackers."

"'Possum's got no need to be badly dressed!"
he said angrily, quite ignoring the fact that it
was his own talk about money that kept the girl
from asking him for an unnecessary sixpence.
"I was on'y the other day talkin' to her about
her clothes.  I'll tell her she ought to have more
sense than to talk to you like that."

"Please don't," Aileen said quickly.  "I felt
sure it was just that you didn't understand; but
'Possum hates to ask you for anything for herself.
She will ask for things for Bertha and Polly, but
she doesn't realize that she has also an example
to set them of turning out neatly."

"That's right," the big man agreed.  "Well,
what am I to do, if you won't let me talk to her,
Mrs. Macleod?"

"If you would give me the money, I would buy
the materials, and then teach 'Possum to make
them," said Aileen.  "Then, if you show her that
you notice and approve when she goes home in a
new frock, it will do more good than a great deal
of talking now.  And you will be surprised to
find what a good-looking daughter you have,
Mr. O'Connor!"

"She used to be an awful jolly little kid—before
her mother died," Nick said.  "I'm afraid she's
had a tough time ever since.  She's just too
useful—that's what's the matter with 'Possum!"  He put
some money into, her hand.  "Will that do?"

"It is too much," Aileen said.

"Oh, you'll use it up soon enough.  Tell me
when you want more.  And thank you, Mrs. Macleod.
You've made a mighty lot of difference
to 'Poss.  I reckon the day you came here was a
lucky day for her!"

Thus it was that 'Possum, summoned by Aileen,
beheld dress-lengths of material of divers colours,
and learned, to her utter amazement, that they
were hers.

"Dad give you the money!" she gasped.  "*Dad*?
Well, that just beats everything!"

"Of course he gave it to me," Aileen said.

"An' never made a fuss?".

"No—why should he.  I don't think you're
quite fair to your father, 'Possum.  You have made
him think you care for nothing but work.  Doesn't
it ever occur to you that he would like to see his
eldest daughter nicely dressed?"

"No, it don't," said 'Possum firmly.  "I think
he'd a jolly sight sooner see me on top of a
plough!"  Which view held so much truth that Aileen was
compelled to laugh.  Nevertheless, she held to
her point.

"If he does, it's your own doing," she said.
"Men are queer creatures: they always think
what a woman encourages them to think.  You
have let him imagine that dungaree was the only
thing to dress in.  But once he sees you in something
prettier, he won't be satisfied with the old
dresses any more, except just for working."

"Well, I'd like to believe it," 'Possum said,
drawing a long breath.  "But I've known Dad a
long time!"

"You'll know him much better when you have
accustomed him to a well-turned-out daughter.
And think of the children, 'Possum.  How do you
expect Bertha and Polly to be dainty and fresh
if you don't set them the example?"

"Well, I seem to have been making a mighty
lot of mistakes," 'Possum said ruefully.  "I
thought I was doin' the best for those kids, but I
suppose I'm all wrong."

"I think you're wrong in one or two things,
and just a wonder in everything else," said Aileen
warmly.  "And they love you just as if you were
their mother, 'Possum.  Now you have got to
make them very proud of you."

So they worked at the new frocks together:
Aileen patient in explaining, and swift at planning,
while 'Possum grasped her needle as if it were a
bradawl, and drove it through the stuff with much
muscular effort, producing stitches of a size truly
majestic.  "Blest if I can handle the silly little
thing!" said she, laboriously unpicking: "ploughin's
a jolly sight easier!"  But in time her natural
deftness came to her aid, and when Aileen had
succeeded in making her forget the methods by
which she had "clamped" together the garments
of her family, and inducing her to use a needle
less thick than a skewer, she arrived at creditable
results.  The finished pile of dresses contained
plenty of her work, and she gloated over them
proudly, though most of her pride was reserved
for the frocks for the little girls, and the cool suits
for the boys, that had been "managed" out of
the stock of material.

"We put 'em all on for tea," she told Aileen on
the day following the great occasion of the finishing
of the work.  "I had the kitchen very dossy, an'
a vawse o' flowers on the table, an' there we were
when Dad came in.  He just looked at us careless-like,
an' then he seemed to take notice, an' he stared
an' stared.  An' of course the kids giggled.  Then
he said, 'Well!' just like that, an' stopped, like
as if he hadn't any more ideas.  An' he kep' on
starin'.  At last he says, 'I suppose this is
Mrs. Macleod's doin'?'  An' I says, 'Yes.'  'Who
made 'em all?' he says.  An' I told him.  An' he
says, 'Well, I'm proud of you, 'Poss—an' all my
kids!'  An' he got up an' went out.  An'
presently he come back—an' if you'll b'lieve me,
Missus, he'd acshally gorn an' put on a clean shirt!"





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.. _`A LITTLE BOY`:

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   CHAPTER XVI


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   A LITTLE BOY

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"What are you going to do with the old
boat, Dad?"

"Why, I really don't know that she's worth
bothering about," Torn Macleod answered, looking
up from the dinghy he was examining.  "She's
very ancient and leaky: I suppose Gordon used
her before he got the new skiff.  He was apparently
quite satisfied to let her go to pieces, and I
don't think I'll interfere with his intentions."

"Oh!" said Garth, somewhat disappointed.
"I thought you were going to mend her; and it
would be such an int'rusting job."

Tom laughed.

"Well, that was rather what I was thinking
myself," he answered.  "If I had nothing else to do
I would like nothing better than to patch up the
old thing.  But then I have about fifty-seven other
jobs waiting for me, most of them not nearly so
interesting, but all more important.  So I'm afraid
the old dinghy must stand aside, son.  Perhaps, if
work is slack in the winter, I may get at her."

"I wish you would," Garth said.  "I love
helping you with carpent'ring jobs."

"Well, we'll see," said Tom.  "But really, I'm
afraid she's too rotten."  He hauled the dinghy
to the end of the jetty and moored her to a post,
returning to his task of cleaning the skiff and the
motor-launch.  It was an idle morning, and to
overhaul the contents of the boathouse had been
a good way of using a few hours.

February had come, with a last burst of heat,
after a cool January; and February heat has a
vicious quality all its own, perhaps because it
comes when people are beginning to hope that
summer is over.  Therefore, it induces much
slackness, and makes a toil of work that in ordinary
weather is only pastime.

The little household of Gordon's Farm had felt
the influence of the weather.  Garth's ability for
work and play had slackened, and Aileen had begun
to administer a tonic: herself white and heavy-eyed,
and with little inclination for work.  The
cottage was stifling in the long, hot days; luckily,
the nights helped them, for they all slept on the
veranda, as they had done throughout the summer,
and the fresh night breeze from the lake never
failed.  Tom watched his wife carefully, knowing
that her spirit would keep her going long after her
tired body needed rest.  His own work in the
paddocks was lessening as the season advanced;
he had more time to give to the house, and spent
many days ostensibly in the garden, but, in reality,
ready to lend a hand at a hundred tasks.  It was
the constant thought, even more than the actual
help, that carried Aileen on from day to day.

'Possum helped, too.  There was little outside
work for her, but she rode over often, and
delighted in forcibly compelling Aileen to rest while
she made light of housework and cooking.  To
cook with Aileen's patent stove was always a
peculiar joy to her, and no inducement would draw
her from the glass-fronted oven while she could
watch her scones or pastry developing from dough
to crisp perfection.  To Aileen's remonstrances
at being forced to be idle she turned a deaf ear.

"Just you don't worry," she would say.  "You
got to remember you've had a hard summer—workin'
like a carthorse, an' you never used to
work in your life before.  It's bound to tell,
'specially with this beastly heat.  You'll be all right
once we get the autumn."

She came over early to-day, and hearing from
Aileen that Tom was working at the boats, rode
down to the jetty with a message.  Nick O'Connor
was going to a farm at Metung to look at store
calves, which they both needed: he proposed to
ride over presently and ask Tom to accompany
him, making the journey in Tom's motor-launch.
Macleod assented heartily.

"Nothing I'd like better," he said.  "I was
wondering where I could get hold of some young
stock."  His face clouded a little.  "My wife
isn't looking very fit to-day—I had planned to
take her out this afternoon on the lake.  Still, it's
business, and she won't mind."

"Not she," said 'Possum.  "I say, though, I
haven't got anything special to do to-day: how'd
it be if I was to stay and do a few odd jobs about
the house, an' then take her an' Garth out in the
skiff when it gets cooler?  We could drift down to
the lake, an' then just mooch along until we met
you comin' home from Metung; an' you could
bring us home in the launch an' tow the skiff."

"That's as brilliant as most of your ideas,
'Possum," Tom exclaimed.  "I would be very glad
to think Aileen had your company to-day, and she'll
get her outing after all.  It won't be hard work for
you, either, for the current will take you down to
the lake, and if you don't start until it's cool we
ought to meet you soon after."

"Oh, that'll be all right," 'Possum answered.
"Goodness knows, I'm used to pullin', an' that
skiff of yours is just a beauty to pull—she's diff'rent
from our old tub.  Well, I'll get along, an' let me
horse go."

It was an unusually stifling day, and Aileen was
tired enough to be meek when 'Possum bullied her
into subsiding into a long chair.  She had risen at
five o'clock, having found that the only way to
work comfortably in such weather was to do so
before the sun had time to grow vicious:
therefore, the housework was done, and lunch prepared.
'Possum was slightly disgusted.  "I came hopin'
to be useful," she said, arranging Aileen's feet
comfortably.

"You're always useful," Aileen said, smiling
up at her.  "Come and sit down, too, and we'll sew."

'Possum shook her head.

"No good *me* tryin' to sew in this weather,"
she said.  "The jolly old needle simply sticks in
the stuff, like as if you'd rubbed glue on it.  It's
a marvel to me how you manage it, Missus.  Never
mind; I'll go on makin' the cage for that parrot
we're goin' to catch for Garth some day.  I won't
make much mess, an' I'll sweep it up."  She
busied herself with tools deftly, while Garth watched
and tried to help.

No one wanted much lunch: it was too hot to
eat.  They made what pretence they could, and
soon went back to the veranda.  At their feet
Bran panted, open-mouthed; outside the fences
they could see the fowls, with gaping beaks, standing
about under the trees.

"I say," said Garth suddenly, "what about a bathe?"

"Isn't it too hot?" Aileen said.

"It's too hot, here, but it would be lovely down
there," Garth answered wisely.  "Do come, mother;
we'd all feel heaps better."

"I believe it's sound advice," Aileen said.  "Come
on, 'Possum."

They put on their bathing-dresses in the house
and, with sand-shoes on bare feet, went down the
slope to the lake.  There was a tiny sand-bank
near the jetty, shelving gently under the water: a
good place for Garth to splash and paddle when
he was tired of swimming.  He had not been a
very apt pupil in the water—perhaps because his
swimming lessons were somewhat haphazard, given
when either Tom or Aileen had time.  To swim
half a dozen strokes was an achievement for him,
and he accomplished it to-day with much puffing
and blowing.  Then he returned to the shallows
and played with Bran, while 'Possum dived off a
log into a deep pool, and Aileen swam about
lazily—she was not a strong swimmer, and the day was
not one for exertion, even in the water.  However,
they were all refreshed, when at length Garth
clamoured that he was hungry, and the three
dripping figures climbed the hill to the house.

It was tea-time when they were dressed, and
after tea they made ready to start.  The sun was
hotter than ever, it seemed: a mist that had hung
over the sky all day had cleared away, and had
left blazing heat behind it.

"I don't think I would go, if we had not said we
would," Aileen said.  "But I suppose Tom might
be anxious if we didn't appear."

"Afraid he would," 'Possum agreed.  "They
might go lookin' for us, too, thinkin' they'd missed
us.  Oh, you'll feel better on the water, Missus;
an' ten to one we'll get a breeze when we come out
on the lake."

"Yes, perhaps we will," Aileen said.  "I really
think it's wiser to go—one shouldn't let hot days
make one too lazy."

"You ain't got a lazy bone in your body," 'Possum
averred stoutly.

"Indeed, I don't feel as if I had a bone at all,
on days like these," Aileen said.  "It worries me
that I should feel so useless, 'Possum.  I haven't
time to be useless!"

"Ah, you—useless!  Not much you ain't!" said
'Possum.  "Every one feels beastly weather like
this—unless it's Garth.  *He* don't seem to be
sufferin' from loss of energy, just now at all
events."

She nodded at the small boy, who was racing
ahead—a gallant little figure in white shirt and
brief knickerbockers, with a wide felt hat.  He
took a flying leap upon the jetty, where the water
swished softly on the pebbles, and capered beside
the old dinghy that Tom had left moored near
the skiff.

"Come on!" he shouted.  "You're too slow.
I'm going off to meet Daddy by myself!"

As he spoke, he planted one foot gingerly in the
old boat.  It rocked and swayed, and he almost
overbalanced.  'Possum sprang forward with a
quick catch of her breath, but the little fellow
righted himself with a mighty wriggle, and sat
down abruptly in the dinghy.  'Possum turned to
Aileen with a relieved, half-shamefaced laugh.

"He jolly near sat down in the water that time,"
she said.  "It give me a start—lucky he managed
to hit the boat."  She raised her voice.  "Keep
still, Garth; let me steady her while you get out."

There came a queer little cry from Garth.

"But it's going away with me!"

Aileen saw, and screamed, and ran.  She was
too far away.  The sudden jerk had parted the
rotten strands of the old rope that held the boat,
and slowly, yet all too quickly for 'Possum's wild
rush, the dinghy swung out into the stream.  The
tide was running out, and the current was very
swift.  It seemed in but a second; while they cried
out and ran, that the current caught the old boat
and whisked it swiftly away.

"Come on," 'Possum said, "quick!  Don't
worry, Missus, we'll catch him."

She leapt upon the jetty.  Aileen followed, and
flung herself into the skiff, thrusting the oars into
the rowlocks.  'Possum tugged at the painter, and
abused Tom's knots under her breath.  They yielded
at last, and she sprang in, pushing off with a force
that sent the boat spinning down-stream.  'Possum
grasped the oars, Aileen was already at the
tiller—staring ahead in utter silence, seeing nothing
but the little blue and white figure.  It swung
round a bend, and was out of sight.

"Keep her out in the middle, where the tide's
swiftest, Missus," 'Possum said.  "Don't look like
that—it's all right—we'll get him."

She was rowing desperately, with sharp, quick
strokes under which the boat flew through the
water.  They rounded the turn, and ahead—but
how far ahead!—was the dinghy, with Garth
sitting upright and very still.  Faster and faster,
as they neared the mouth, the current set out to sea.

"It's very light, you know," 'Possum said,
between strokes, in answer to Aileen's look.  "An'
it got a good start.  We're gainin', though, you
notice."  She was flinging quick looks backward
as she rowed.  "Ain't he sittin' still—my word,
he's good!  He's got sense enough for ten!"

Garth's clear little voice came back to them over
the dancing water.  They could not hear his words,
but there was no fear in the tone.  Aileen felt
almost ashamed of her own sick terror, hearing
that brave, childish voice: but the stories of the
danger of the current echoed in her mind, and if
once the dinghy gained the lake before them she
knew that hope was slight.  And he was such a
little, little boy!

The high banks seemed to fly past.  Afterwards,
in her dreams, she saw them always: flickering
visions of yellow banks and dark green masses
of wattle-trees.  But at the moment she saw only
what lay ahead: glancing water, and swift oars
flashing, and 'Possum's flushed, strained face; and
the boat that rocked and fled from them with its
tiny burden.

But they gained.  As they swung round turn
after turn, they crept nearer and nearer to the
dinghy.  Surely they must win!  And yet,
'Possum was afraid—looking at her, with senses
sharpened by terror, the mother saw the fear in her eyes.
She met Aileen's glance with a forced smile, but it
could not hide her fear.  Her arms never ceased
their rapid, mechanical strokes—under the thin
blouse her muscles rose and fell as she opened her
shoulders with long, powerful swings.

"Can you stand it?" Aileen whispered.  "Oh,
why can't I row decently!"

"You're ... far more use steerin'," 'Possum
gasped.  "I'm all right.  See how we're gainin'."

"Then why are you afraid?" Aileen cried.

'Possum shook her head, and forced a smile—a
smile that brought no conviction.  Then Garth
cried out again, something about "water," and
"wet," and 'Possum's anxious look grew sharper.
Her voice was shrill and strained as she called
back to the child.

"I know, dearie—sit still!"

"What is it?" Aileen gasped: and suddenly
knew.  They were gaining rapidly now, but the
dinghy was settling down in the water.  The leaks! the
wonder was that it had floated so long.  Now
the water rippled almost level with its edge.  For
an instant Aileen lost her head in her agony of
terror.  She screamed, starting half up.

"Sit down!"  'Possum's voice, stern in its anxiety,
brought her to her senses.  She flung a
backward glance.  "Near down," she gasped; "I
knew, when we gained so quick."

Garth's voice came again, and this time with a
sob of fear.  The dinghy was almost sinking.  For
another moment the skiff spun through the water,
rounding a bend, and there, ahead, lay the open
water of the lake.  'Possum shipped the oars with
a sudden jerk.

"Try 'n' keep her straight"—she flung the words
at Aileen.  "There's one chance——"

Ahead, the dinghy seemed to stop.  There was a
slow, sickening swirl, and, even as 'Possum screamed
to Garth to jump, the water closed over the little
boat.  There was a cry—a cry that choked
suddenly.  Then the skiff quivered and stopped as
'Possum dived into the stream.

The water lay blank and desolate before the
woman who sat staring in the skiff—blank but for
the widening ripples that spread across the pathway
of the current.  So it lay for a dragging moment
that was years, and then 'Possum's head broke
it, and, but farther away, Garth's upturned face.
They disappeared again.

When she saw them once more, they were
together—'Possum gripping the boy tightly, and
keeping afloat with one hand.  The skiff was drifting
down towards them.  Aileen grasped an oar
and tried to bring it closer, loathing the helpless
ignorance that made her efforts awkward.  Close—closer,
but still too far.  She thrust the oar
towards them, leaning over the side.  It was too short.

The current whisked her away—still stretching
vainly towards the two faces in the water, crying
to them, calling to God.  Then she flung herself
into the water, striving, with desperate helpless
strokes, against the racing tide.

.. _`"Then she flung herself into the water."`:

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   :alt: "Then she flung herself into the water."

   "Then she flung herself into the water."

A motor-launch came swiftly round from the
lake, the two men in her talking and smoking.
They saw the empty boat first, and the words
died upon their lips.

"My goodness!" said Tom Macleod, and sprang
to his engine.  The launch leaped like a live thing,
tearing through the water.  The skiff danced past
them, rocking upon the waves.

"Can you see them?" he asked, between his teeth.

"One of 'em's close," Nick said.  "Steady—starboard
a little.  Be ready to back if I miss."  He
hung over the side and clutched at the fair head
near the boat.  "Ah—got her.  It's your wife."  His
great shoulders quivered as he dragged her
in, looking wildly ahead as he did so.  A cry broke
from him.

"There's my girl—she's got your kid.  Hold
on, 'Poss!  Get on with you, man—starboard,
starboard!"

He flung Aileen into the boat, and turned again
swiftly.  'Possum was paddling feebly with one
hand, almost done.  She met his eyes and her lips
parted.

"Take the kid," she gasped.  But he took both,
catching them with his great arms, and holding
them out of the water until Tom could get to his
side.  He caught his boy from 'Possum's tired
hands and laid him in the boat beside his mother,
while Nick O'Connor dragged at the girl.

"I believe we're too late," Tom said in a terrible
voice.  "Aileen!  Aileen!"

Her eyes opened, and in them was an agony of
fear.  She tried to speak, but only a whisper would
come.

"Garth!"  And Garth half turned and cuddled
in to her with a little sleepy sigh.

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The current fled onward, and on its breast the
empty skiff danced as though the little waves were
playfellows that had come to greet it and to carry
it away to join their game.  They rocked it gently
until it neared the lake; then they grew choppy,
and the skiff bobbed and swayed until it was drawn
out upon the bosom of the water.  It was calm
there; but still the tide set seawards, carrying the
skiff away and away—over the lake, hurrying,
hurrying, until the great grey piers loomed ahead,
with the grey waste of the sea dark between them.
The roar of the breakers boomed, rising and falling.
The lane of water between the piers was smooth:
there were no waves; but under the surface were
deep eddies, and the skiff spun and quivered over
them, still drawn onward and outward towards
the bar that leaped and thundered beyond the
end of the piers.  It reached the bar, and the
breakers took it and played with it, flinging it up
and down.  Their curling crests tossed their spray
into it; and still the little boat rode bravely, now
in the hollow trough of a wave, now rising on a
great curving wall of green water, and dashing
forward with the tide out to sea.  So, by some
strange chance it passed the bar into the long,
smooth ocean swells, and drifted to the horizon.

But when, in the night, the tide turned, it brought
the little boat back.  The pale moon that smiled
over the Bush cottage where Garth lay, sleeping
calmly, saw it also: a tiny thing on the great waste
of waters, desolate and alone.  Slowly it drifted
landwards until the roar of the surf sounded near,
and then it was hurried forward, towards the forsaken
beach west of the piers, until a mighty roller
caught it on its crest and bore it, mounting ever
higher, at racing speed to the shore.  It was high
in the air when the great wave crashed downwards,
and when its hundreds of tons of green water
thundered to the sand, the skiff, bottom upwards, was
dashed ashore in a swirl of white surf.  Once the
undertow caught it, dragging it back, but another
roller flung itself down, and when its wild rush
along the beach had spent itself, the little boat,
battered and broken, lay half buried in the sand.
The tide ebbed out, leaving it there; and a
seabird, screaming by, saw it and perched upon it,
calling to its mate.

In the little cottage, Garth slept on: and beside
him his mother knelt, one arm flung across the
warm, childish body, listening to his soft
breathing: dumb with thankfulness.





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.. _`'POSSUM BECOMES A PUPIL`:

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   CHAPTER XVII


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   'POSSUM BECOMES A PUPIL

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"If you *could* spare a day or two," said Tom
Macleod, and looked anxiously at 'Possum.
"I think it's fairly rough on you to have to save
my son's life one day, and nurse his mother the
next, but a woman about the place would be a
tremendous comfort, and Aileen would rather have
you than any one she knows.  She can't lift her
head."

"Well, you didn't need to drive over yourself,"
'Possum said.  "You had no right to leave her!
If you'd sent that kid Horrors with a bit of a note,
you might a' known I'd be there as quick as old
Greystones 'ud bring me.  How on earth is she
managin', with you traipsin' over here?"

"She was asleep, and Garth is sitting with her,"
Tom said meekly.  "She can't bear him out of
her sight; and you know he's pretty handy.  Then
you'll come back with me, 'Possum?"

"My gracious, yes!" 'Possum answered.  "I
won't be five minutes—just wait till I sling some
clothes into a basket.  You go an' tell Dad I'm
goin', will you, Mr. Macleod?"  She hurried out
of the room, and he heard her calling Bertha
urgently.

Nick O'Connor never thought of questioning
'Possum's movements.  If she said she was going
anywhere, well, she was going, and that was all
there was about it.  Bertha was an able lieutenant
to leave in charge, and it was certain that food
would appear upon the table at the usual hours,
which, after all, was the only thing that mattered.

Even if it had been uncertain, or dependent on
his own efforts, it would have been unthinkable
that 'Possum should not go to a neighbour in
distress.  He would; in that case, have said, "Git
along; I'll look after the kids," and would have
done so to the best of his ability, though the staple
diet of the said kids and himself would probably
have been corned beef.

"Just you keep her as long as ever the missus
wants her," he said, packing 'Possum's basket
into the back of the buggy.  "An' if you want
more help, send over for me.  I could run your
place all right if you want to be in the house."  He
brushed aside Tom's grateful disclaimer, of needing
more aid with, "Well, you know where to find
me if you want me."  The buggy bumped away
over the paddock while he watched it, Bertha silent
beside him.  When it turned out of sight round a
clump of tea-trees, he looked down at her from his
great height.

"Sure you can manage things?"

"My word!" said Bertha.  "I like it.  On'y
you tell Bill to cut me stove-wood."  She marched
into the kitchen with high enterprise in her heart.

Aileen was still asleep when they reached the
farm.  Tom peeped into her room, and saw Garth
sitting by her bedside, very upright and alert.  He
shook his head frantically at his father, and Tom
took the hint, and withdrew.

"Well, I'll just get things straightened up,"
said 'Possum, receiving his report.  "Then she'll
be glad of a cup o' tea when she wakes."

"Don't do too much," Tom said.  "Remember
you had a pretty tough time yesterday."

"Me?" said 'Possum, wide-eyed.  "Bless you,
it was on'y another bathe for me!"  She
disappeared into the spare room.

So it was that Aileen, waking from a troubled
sleep that was full of sinking boats and dancing
water, found Garth beside her, his tremulous little
smile welcoming her back to consciousness; and
presently, after an unseen hurried glance and
withdrawal, 'Possum came in, bearing a little tray
with tea and dainty strips of golden-brown toast;
and in one corner of the tray an exquisite rosebud,
nodding in a vase.

"Oh, 'Possum!" she said, "'Possum!"  The
tears choked her.

"I say, don't look like that, Missus, dear—please
don't!" said poor 'Possum miserably.
She put her tray on a table and caught Aileen's
hand in hers, and Aileen drew the rough hand
against her cheek and held it there.

"Now you ain't goin' to talk of it, nor to think
of it, neither," 'Possum said presently.  "You
ain't got nothin' to worry about, 'cause it's all
over, an' there's old Garth grinnin' at you, an jus'
as right as pie.  An' all you got to do is to get
well, 'cause the Boss is that bothered about you
he's right off his feed.  I think if you was to let me
help you sit up, you could have this."  She raised
her gently; and somewhat to her surprise Aileen
could eat and drink a little.

"If only I weren't so stupidly tired," Aileen
whispered, lying down.  "And my head buzzes—it buzzed
all night as if an engine were let loose inside it."

"Course it would," said 'Possum soothingly.
"But it's goin' to be all right now."

"You're sure Garth is well?"

"Now, look here, Missus," said the girl decidedly.
"If I wasn't sure, you might just jolly
well know I wouldn't have him up, even to let you
see him—he'd be in bed with a hot bottle, an' a
jolly good go of med'cine.  But you'd never think
he'd had a duckin' at all.  Bless you, what's an
extra duckin' to a boy?  Our kids is in an' out of
the lake all day long."

Something in the rough, homely words soothed
the mother more than a hundred more polished
speeches.  She nestled into her pillow sleepily
with a little smile, her eyes never wandering from
Garth for more than a moment.  But presently
the heavy lids drooped, and sleep came to her:
deep, refreshing sleep, this time, unbroken by the
weary maze of dreams that had tortured her before.
She did not stir when 'Possum and Garth tip-toed
from the room.

"Bettern't I stay with her?" the small boy
asked anxiously.

"No; you go out, old son.  She's goin' to sleep
for a long while, this time, an' what's more, she's
goin' to be better when she wakes."

"Sure, 'Poss?" he asked eagerly.

"Dead certain.  An' it'll be miles nicer for her
to see you with a bit of colour in your washy old
cheeks than lookin' white from sittin' all day in her
room.  You go an' find your dad, an' tell him not
to worry about her, an' give him a hand in the
garden.  I'll be on the listen, an' I'll call you the
d'reckly minute she wakes."  She watched the
little fellow catch his felt hat from its peg and run
out with his news.

"My word, he's a dear kid!" she muttered.

For all her brave words to Tom, she was very
tired.  The shock of the child's danger had told on
her: her arms and shoulders ached cruelly from the
long, hard pull, and from the wild struggle to keep
afloat, with Garth a dead weight upon her and the
current tearing at them, sucking them away from
the shore she had tried so vainly to reach.  She,
too, had had her dreams of horror—in which she had
fought wildly to land on a shore that had
continually slipped away, and had felt choking waters
rising over her head.  She shivered now, as the
thought of them came over her, and then fought
it back resolutely.

"Don't you be a silly ass, 'Possum O'Connor!"
she told herself.  "A little bit o' work's what *you*
want."  Thus dealing with herself, she seized a
broom, and made a furious onslaught upon the
kitchen; and having valiantly routed seven hens
that had come uninvited into the back yard, felt
considerably better.

It was afternoon when Aileen awoke—this time
with light in her eyes and colour in her cheeks:—able
to take the soup that 'Possum brought her,
and to smile at Garth and Tom as they perched on
her bed and entertained her with news of the
estate, as Tom gravely called it.  There was always
so much to tell of the estate each day; news of
garden, or fowl-run, or pigsty; fresh flowers
blossoming, a panel of fencing broken down by a cow
with a thirst for exploring, or a raid after calves
that had escaped through the gap and distributed
themselves up the most scrub-grown gully they
could find.  To-day the pigs had taken advantage
of Horrors having opened the gate of their sty and
then fallen to dreaming; with the result that
Garth and his father had had a long hunt, and
were considerably heated.

"But we got them back, all right," Garth said
triumphantly.  "Daddy let me go pig-sticking
with a long bit of tea-tree, and you should have
seen them run!  It was awful fun, but I never
got near them!"

"I don't reckon you would—much!" said 'Possum.
"Now, how about tea?"

"Ah, do have it in here!" Aileen begged.  "If
you don't mind, that is?"  A supposition which
induced mirth on the part of her hearers.

So they nursed her back to quietness of mind,
which brought healing to her tired body, filling
her days with laughter and the interests of the
farm, until the dreams left her and she ceased to
look at Garth with a shudder of remembrance.
They kept her busy, as soon as she could sit up,
finding urgent requirements of patches and buttons,
and a hundred little things that only she could
understand and arrange.  "Best thing for her,"
said 'Possum, and they saw that her words were
true.

Messengers came from 'Possum's home very
often—Bill or little Joe riding over with news
of the farm and inquiries for the Missus.  Bertha
was doin' fine, they said.  "Never puts her nose
outside the kitchen, an' my word! she cooks a
treat!" was Bill's verdict.  "Yes, the house
looks all right—why wouldn't it?  Dad was busy
all day harvestin' at Mackenzie's, but he came
home at night.  An' the wool was sold, an' Dad
said to tell Mr. Macleod it was the best price he'd
had for years, so Mr. Macleod's wool, bein' along
with it, must have brought him luck."  After which
recitals Bill and Joe would consume enormous
quantities of tea and cake and reluctantly take
the track for home.  They confided to Garth that
Bert was a pretty good cook, an' all that, but it
wasn't like havin' 'Poss.

In a few days Aileen was able to get up—too
weak to work, but glad to be about once more,
even if being "about" meant only sitting still.
Then came 'Possum to her, with a request.

"If you wouldn't mind," she said, and flushed
scarlet, "I thought it 'ud be such a chance for
me, when I was knockin' about here, an' you not
busy, if you'd put me up to a few things."

"What sort of things, 'Possum?" Aileen asked.

"Oh, just odd things.  You know—like the way
you have the house.  I don't know a thing, except
how to cook, after a fashion, and land what I've
cooked on the table; an' that's after a fashion,
too.  You have everything so pretty an' nice:
I'd like to learn how."

"You would be just the easiest person to teach."
Aileen told her.

"Would I?"  'Possum's face was eager.  "I'd
try not to be too much of a duffer.  It's like me
old dungarees.  Before you come, I thought they
were all right; now I can't stand 'em, except just
for rough work.  I think it 'ud be nice if I could
get like that about other things—if I could feel as
if I couldn't stand food slung on the table
anyhow, or rooms all messy an' hideous.  Then I
could teach the kids."

"But once you feel like that, it leaves very
little for me to teach you," she said.  "Your mind
is dainty in itself, so you like everything about you
to be dainty."

'Possum drew a long breath.

"That's the nicest thing ever I had said to me
in me life," she said softly.  "I *will* try, Missus—like
fury.  An' there's another thing; on'y it's
givin' you a lot of bother——"

"Rubbish!" said Aileen, laughing.  "What is
it, 'Possum, dear?"

But this was harder to say.  'Possum made
several false starts before the words came at last.

"It's—well, you know, I know I speak jolly
rough.  Since you come I have tried to keep me
voice softer——"

"I know," Aileen said.

"Did you?  I'm so glad.  But I make awful
mistakes, I know.  Even the kids tell me
that—they've had more schoolin'.  But the trouble is,
they pick up things from me.  If you could just
drop on me now an' then when I say anything all
wrong?  I know I ain't got enough grammar to
keep meself warm.  But I'd try an' get better.  I
truly would."

"And you wouldn't mind being told little
things?  They're *such* little things, really, 'Possum."

"Mind?" said 'Possum.  "Oh, I'd give me
ears if you'd teach me.  Like as if I was Garth
I've heard you tell him when he pernounced a word
skew-whiff!"

"Then I will tell you," Aileen said.  "I
know you'll make it easy for me—because I will
be dreadfully afraid of hurting you, 'Possum."

"Lor'!" said 'Possum.  "You couldn't hurt
me, not if you tried with a meat-axe!"

Aileen laughed.

"Very well.  Then we'll cut out 'Lor'!' for
the future, 'Possum, shall We?"

'Possum stared.

"Ain't I a silly chump?" she said.  "I might
a known it was wrong, 'cause you never say it.
Right-oh, Missus!"  And it said something for
her determination that no one ever heard her say
it again.

It was speech that was the only stumbling-block.
Little daintinesses of living came to her naturally,
with only a hint, just as daintiness of person had
come.  Her eye for colour was sure, and she had a
natural instinct for arranging flowers and for
brightening a room that developed daily under
Aileen's gentle tuition.  Beginning with perfect
cleanliness as the basis of perfection, it was easy
to work up and up, learning a little more each day—and
'Possum never had to be told a thing twice.
But her unchecked speech was a harder matter,
and often the cheeks of both girls burned, until
the idea came to Aileen to make a joke of it, when
they got on much better.  Tom, privately consulted,
suggested making 'Possum read aloud, for which
she proved to have a natural aptitude, and the
exercise taught her more than many lessons.

"You know," she said, one day, "Mother wasn't
rough.  I was only a bit of a nipper when she
died——"

She pulled up, observing Aileen's face.

"Kid, I suppose I should say," she said,
grinning broadly.  Aileen burst out laughing.

"Try, 'little girl,'" she suggested.

"H'm," said 'Possum critically.  "Doesn't
sound very satisfyin', does it?  Well, I was,
anyhow; but I remember a lot about her, an' I know
she always had the house dossy——"

Pause.

"Pretty, I mean; an' things more like you
have 'em—*them*, an' her voice was soft an' gentle.
But I was only eleven, an' there was a good lot
to do, an' I got careless, 'specially with her not
there to tell me anything.  All the same, I knew
things weren't the way she'd like to have them, and
it worried me, when I had time to think of it.  I'm
afraid," she added, honestly, "that that got to be
not very often.  When you're always wonderin'
how you're goin' to get all your jobs done, you
can't worry an awful lot over things like that."

"Indeed, you can't.  I often wonder how you
managed everything—and you such a wee thing,"
Aileen said.  "I think your mother knew and
was pleased, 'Possum."

"Do you, truly?" 'Possum asked wistfully.
"I used to wonder if she did.  I never could feel
that she'd got far away, 'cause she didn't want to
go.  But once I said that to the woman Dad got
to look after us, an' she hit me a clip on the ear,
an' said I was a wicked little wretch to talk like
that."

Aileen's eyes blazed.

"Oh, it was she who was wicked!" she cried.
"How could she!"

"If you'd known her, you wouldn't have asked
how," 'Possum said grimly.  "She was a fair
terror, she was.  At least"—she stopped and
pondered, searching in her mind for an expression
at once forcible and refined—"she was a very
... disagreeable person!"

Aileen fell into peals of laughter.

"Oh, it won't do, 'Possum—do say 'a fair
terror!'" she begged.

"Well, I guess I'll have to," 'Possum grinned.
"Somehow, when you say things, they sound just
what you want 'em to say.  But unless I make my
remarks pretty strong they sound as silly as a wet
hen!"  With which pearl of speech the conversation
came to an abrupt conclusion.





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.. _`THE REGATTA`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII


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   THE REGATTA

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Cuninghame wore an air of unwonted
festivity.  There were flags flying from the
stores and hotels, and from many of the private
houses; little pennons fluttering at the mastheads
of the sailing-boats that were dotted all along the
shore.  All over the lagoon could be seen other
boats, arriving: yachts, motor-launches, smart
skiffs, skiffs that were not smart, and ancient tubs
bound from every little lake settlement or lonely
farm.  For this was the day on which Cuninghame
burst into clouds of glory, and drew unto
itself crowds that turned it into something between
a whirlpool and an excited ant-heap.  It is only on
one day in the year that Cuninghame holds its
regatta, and the occasion is one to be treated with
respect.

New Year's Day had been fixed originally for the
great event: but the Clerk of the Weather had
been singularly tactless, and had ushered in the
New Year with such deluges of rain that hurried
telegrams had been sent to Sale and Bairnsdale and
other district towns, postponing the regatta; and
hundreds of would-be excursionists had unpacked
their luncheon-baskets and remained at home.
But to-day was to make amends for all
disappointments.  Rain had fallen, just enough to clear
the air and secure the very perfection of autumn
weather, while laying the dust on the roads for the
folk who rode and drove.  The sands were dry
and firm: the hummocks shone white against the
sky, across the lagoon.  There was just enough
breeze for sailing—enough to dot the lake with
tiny wavelets, gleaming and dancing in the sun.
Just to look at that blue, restless surface was enough
to set the heart dancing, too.

The Macleods came early, since Garth's impatience
was a thing not to be gainsaid.  He had
never seen a regatta, and the stories told him by
the young O'Connors had set him dreaming of
nothing else for weeks past.  Soon after breakfast
he arrayed himself, emerging from his room shining
and speckless in white duck, with white
sand-shoes and bare brown legs, and a white felt hat
held in readiness.  After which, his attitude began
with sublime patience, which collapsed after a
time and merged into trenchant inquiries as to
why people couldn't be ready as soon as he was,
and lugubrious certainty that they were missing
all the best of the fun.  Eventually they found
themselves driving into the township quite an
hour earlier than they had thought of starting,
while Horrors, on Jane, jogged in the rear, and
wondered how soon he might begin to eat the
enormous packet of lunch with which he had been
provided.

Early as they were, the O'Connors were before
them.  It was a day of which no young O'Connor
was willing to miss a minute.  What was it to
them that the regatta itself did not really
begin—save for a few sailing races, which nobody
noticed—until one o'clock?  Was there not all the
unusual stir and bustle of the town to see?—the gay
shops, decked for the occasion with brave displays
of fruit and sweets and cakes, to tempt hungry
picnickers; the gallant array of boats, glistening
with new paint and varnish, and as bright as
"elbow-grease" would make them: the crowds
arriving from all the countryside by land and
water—people they knew, to greet and by whom to be
greeted—schoolfellows, curiously unfamiliar in their
best clothes—school teachers, even more curiously
human and approachable, and not at all suggesting
the week-day discipline of desk and ruler?  Not
a yard of the esplanade was without its
excitements.  There were the summer visitors from the
houses that were shuttered and gloomy all the
winter, and from the tiny cottages under the
hummocks across the lagoon, owned by people from
Sale and Bairnsdale, who lived a camping existence
from Christmas until Easter, with the breakers
pounding almost at their back doors.  These
considered themselves part and parcel of the place,
as indeed they were, and looked with something
of disparagement at the folk from Melbourne and
Sydney who filled the hotels, and who might never
come again, and who, at the best, lived a luxurious
and pampered life, and did not know the joys
of a picnic existence, with no servants and no
worries—every one working in the same way, and
every one ready for every kind of fun, from big
surf-bathing parties or moonlight swims in the
lake, to rushing over the hummocks in a body to
lend a hand with the hauling of a shoal of salmon
brought in through the breakers.  Then there
were other visitors—blacks from the Lake Tyers
Mission Station; principally lithe young men
keen on taking part in the regatta, with a
sprinkling of older men, and a few young women and
boys.  They moved here and there among the
crowd on noiseless bare feet.

Never had the O'Connor family looked so
resplendent.  Nick, to begin with, was a majestic
figure in his best suit, with a "boiled" shirt, and
a tartan tie which appeared only on great occasions.
Bertha and Polly were in fresh washing frocks,
and the boys in suits of blue-striped galatea, very
smart and summer-like.  But 'Possum, in Aileen's
Christmas gift of the dress that was like the inside
of a shell, tall and slender, her face half-eager and
half-shy, was an unfamiliar figure at whom many
people turned to glance.  Never before had
'Possum been to a regatta, and her inward excitement
was almost as keen as Garth's.  "The kids always
went," she had told Aileen.  "I didn't.  The old
dungarees didn't seem to fit in."

To-day no one "fitted in" better than 'Possum:
and Nick O'Connor found himself casting
glances of pride at his brood, while mothers from
"up the lake" gazed upon the O'Connor tribe
with blank amazement, and came to the conclusion
that Nick must have found a gold-mine on the
farm.  "Not that the whole lot of them dresses
ain't cheaper than my Albert's plush," said one
matron, regarding her son's green sailor suit of
that opulent material, with its lace collar.  "But
it ain't exactly that—on'y they look like toffs!"

They all lunched together at the buggies, in the
shade of some gum trees—hurriedly, for the
children wanted to see the steamers come in from Sale
and Bairnsdale, with their big crowds of excursionists.
The first far-off hoot came just as they
had finished, and they hurried to the packed wharf.
Across the lagoon, at the Entrance wharf, the
steamer was discharging a throng of the people
to whom regattas are nothing, but the open sea
and the Ninety-Mile Beach everything—townsfolk,
weary of the long summer, and longing for the
sands and the clean breeze from the ocean.  They
pressed up the steps leading to the hummocks, a
black swarm.  Then the steamer came slowly
across the little strip of water to Cuninghame,
her decks still dark with people.  She was gaily
decked with flags, and on her bows could be seen
girls in light summer frocks, like a fluttering
garden.  Faint at first, but gradually growing louder
and louder, a band was playing a swinging waltz:
the music chimed in with the plash of the water
as the boat slackened speed and churned her way
to the wharf.  Impatient boys sprang ashore
without waiting for the gangway to be lowered; then
the great plank came down and the excursionists
trooped across it, gay and chattering; some laden
with rugs and luncheon-hampers, while others
had prudently saved time by lunching on board
during the long trip through the lakes—a plan
fraught with danger, since people were crowded
like sardines in a tin, and an unwary movement
of a neighbour was apt to send tea-cups flying.
But then no one ever minded such insignificant
occurrences on a lake excursion.  When you rise
at six o'clock, drive some miles to a boat that
starts at eight, with a five hours' water-journey
each way, for the sake of three hours on the
beach,—what is a spilt tea-cup?

The regatta went along merrily, after the manner
of regattas: wildly interesting to those directly
concerned, and of mild excitement to outsiders.
There were yacht races, in which the boats
departed into the horizon, and were promptly
forgotten by the spectators; fishermen's boat-races,
which drew a crowd at the finish; and skiff-races,
which, being shorter, held the attention all the
time, and evoked great cheering from the backers
of the competitors.  Tom entered for one of the
latter combats, but was ignominiously defeated
by a young fisherman and a black fellow from
Lake Tyers, behind whom he paddled in meekly,
much to Garth's disgust.

"I don't believe they played fair!" said the
small boy gloomily.

"Don't you say that!" said his father sharply,
and then relented at the amazed face.

"It doesn't do, old man," Tom continued.  "When
a fellow is beaten, he takes his gruel like a decent
chap; and he doesn't abuse the other fellow.  Do
you imagine, too, that your old city-bred father
had any chance against men who have been on the
lakes all their lives?"

"Well, you used to be in the eight at Trinity
College," said Garth sadly.

"When I was young.  And pulling in a racing-shell
isn't the same as in one of these tubs—as you
will find out later on.  Cheer up, old chap; there's
a small boy's foot-race coming off, I hear."

There was, and Garth, being a long-legged person
of great fleetness, won it: and was immediately
stricken with remorse at having beaten little Joe,
to whom he apologized for the year's seniority that
gave him the victory.  Joe was philosophic, and
forgot races and defeat altogether when Garth
suggested that they should adjourn to one of the
stores and find out what sweets those emporiums
stocked.  They reappeared later with bulging cheeks
and impeded utterance, and took up positions as
spectators with renewed joy.

Two sides were playing water-polo—scrambling
in ten feet of water for a gaily-painted bladder,
which ducked and bobbed in the waves like a live
thing.  It was an exciting game, and caused
helpless mirth among the spectators, when a confident
player, racing with the ball for goal, found his leg
grasped by an opponent who had dived below him,
and was dragged, spluttering and furious, under
the surface; or when the assailant, rising
triumphant with the ball, felt another leap bodily upon
him, so that they disappeared together, while the
ball rocked gaily away.  Luck and pluck counted
almost equally in it, and the victory was apt to go
to those who had swallowed least salt water.  Then
came a race for men mounted astride on barrels,
who propelled them through the water with their
hands and feet; which was easy enough when
the movements were careful, but the excitement
of the finish caused the riders to paddle frantically,
whereupon their steeds rolled over promptly,
and there were wild scenes of catching and
remounting, while a boy, who had prudently gone
slowly, paddled in alone as the winner—unnoticed
by the other competitors, who continued to scramble
and tussle for their slippery steeds, filling the air
with the tumult of their remarks, while the
spectators rocked with laughter.  Finally it was
brought home to them, through the gentle medium
of a megaphone, that the race had been over for
some time, when they dispersed, much crestfallen.
The crowd, very happy, sought further
diversion.

"You've got to go in for the umbrella race,
'Possum," said Tom.

"Not me!" said 'Possum firmly.

"You must," Tom rejoined.  "I've borrowed
the lightest little dinghy you ever saw for you, and
the biggest umbrella.  It belongs to old Pa Smith,
and it's like a tent."

"I say!" ejaculated 'Possum, staring.  Pa Smith
was known to disapprove of borrowing or of
lending.  He was a dour old man, farming a good piece
of land near the township; and no person in the
district was less likely to do another a favour.
Hence 'Possum's amazement.

"How ever did you manage it?" she gasped.

"Bless you, he never raised an objection," said
Tom cheerfully.  "Take Pa Smith the right way,
and he'll eat out of your hand."

"You will have to race now, 'Possum," Aileen
said, laughing.  "Do!"

"I wouldn't win," said 'Possum, after the manner
of bashful young ladies.

"I suppose you wouldn't, if any one beat you;
but they mightn't," said Tom.  "Here's Polly,
longing to cox you.  You can't refuse,
'Possum—it isn't decent, when I've risked all I have for you
in getting that umbrella!"

"All right," said 'Possum, capitulating, while
Garth uttered "Hooray!"  "Thanks, awfully,
Mr. Macleod.  When does it start?"

"Pretty soon," Tom answered.  "You might
as well get into the dinghy and practise, as those
girls are doing."  He nodded towards some small
boats out on the lake, in which fair maidens,
apparently at the mercy of wind and tide, were
endeavouring to use large umbrellas as sails, with
varying success.  Small boys in boats hovered
near, cheering and jeering their efforts in a manner
which filled the umbrella-maidens with embarrassment
and wrath.  Their threats of vengeance
floated across to the onlookers.

'Possum established Polly at the tiller, and paddled
away from the wharf.  The dinghy was certainly
light, and the umbrella, rolled and laid along
a thwart, looked huge; but she found, on approaching
the others, that they were just as well equipped;
and Flossie Parker, who had a great reputation
in this branch of sport, had a dinghy that was
considerably lighter.  'Possum sighed, and hoped
faintly that her umbrella was smaller.

She shipped her oars, and unfurled Pa Smith's
property.  It was a majestic umbrella, with an
ivory crutch-handle that made it easy to hold, and
lessened the chance of having it wrenched by a
puff of wind from her grasp.  Again, a spasm of
wonder floated across her mind, that Pa Smith
should ever have parted, even temporarily, with
his well-loved possession.  It was so unlike Pa
Smith.  However, it was merely another instance
of Mr. Macleod's remarkable power of getting
what he wanted; and 'Possum had ceased to
wonder at that.  So she said, "Now, look where you're
goin', Polly, 'cause you can be quite sure that a
lot of other people won't!" and spread her
umbrella to catch the wind.

It was a fitful breeze, that occasionally sent them
spinning along, and sometimes dropped altogether,
leaving them to wallow on the water unaided.  At
such moments Polly's anguish was painful to behold.

"What'll we do if it does that in the race, 'Poss?"
she wailed.

"Why, bless you, if it does, won't every one be
in the same box?" 'Possum answered.  But
Polly looked unconvinced and anxious, and her
brow only cleared when a fresh puff sent them
gaily on.

There were only five competitors altogether.
Two others arrived on the scene, but on comparing
their heavy boats and small umbrellas with those
of the other girls, they prudently withdrew, much
to 'Possum's relief: the lagoon was not wide enough
for a large number of starters.  They dodged about
here and there, occasionally colliding, and
apologizing with much forced politeness, while under
their breath they reviled their coxswains.  Most
of these latter were small girls chosen for their
light weight rather than for their ability; but
Flossie Parker's was of proved skill, and had steered
her to victory in many a hard-fought contest.
Flossie's umbrella was red, and of a mighty size.
"Still, I'm blessed if I think it has the acreage of
Pa Smith's!" thought 'Possum, comparing them.

A shout from the starter's boat brought them
into line near the head of the lagoon.

"The finish is the line between those two boats
ahead—near the far jetty," said the starter, who
looked careworn.  "Shut your umbrellas.  When
I fire the pistol, you open 'em and get along.  Any
one touching her oars is disqualified.  First over
the line wins.  Bumping not allowed.  Now then,
are you all ready?  Right-oh.  Go!"

The pistol's sharp crack cut across the sudden
silence.  It was followed by five simultaneous
snaps, as the umbrellas shot into the air and were
unfurled.  They spread wide to catch the breeze.

Nothing occurred.  There was, at the moment,
no breeze.  The five competitors wriggled and
jerked their sails, and held them at various angles
to woo the difficult zephyr, but the zephyr
obstinately remained away.  The boats began to drift
out of line.  Loud cheers arose from the shore,
with pleasant shouts of encouragement, under
which the cheeks of the fair starters burned.

"Mighty funny, I don't think!" snapped Flossie
Parker.  "I suppose they fancy they're jolly
clever.  Blow the old wind!" a pious remark
which was made on general principles, since, at
the moment, there was no wind to blow.

"Push 'er, Flossie!  Get out an' push, why
don't yer?"  The cheering words floated across
from the wharf; and Flossie screamed an angry
answer.

"I say, Poll, be ready," said 'Possum, in a low
tone.  "The breeze is coming."  She had glanced
over her shoulder, seeing a ruffle on the surface
of the lake.

No one else saw it quite as quickly, and when
the puff struck them it found some of the
competitors not ready.  Two boats promptly collided,
and disentangled themselves with difficulty.  It
is not the easiest matter to guide a boat describing
an erratic course in the water under a wobbly
umbrella, especially when coxswains of tender
years lose their heads; and the two boats in
question lost much ground, and never quite made it
up.  The other three went away gallantly, 'Possum
a length ahead.  Miss Parker had been taken by
surprise, but her natural instinct was quick, and
she was speedily in pursuit.  The third competitor,
a stout girl with a green umbrella and a very light
dinghy, kept level with her.  Loud howls came
from the shore, over which could be distinctly
heard the shrill pipe of little Joe, who threw his
head back and vociferated, "Go it, 'Poss!" without
ceasing for an instant.  Afterwards it was doubtful
whether little Joe had seen all of the race, but it
was quite certain that he had never ceased to yell!

The breeze died away, but with the strange
perversity of summer breezes it gave a tiny last
flicker which seemed especially for the benefit of
Miss Parker.  "It was that small she caught it all
in her umbrella!" said Possum, afterwards.  It
took her ahead, while the two other leading boats
were motionless; to the anguish of Polly, she
floated slowly past them.  The smile of the runner
who sees victory flickered about her mouth.
"When I get me nose in front, they don't often
see more than me heels again," was her reflection.

Again the little wind ruffled the lake and quivered
towards them.  Polly, rigid, with her hand on the
tiller, was as ready as 'Possum.  The three boats
slipped forward, coming nearer and nearer to the
line across the water that marked the goal.  There
was a steady roar from the shore—cheers, laughter,
and advice, mingled inextricably.

"'Possum's beat," said Nick O'Connor sadly.
"Bother that Parker girl!"

The breeze dropped again to short puffs.  'Possum
rose to her feet suddenly, holding the umbrella
high over her tall head, at a cunning angle; and
suddenly her boat shot forward.  She was level
with Flossie before the latter's boat began to move,
then she drew ahead slowly, and inch by inch they
crept on, while the howls from the shore grew more
and more frantic.  Miss Parker tried every trick
of umbrella generalship that she knew, but she
could not quite make up the distance.  'Possum's
boat touched the line half a length ahead.

"Well, I'm blessed!" said Flossie sourly.  "I
don't know how you managed that!"

"No more do I," 'Possum answered.  "Just
luck.  Now then, Polly, you behave yourself."  For
Polly, given wholly up to triumph, was threatening
to turn somersaults in the stern.

"H'm," said Flossie, regarding the ecstatic
Polly.  "How old's she?"

"Seven," 'Possum answered.

"Oh!" Flossie shrugged her shoulders.
"Mine's near twice as old, an' weighs twice as
much."

"Pity she doesn't steer twice as well, isn't it?"
remarked 'Possum composedly.  Sourness to herself
might be borne patiently, but when it touched
Polly it was another matter.  Polly, however,
having no fine scruples, did not hesitate to fight
her own battles.

"An' your dinghy only weighs half what ours
does!" she shrilled.  "Beat yer—smarty!"

"Be quiet, Polly!" 'Possum said sharply.  She
took the paddles and turned the boat towards the
shore.  Polly, utterly unabashed, glared angrily
at Miss Parker as they drew away, but was reduced
to a lamentable state of mind by the conduct
of Flossie's coxswain, who put but her tongue at
her with gestures of scorn and derision.  Polly
would gladly have retaliated in kind but for
wholesome fear of her sister, who had been known to
fall severely on such natural exhibitions of distaste
for a foe.  She endeavoured to content herself
by tilting her nose in the air as far as Nature would
permit; but it was an unsatisfying reprisal, and
cast a gloom over her until they neared the shore
and caught sight of little Joe's face of ecstasy.

"Knew you'd win, 'Poss!  Knew you'd win!"
he shouted, capering up and down.  'Possum
looked sheepish.

"Behave, Joe, can't you?" she said.

"Good girl, 'Possum—we're proud to know
you," Tom said, mooring the dinghy to a ring on
the wharf.  "Just give me that umbrella, will you?"

He took the umbrella and turned to pass through
the crowd.  But a new event was beginning, and
he found it impossible to get through, for the
wharf was already thronged, and fresh people were
endeavouring to arrive at a point where they could
see.  Tom gave up the attempt, and turned to his
party.

"Better stay where we are," he said.  "It's
the greasy pole: and the natural savagery of all
good people is bringing every one to gloat over the
sufferings of their fellow-men.  Can you see,
Aileen?"

"Beautifully, thanks," said Aileen cheerfully.
"I'm glad we're not going to miss this."

"Your character's deteriorating," said Tom,
with gloom.  "Here, Garth, hop up on my
shoulder."  He swung the small boy up and turned
to the edge of the wharf.

A long sapling had been lashed to the wharf,
projecting out over the water.  Its smooth
surface shone from a liberal allowance of soft soap,
and a small flag was thrust into a hole bored in its
far end.  As they watched, the first competitor
appeared—a tall boy, in an old shirt and trousers.
He started gingerly along the pole, and made
excellent progress until he was half-way.  Then his
feet suddenly slid from under him, and he sat down
abruptly, the pole quivering and bounding under
his weight.  He clawed wildly at the slippery
surface.  Then the water received him kindly.

He rose to the surface amid the shrieks of the
delighted populace, and struck out for the steps, as
the next competitor, a Melbourne schoolboy in a
bathing-suit, appeared on the pole.  Unfortunately,
his career was even shorter.  His first step
was rash, his second even wilder: he slid for a
moment, and then the end came quickly.  Just
below him the first lad was swimming.  The
Melbourne boy fell on him bodily, and they
disappeared together in a whirlpool of spray.  Those
of the onlookers who had room at this point sat
down on the wharf and held their aching sides.

The fun grew fast and furious as, one after
another, valiant men and boys started along the
pole, and, sooner or later, plunged, gasping and
struggling, into, the depths.  Some got as far as
half-way, others succumbed in the first three
steps, but all alike went down, and the various
methods of their falling were sufficient to keep
the spectators in roars of laughter.  Finally a
black boy achieved a meteoric progress, shuffling
sideways along the pole so swiftly that it seemed
he gave his feet no time to slip until almost at the
very end, where the pole narrowed in what Tom
termed an inhuman fashion.  Then he shot into
space: but, even in falling, he grasped the flag,
and brought it proudly with him from the bottom
of the lake.

"Oh, wasn't it lovely!" Garth gasped.  His
peals of laughter had rung out even above the
joyful shouts all round him.  "Oh, I wish they'd
do it all over again!"

"Do you!" said a wet and greasy competitor,
striding wrathfully past in search of his clothes.
Then he met the dancing eyes and grinned in friendly
fashion, and disappeared among the crowd.

Tom put his son down, and tucked the handle of
Pa Smith's umbrella under his arm, holding it
against his side.

"I'll see you presently," he said to Aileen.
"Must go and return this."  He moved away
with the throng.

Where the goods store blocked part of the end of
the wharf, a wrathful voice fell on his ear.

"If the Gov'n'ment 'ud give us a policeman or
two in this township it 'ud be better for honest
people!  Thieves! the place is full of them!"

"Aw, I wouldn't say that, Mr. Smith," said the
soothing voice of Nick O'Connor.

"You mightn't, but I would.  An' so'd you, if
you had your property lifted as soon as you turned
your back!"

"Go on, now!" said Nick sympathetically.
"You don't mean——"

"I mean there's a pack o' thieves here.  Me
good umbrella that I left in the trap——"

"It ain't gone, surely?"

"Yes it is.  My word, if I could lay me hands
on whoever took it!  I've had that umbrella these
fifteen years."

"Mighty good luck it didn't split with 'Possum,"
said Tom to himself.  He grinned, flattening his
body against the wall of the shed.

"You don't say!" Nick was murmuring.  "I
wouldn't have thought any one 'ud go stealin' an
umbrella.  But with all these blacks about, you
never can tell."

"Me father used to shoot blacks for stealin',"
boomed Mr. Smith.  "I dunno why they'd object
if you did that now.  A pack of idle, useless,
thievin'——"

"Well, you don't know for certain it was them,"
said Nick.  "Look here, now—are you sure you
didn't leave it at home?"

"Do you take me for a fool?" demanded the
wrathful Mr. Smith.

"Not me.  But the best of us is careless
sometimes.  Well, are you sure you hunted all over
the trap?"

"It wasn't on the seat, where I left it.  It
wouldn't have walked underneath, would it?"

"You never can tell," Nick said wisely.  His
mild eye, travelling round, encountered Tom's,
and, struck by something in his child-like expression,
examined him yet further.  The end of an ivory
crutch-handle, tucked tightly under Tom's arm,
caught and held his glance, and for a moment he
looked unutterable things.  Then he bestowed his
attention anew upon Pa Smith, moving a little so
as to interpose his person between him and Tom.
He felt a grateful dig as Tom slipped past him.

"It's funny how almost any one'll make mistakes,"
he said.  Out of the tail of his eye he beheld
a tall figure hurrying down the street towards
the tree where Pa Smith's buggy stood in a patch
of shade.  "Say we go an' look in your buggy
again for that little parrysole of yours, Mr. Smith.
Then, if it ain't there, we'll go on up to the hotel
an' get a little something to console you."

On the way to the buggy they met Tom sauntering
back, apparently at peace with all men.  He
grinned at Nick cheerfully as they passed—Nick's
gentle voice acting as accompaniment to the loud
wailing of the bereaved Mr. Smith.  It changed
to blank amazement as they, neared the buggy,
where an ivory-handle lay conspicuously protruding
from under the seat.

"Well, I'm hanged!" said Mr. Smith.

"Didn't I tell you the best of us makes
mistakes?" murmured Nick.

"It was great luck winning that race," said
'Possum next day, "But the one thing I never
will understand to me dying moment is how you
managed to make old Pa Smith lend you that
umbrella, Mr. Macleod.  An' he never raised a
single objection, you said?"

"Not one," Tom answered.  He paused.  "I
wonder," he said reflectively, "if that might be
because I never asked him!"





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   CHAPTER XIX


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   THE ORDER OF RELEASE

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"Don't you think it's time Garth was home?"

Aileen Macleod was standing by the
garden gate, shading her eyes as she looked across
the paddocks.  Her husband, who had come upon
her unexpectedly, laughed a little.

"Oh, hen with one chick!" he said, "will you
ever learn to let that boy out of your sight for an
hour?"

"Indeed, I think I'm very good," Aileen
defended herself.  "I let him go all over the country,
which you know very well, and climb enormous
trees, and go swimming with the O'Connor boys,
and use an axe, and do all sorts of things that
would have filled us both with horror six months
ago.  And I take hold of myself with both hands
and say, 'Aileen Macleod, you're not going to be
nervous and make a poodle of your son!'  But
this is the first day he has ridden Roany to the
township, Tom: and, you know, Roany isn't old Jane!"

"No, thank goodness!" said Tom with fervour.
"But you needn't worry, really, dear: he
manages Roany quite well, and the pony is
perfectly safe.  And you *are* good, and so am I,
because often I'm just as nervous about the blessed
kid as you are—so there!"  They smiled at each
other.  "Anyhow, here he comes.  The little
beggar's racing, too!"

Garth came into sight, sitting very straight, with
his hands well down, and with Roany going at his
best hand-gallop.  He took the shortest cut across
the paddock, which included a fair-sized log, over
which the pony hopped gaily, while both parents
gasped.

"I didn't know Garth could sit that!"

"Neither did I," said Tom, with a grin.  "Oh,
he's developing!  I wonder what's making him
hurry so."

"*I* wonder where are his bundles," said the lady
of the house, with some concern.  "I provided
him with two sugar-bags, and he was to bring bread
and meat, and all sorts of oddments, and to come
home slowly.  Can anything be wrong?"

"He doesn't look as if there were," Tom said.

He did not.  As he caught sight of the two who
waited for him at the gate, he took off his hat and
whirled it round his head with a mighty shout,
digging his heels into Roany, who shot up the hill
in response.  They pulled up.

"What's your hurry, old son?  And where
are your bundles?"

"You don't know who's coming!" Garth cried,
with dancing eyes.

"'Possum?"

"No!  'Possum can come any old day.  This
is a most awfully special visitor.  Hurry up and
guess!"

"The only person who would be that," said
Tom slowly, "is old Metcalfe——"

Garth gave a little shout of joy.

"Good old Daddy!  I knew you'd guess!"

"I say, it isn't really, Garth?"

"Yes, it is.  He's coming out now, too."

"Now!  But when did he come?"

"He came by last night's boat.  He wrote, and
sent you a telegram, too, but of course we haven't
sent in for the mail for three days—I 'specs they're
both in this bundle," said Garth, hauling a packet
of letters from his pocket.  "So when he got here
and found no one to meet him he wouldn't come
out last night, and he stayed at the hotel.  I met
him just starting out in a buggy."  Garth gave an
irrepressible chuckle.  "He didn't know me from
Adam.  I rode up, and said, 'Hallo, doctor!' and
he said, 'Who are you, young man?' and looked
at me as if I was a wombat."

"What did you say?" asked his mother.

"I just laughed and laughed, it was so funny.
And then he suddenly said, 'By Jove, it's Garth!'
and he jumped out of the buggy and came and
felt me all over, to see how fat I'd got.  So I gave
him all the bundles, and I raced on ahead to tell
you.  He'll be here in two jiffs."

"Then, this is where I hurry," said Aileen.
"Thank goodness, I turned out the spare room
two days ago!  It must have been a brain-wave!"

"Come and we'll help," Tom said to Garth.
"Let your pony go."

They flung themselves at what remained of the
morning's housework with such good will that
preparations for dinner were well established, and
every room shining, when the hotel buggy drove
up, and they all trooped to the gate.

"Well!" said Dr. Metcalfe, pausing on the
veranda.  "Let me look at you all."

He looked from one to the other, until Aileen
complained that the look was becoming a stare.
Perhaps it was upon her that it dwelt longest.
Garth and his father had filled out and broadened
beyond belief: they were deeply tanned and
clear-eyed, and in each was a curious look of
resoluteness that the doctor had never seen before.
But the change in Aileen was deeper.  The fragile,
willowy girl of Toorak had gone: in her place
was a woman with lines about her eyes, yet a new
beauty in her face.  A gracious woman, with
perfect health on her brown cheek, and in her
eyes perfect happiness.  He looked at her hands:
in the old days they had been like the inner petals
of a rose, as soft and smooth, and delicately pink.
Now they were still smooth and well-kept, but
hard, and bronzed.  She held them out to him with
a quaint little gesture.

"You needn't look at my hands—I told you I
was a working-woman!"

He took the slim hands in his, and bent over them.

"I find them extremely good hands," he said
"And all of you make a tonic for tired eyes.  I
haven't seen three such visions of health for years,
and the curious part of it is that though you're
lone exiles you don't look unhappy!"

"I'm afraid we've given up the 'exile'
stand-point," Tom said, laughing.  "It was pathetic,
of course; but it grew so ludicrously incorrect
that we had to abandon it for the sake of our own
self-respect.  Come in, old man, and get your coat off."

"You must bring him to the kitchen when he's
ready," Aileen declared.  "If I don't cook the
dinner there won't be any, and you needn't think
I'm going to miss any of his visit!"

"We'll come and help cook," the doctor said.

He watched them, later—Aileen, with her sleeves
rolled above her elbows, compounding pastry,
while Tom prepared vegetables, and Garth scrubbed
potatoes.

"Do you always manage this way?"

"Mercy, no!" said Tom.  "She won't let us.
She's proud, and haughty, and insists on doing
everything herself, and she hunts us out into the
paddocks to toil in the heat—doesn't she, Garth?"

"And then they come in, and bully me outrageously,
and turn me out of my own kitchen!"
said Aileen, laughing.  "Isn't it a nice one, doctor?"

"It is," said the little doctor, looking round the
white kitchen, with its gleaming tins and bright
stove.  "I never saw such a companionable place.
Do you mind if I spend most of my time here?"

"Not a bit," said Aileen.  "We do, ourselves."  She
peeped through the oven, door at tartlets that
were becoming puffy and brown.  "But you must
see all the estate.  Tom will take you after dinner."

"You must come, too," said Tom.

"If I can."

"H'm," said Tom reflectively.  He nodded
presently to Garth, and they slipped away.

"Just ride over to 'Possum," Tom said.  "Tell
her we've got a visitor, and ask her can we borrow
her for a bit.  Mother mustn't be too much tied
for the few days the doctor can spare."

Garth nodded, and fled to the stable for his
bridle; and thus it was that, just as dinner was
over and Aileen was experiencing the momentary
inward pang that comes before tackling clearing
away and washing-up, 'Possum rode up.

"Got a free afternoon," she said, having greeted
the stranger shyly.  "There's not much doing on
the farm just now.  Thought I might do a few
odd jobs."

She fell upon the remains of the meal and removed
them to the kitchen, Aileen following, protesting.

"Now, look here, Missus," said 'Possum, "ain't
you got a visitor?—I mean, *haven't* you?  And
here am I with not enough to do to keep meself
warm.  Just you all go out an' show him the place,
an' I'll clear up an' get tea."

"Oh, 'Possum, you are a dear!" said Aileen
gratefully.

"Poof!" said 'Possum.  "An' I'm comin' to-morrow,
an' every day while he's here.  Not often
I get a chance to use that little stove!"  She
looked affectionately at the glass door of the oven,
and then removed Aileen gently but firmly from
the kitchen.

They wandered over the estate throughout the
afternoon, pointing out to their visitor beauties
of sheep and calves, whereat he was politely
unappreciative, and beauties of fern gullies, and
lake, and hillside, which made him as enthusiastic
as the most exacting proprietor could desire.  They
showed him where the crops had been, and where
the lucerne defied the approach of winter and still
grew green and strong; and they quoted for him
prices of cattle, and sheep, and pigs, of fowls, and
eggs, and vegetables, until his brain reeled.  They
dragged him up the ladder into the loft, full of
fragrant hay ready for the winter; they took
him to the racks where golden maize-cobs were
drying, and to the shed where sacks of peas stood.
"Thrashed them myself, with a flail," said Tom
proudly.  They introduced him to the fat Berkshire
piglings in the sty, and to the incubator which was
to hatch enormous broods of chickens and make
Aileen's fortune; they showed him sheds and
stables, tool-room and garden implements, and
crops of root vegetables and winter cabbage, until
he gaped with awe.  And at last they brought him
into the front garden, where masses of bronze
Japanese chrysanthemums blazed in the warm
sunshine of late autumn; and on the veranda
'Possum had long chairs ready and a tea-table,
brave with bright silver and china, with tea-cakes
smoking in a hot dish over a spirit-lamp, and a
copper kettle bubbling.  The weary visitor sat
down thankfully.

"Eh, but this is the most comfortable place
I've seen for a long time!" he said.  "The very
look of this veranda would make a man hungry,
Miss O'Connor!"  At which 'Possum blushed
hotly, and thanked Providence once more that the
tea-cakes had turned out like feathers.

She rode away after leaving the supper-table
ready.  They watched her cantering across the
paddock.  To-day she rode a fiery young mare of
her father's, sitting it as though she were part of
the animal.  It shied violently at a bunch of dead
leaves, and the little doctor gasped, but
apparently 'Possum had not noticed any movement.  A
clump of trees hid her.

"So that's the right-hand man?" the doctor
said thoughtfully.

"That's the godsend," Tom answered.

"That's the dearest, best-hearted——"  Words
did not come easily to Aileen.  But she looked after
'Possum with a smile.

"Well, I knew from your letters that she was
an extraordinarily good farm-hand," said the
doctor.  "But you didn't prepare me for finding
an uncommon nice girl as well."

"That's Aileen's doing," said Tom.

"Indeed it's not," Aileen said quickly.  "I
have only put on a little polish.  But 'Possum is
her own dear, honest self.  She has taught me
more than I could ever teach her; and not only
work, but things that matter more."  But she
would not say what those things were.

Dr. Metcalfe came from Garth's bedroom that
evening with a very contented face.

"Well?" said Tom and Aileen together.

"I've overhauled every inch of your son," said
the doctor, sitting down.  "And I would not have
thought that eight months could make such a
difference.  There is absolutely no sign of the
old delicacy.  He's just a great, hardy young
ruffian, and if you weren't growing into a bigger
edition of the same thing yourself, Tom, I should
advise you to be polite to him, in case he handled
you roughly!  Seriously, I'm enormously pleased.
You must have had a hard time, but it has paid
you well."

"Garth is the main thing, of course," Tom said.
"But it has paid in other ways, too.  Of course,
we have had luck.  We struck a wonderful season,
and we had no trouble with drought or bush-fires,
or anything else.  We haven't made a fortune.
But there's money in it—not enough to get
excited over, but enough to make one feel easy about
the future.  What with the stock, the wool, the
crops, and the fowl-yard and vegetable-garden, we've
had a very decent season, haven't we, Aileen?"

"Yes," said Aileen solemnly.  "I'm going to
have a new hat!"

"You can have the best hat in Melbourne,"
said her husband.

"Thank you, but I won't bother," said she.
"It's at Barke's, and it's three-and-elevenpence.
I shall get it next time I drive in."

The doctor looked from one to another, his eyes
very kindly.

"Well," he said, and paused; "I hunted you
away from Melbourne, to make your boy into a
strong fellow.  And you've done it.  I don't want
to make rash promises or raise false hopes.  But
Garth has improved so wonderfully that I cannot
see that there is any real reason for you to bury
yourselves down here for ever.  If you gave him,
say, another year of Gippsland, I think you might
with perfect safety take him back to Melbourne.
You'd have to watch him, of course.  But, with
an occasional holiday in the country, he would get
on quite well."

Tom looked at Aileen, and she at him.

"What do you say?" said each.

The doctor laughed.

"I'm going out to smoke a pipe," he said.  "You
can talk it over together.  But it would be safe
to come."

He went out.

"You'd like to go back, dear," Tom said.
"You've been most awfully plucky, but I know it
hasn't been easy.  I'm glad it isn't a life-sentence
for you.  I was afraid it meant that."

"I don't think I'd be afraid," she said.

"You're never afraid of anything," said Tom.

"I am still afraid, and I always will be,
whenever I turn out a pudding!" Aileen said quaintly.
"There is always in me a lurking horror that it
will be sodden in the middle!  And I will be afraid
of snakes until I die.  But I have given up being
afraid of the estate.  I like it."

Something in her tone made him look at her
steadily.

"You mean——?" he said.

"I wish I knew what you wanted," she said
suddenly.  "Are you keen to go back, Tom?
You did like it all, you know—Melbourne, and
races, and dinners, and golf, and theatres, and
all the old life.  You never would say you missed
it, but I knew you did."

"I did: for a month," he said.  "Then it just
faded.  I would have gone on missing it, I think,
if you hadn't been so content.  I don't know how
you managed it.  But it used to make a fellow
ashamed of himself for feeling blue, with your
happy face always about ... and to hear you
singing."

She drew a long breath.

"Then—don't you want to go back?  Ah, tell
me, Tom!"

Tom Macleod laughed.

"I'll go back to-morrow, if you like," he said.
"But otherwise—well, I think there are plenty
of people in Melbourne without me."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she cried.  "Tom, I don't
want to go back!"

"Are you certain?" he asked.  "It's a hard
life for you, my girl."

"Indeed, it isn't.  I'm alive, now—and I don't
think I ever was in Melbourne.  I thought I was
happy there, and indeed I was.  But this is
different, somehow.  One has so many interests.  I
feel part of the world now, not just a drone."

"Just raising chickens and vegetables?"

"Some one has to do it," she said.  "And
I didn't raise anything before—except one small
boy, and even that job was nearly spoilt!  Now
I'm part of the world's work.  Oh, I like it, Tom!
You do, too, don't you?"

"My tastes have become altogether common,"
he said, laughing.  "I'm enormously interested
in the crops we've planned out for next season,
and I'm going to put in Tasmanian potatoes that
will make Cuninghame open its eyes!  And I'm
going to sow onions, and make an enormous
fortune——"

"And I strawberries," Aileen said eagerly.
"Think of the summer visitors, all eating them,
and my bank-book swelling!"

"And there's money in those calves we bought
at Metung," he said.  "With that lucerne, and all
the winter feed we've got, we'll have something
worth looking at in the spring!"

They looked at each other, and laughed.

"So the end of it is, we say, 'Thank you very
much, kind sir, but we don't want to go back from
the land'—and we turn into old farmers," Aileen
said.  "Won't Garth rejoice!"

"And 'Possum?" Tom said.

"Oh—'Possum!"  Her face grew very soft.  "I
told you I would always be afraid of some things,
Tom.  I should never have been brave enough to
tell 'Possum I was going away!"

.. vspace:: 3

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   THE END.

.. vspace:: 3

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   *Printed in Great Britain by* Butler & Tanner, *Frome and London*




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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   The Wonder Book


.. class:: center medium bold white-space-pre-line

   THE FAVOURITE PICTURE
   ANNUAL FOR BOYS & GIRLS

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   *Crown 4to Picture Boards, 5s. net.  In handsome Cloth Gilt
   Binding, 6s. net.  Twelve Coloured Plates.  264 Pages.
   Hundreds of Illustrations.*

.. vspace:: 2

FROM the first issue of this famous Annual the constant
aim has been to present for the delight and entertainment
of the little ones THE BEST, AND ONLY THE BEST, in
picture, verse, and story.  The COLOURED PLATES are
all dainty works of art.  The full-page and other tinted
drawings in the text number several hundreds, making
the volume the most sumptuous gift book for children
issued at a moderate price.

.. vspace:: 2

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   THE CHILDREN *WILL* HAVE IT

.. vspace:: 2

The stories and verses—all by favourite writers—include
fairy tales, incidents of home and school life,
stories of birds and animals, adventures by land and sea,
and quaint rhymes and jingles, and they have the rare
merit of appealing to children of all ages and conditions.

All young folk agrees that there is

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   NO PRESENT FOR CHRISTMAS OR THE
   BIRTHDAY TO EQUAL THE WONDER BOOK

.. vspace:: 2

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   WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, LONDON, E.C. 4.



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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 3

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   The Wonder Books

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   *Each Crown 4to, Picture Boards, 6s. net.  Twelve to
   Sixteen Coloured Plates in each.  264 Pages.
   Over 300 Illustrations.*

.. vspace:: 1

These are not Annuals, but gift books appropriate to every season
of the year and to every occasion—birthdays, prize-givings,
Christmas, etc.  They are constantly revised and brought up to date,
and contain much that is of interest not only to young people but
to their elders.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   The Wonder Book of Aircraft

.. vspace:: 1

All about our wonderful Air Services "the most romantic fighting
force in history."  Tells also of the new age about to dawn when
airships and aeroplanes will be as commonly used as railway trains
and motor cars.

No single volume published since the beginning of aviation has
contained such a wealth of illustrative material, coloured plates,
drawings and photographs.  A truly fascinating book.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   The Wonder Book of the Navy

.. vspace:: 1

Describes the Navy "from within," and will be found of absorbing
interest to all classes of the community, to the middle-aged
citizen no less than to the boy or girl for whom it has been primarily
prepared.  The articles are all by leading naval experts and officers,
and the pictures—of which there are over Three Hundred—present
every phase of life afloat and ashore, in War and in Peace.  The
SIXTEEN COLOURED PLATES include several fine pictures of naval
engagements during the War.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   The Wonder Book of Soldiers

.. vspace:: 1

Now that the Army is practically the Nation, and there is scarcely
a family some members of which are not serving with the Colours,
this favourite volume is in greater demand than ever.  By general
consent it gives a better idea of life in the British Army, both in
Peace and War, than any other book of its kind.  The numerous
pictures represent every side of Army life and all branches of the
Service.  The Defence Forces of the Empire are also described,
and there are interesting accounts of the great Allied Armies,
including that of the United States.  The book is a veritable mine
of entertainment and instruction, both for young people and their
seniors.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   The Wonder Book of Ships

.. vspace:: 1

This fascinating volume, descriptive of "life on the ocean wave,"
is now in its 8th Edition, and is popular in every part of the world
where our sea-loving race is found.  It tells in simple language all
about the great liners and those less showy vessels of the Mercantile
Marine whose services have proved to be of as vital importance
to the Empire as those of the Royal Navy itself.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   The Wonder Book of Railways

.. vspace:: 1

is a great favourite with all boys and girls who are "keen" on
railways and even the more elderly "season" holder will find in it
much that will amuse and interest.  In addition to over 300
illustrations there are TWELVE COLOURED PLATES, representing some of
the most famous of the world's trains.  The interest is not
confined to Great Britain, for there are also pictures and articles
concerning railways in Australia, Canada, the United States, and
elsewhere.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   The Wonder Book of Empire

.. vspace:: 1

Recent events and pending developments alike render it of the
utmost importance that we should know more of the lands under
the Union Jack, of their peoples and resources, their wonders and
attractions.  Especially is it important that the children of all
parts of the Empire should realise how glorious is their heritage.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   The Wonder Book of Children

.. vspace:: 1

The War has taught us all the importance of knowing more of the
ways of life and modes of thought of other peoples, especially of
those gallant Allies who have stood by us in the fight for freedom.
The articles, though brimful of information, are brightly written
and as thrilling as any story, while the Illustrations are absolutely
unique in their variety and interest, having been garnered from
every quarter of the globe.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   The Wonder Book of Animals

.. vspace:: 1

All children who love animals—are there any who do not?—hail
this handsome volume with delight.  Amusement and instruction
are so interwoven that, while it can be truthfully said there is not
a dull page in the book, it is equally true that there is not a useless
one.  The BOOK or ANIMALS is suited to children of all ages.



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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large

   CHARMING STORIES BY

.. class:: center x-large bold

   Isabel M. Peacocke

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center medium white-space-pre-line

   *Fully Illustrated.  Crown 8vo.  Presentation Edition, with
   burnished edges, 5s. net.  Also in cloth, 3s. 6d. net.*

.. vspace:: 2

.. center medium

   NEW VOLUME

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center large bold

   Robin of the Round House

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   Patricia Pat

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center medium bold

   By HAROLD COPPING

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center small

   With Six Illustrations

.. vspace:: 1

ARGUS (Melbourne).—"Another pretty little love story from
the pen of Isabel Maud Peacocke will be welcomed by those who
enjoyed 'My Friend Phil' ... Miss Peacocke knows just how
to make a pleasant sentimental story out of a situation like this,
making it a background for her picture of a little girl, Pat, who
is just as sweet and loving and natural a little girl as possible,
very tender hearted, and yet full of fun, winning all hearts, and
getting into scrapes with her friend, ten-year-old Laurie."


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   My Friend Phil

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center medium bold

   By MARGARET W. TARRANT

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center small

   With Six Illustrations in Colour

.. vspace:: 1

QUEENSLAND TIMES.—"A really delicious book ... without
doubt it is far and away the best book, since Ethel Turner took
the reading world by storm with her 'Seven Little Australians.'
... There is no laying down this book when opened until the
end is reached, be the reader young or old."


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   Dicky, Knight Errant

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center medium bold

   By HAROLD COPPING

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center small

   With Six Illustrations.

.. vspace:: 1

MELBOURNE AGE.—"Miss Isabel Maud Peacocke is heartily to
be congratulated on the tone and ability of her book 'Dicky,
Knight Errant.'  Every class of reader will find a fresh enjoyment
in following the adventures of Miss Peacocke's lovable Boy Scout
... a story brimful of excitement and charm.  Miss Peacocke
must take her place among that small group of talented
Australasian women who have already done so much."



.. vspace:: 1

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1





.. class:: center x-large bold white-space-pre-line

   Charming Colour Books
   for Children

.. class:: center medium white-space-pre-line

   *Large Crown 8vo.  Cloth Gilt.  Handsome Binding Design with
   Pictorial Wrapper and Endpapers.  6s. net.*

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   Each with 48 COLOURED PLATES

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center medium bold

   By MARGARET W. TARRANT

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center x-large bold

   Nursery Rhymes

.. vspace:: 1

Not since the days of Kate Greenaway have the old nursery
favourites been so daintily presented.  Little Jack Horner,
Jack Sprat, Tom Tucker, Old King Cole and their illustrious
company are all here.  The type is large and well-arranged,
and by means of the full Index of First Lines any rhyme can
be found in a moment.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center x-large bold

   Fairy Tales

.. vspace:: 1

All the favourite Nursery Stories—old and yet ever new—Red
Riding Hood, Cinderella, The Sleeping Beauty, Puss in Boots, The
Three Bears, Jack the Giant-Killer, Beauty and the Beast, the
redoubtable Bluebeard, and a host of others.  The text has been
carefully edited in such a way that the youngest child can
understand and enjoy the stories.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center x-large bold

   Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

.. vspace:: 1

The edition of Lewis Carroll's masterpiece.  Never has an artist
so successfully conceived the characters from a child's point of
view or given more happy expression to the sly humour and mock
seriousness of the story.  This dainty volume, with its wealth of
coloured plates, is easily superior to editions published at three
and four times the price.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center x-large bold

   Stories from Hans Andersen

.. vspace:: 1

A selection of the stories which most appeal to younger children,
including such favourites as "The Ugly Duckling," "The Little
Mermaid," "The Tinder Box," "The Emperor's New Clothes,"
"The Snow Queen," and others.  The great Danish story-teller
has a wonderful hold on the affections of young people, and this
book is sure to please.



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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 2



.. class:: center x-large bold

   Stories by Mary Grant Bruce

.. class:: center small

   *Large Crown 8vo.  Fully Illustrated.  Cloth Gilt.  3s. 6d. net*

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center medium

   New Volume

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center large bold

   DICK

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center medium

   With 8 Illustrations by J. MACFARLANE.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   'POSSUM

.. vspace:: 1

Mrs. Bruce writes with a freedom and grace which must win hosts
of readers, and there is a lovableness about her Australian youths
and maidens which makes one never tired of their healthy and
sociable views of life.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   JIM AND WALLY

.. vspace:: 1

"There can be no doubt about the success of Mrs. Bruce ... real
pathos which gets hold of the reader, and her effects are obtained
in a real natural way that makes them all the more telling.  She
evidently knows the up-country life ... she grips the attention
from start to finish."—*Melbourne Argus*.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   A LITTLE BUSH MAID

.. vspace:: 1

"It is a real pleasure to recommend this story to Australian
readers."—*Perth Western Mail*.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   MATES AT BILLABONG

.. vspace:: 1

"The incidents of station life, its humours, festivities, and mishaps,
are admirably sketched in this vivid narrative."—*Adelaide Register*.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   TIMOTHY IN BUSHLAND

.. vspace:: 1

"The writer understands all about the wonders of the Australian
bush, its wild horses, kangaroos, wombats, and infinitely various
natural life."—*Daily Telegraph*.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   GLEN EYRE

.. vspace:: 1

"An admirable story, exquisitely told, full of gentle pathos, and
ringing true all through."—*The Sportsman*.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   NORAH OF BILLABONG

.. vspace:: 1

"The story is written in a refreshing and lovable manner, which
makes instant appeal."—*Manchester Courier*.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   GRAY'S HOLLOW

.. vspace:: 1

"A story always healthy and enjoyable in its sympathetic
delineation of unsophisticated nature."—*The Scotsman*.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   FROM BILLABONG TO LONDON

.. vspace:: 1
   
"The story has many more incidents than Mrs. Bruce's earlier
books, and though her style is quiet and matter-of-fact, she does
succeed in infusing reality into her exciting episodes."—*The
Melbourne Argus*.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   WARD LOCK & CO., LIMITED, LONDON, E.C. 4



.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium bold white-space-pre-line

   MARY GRANT BRUCE'S
   VERY
   POPULAR STORIES

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center small white-space-pre-line

   Published by
   WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center small

   *Uniform With this volume.*

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium white-space-pre-line

   A LITTLE BUSH MAID
   TIMOTHY IN BUSHLAND
   MATES AT BILLABONG
   FROM BILLABONG TO LONDON
   GLEN EYRE
   NORAH OF BILLABONG
   GRAY'S HOLLOW
   JIM AND WALLY
   'POSSUM
   DICK
   CAPTAIN JIM

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::