FIVE LITTLE BUSH GIRLS.

Dedicated to the Memory of
My Dear Mother.
THE AUTHOR.

First Print, October, 1918.

“It’s about the hardest thing I ever tried.”

FIVE LITTLE
BUSH
GIRLS

BY
E. LEE RYAN,

Illustrated by Betty Paterson.

AUSTRALASIAN AUTHORS’ AGENCY,
237 COLLINS STREET, MELBOURNE.

This Book was Printed in Australia by
BRUCE & Co., 434 Bourke St.,
and the Blocks were made by
Patterson, Shugg & Co.,
21 Burns Lane,
Melbourne.

CONTENTS.

Chapter. Page. I. [THE CONSULTATION] 7 II. [“GILLGONG”] 20 III. [THE LETTER] 29 IV. [“TEDDO”] 36 V. [THE REPLY] 42 VI. [A SURPRISE] 51 VII. [FRANK] 61 VIII. [THE STORM] 67 IX. [ANTICIPATION] 71 X. [MOSMAN] 77 XI. [HOME AGAIN] 88 XII. [WILLIE] 95 XIII. [A SYNDICATE] 102 XIV. [LESSONS] 110 XV. [EILEEN’S RETURN] 118 XVI. [CONVERSATIONS] 126 XVII. [THE GOVERNESS] 133 XVIII. [THE SUBSCRIPTION] 141 XIX. [POETS] 154 XX. [GOOD-BYE TO “TEDDO”] 162 XXI. [INTERCESSION] 169 XXII. [A HERO] 175 XXIII. [LETTERS] 180 XXIV. [A NEW ARRIVAL] 186 XXV. [NEW PEOPLE] 193 XXVI. [SOME MERRY MEETINGS] 202 XXVII. [THE INVITATION] 209 XXVIII. [THE PARTY] 219 XXIX. [A WEEK ON THE RIVER] 225 [CONCLUSION] 234

CHAPTER I.
THE CONSULTATION.

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

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

“Me, too,” said Eva.

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

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

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

But Baby only cried the louder.

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

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

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

“So am I.”

“And so am I.”

“And so am I.”

“And so am I.”

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

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

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

“Go on, Eileen. Speak up.”

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

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

“So it did, and then——”

“Old Star’s foal died,” said Mollie.

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

“Me want Tar’s foal,” cried Baby.

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

“The sheep got poisoned weed,” said Eva.

“And the dingoes came,” answered Doris.

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Doris, darling, tell us!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A Rich Uncle,” they all murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How, Mollie—how?”

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

“Oh, yes!” they all gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, spare the time,” repeated Eileen.

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

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

“Yes. What else can we do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.
GILLONG.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III.
THE LETTER.

“Whatever shall we say?”

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

“Go on, Mollie, have another try.”

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

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

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

“All right. Just ‘Dear Uncle’——”

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

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

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

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

“Australia,” put in Eva.

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

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

“Yes, that’s right!”

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

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

“No, we can’t put it that way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, ‘by accident,’” agreed Eileen.

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

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

“Oh, shut up, Doris!” snapped Eileen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, no!” they all cried.

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

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

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

“Oh, it’s sickening!” declared Doris.

“Ugh!” grunted Baby.

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

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

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

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

Dear Uncle,—

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

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

Eileen gave her a withering look, to command silence.

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

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

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

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

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

Yours very faithfully,

Mollie Hudson, aged 14 years, blue eyes and goldeny hair.

Eileen Hudson, aged 12 years, dark eyes and hair.

Eva Hudson, aged 9 years, grey eyes and dark hair.

Doris Hudson, aged 5 years, blue eyes and fair hair.

Baby Hudson (X, her mark), aged 2 years, blue eyes and fair hair.

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

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

Address: Misses Hudson,

“Gillong,”

Bragan Junction,

N.W. Line,

N.S.W.

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

To H. Hudson, Esq.,

C/o the Firm of

Langdon & Ross,

Collins Street,

Melbourne,

Victoria.

Private,

Confidential

&

Urgent.

Important.

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

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

CHAPTER IV.
“TEDDO.”

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

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

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

“Fancy!” said Mollie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s always the way,” sighed Eileen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mrs. Hudson—your Mother?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, mum’s the word,” declared Eva.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.
THE REPLY.

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

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

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

“That said we were what?” cried Mollie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you all ready?” asked Mollie.

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

“Very well, then——”

She smoothed out the pages and cleared her throat.

“‘My dear little Bush Nieces’——”

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

“Yes. ‘My dear little Bush Nieces.’”

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

And then Mollie read right on—

My Dear Little Bush Nieces,—

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

Chorus of “Oh’s!”

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

Another chorus of “Oh’s!”

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

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

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

Chorus of “Oh’s!” again.

I have not long returned from the Continent——

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

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

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

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

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

“Here! He’s coming here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Doris, we’ll all do our best.”

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

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

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

“Yes, and sail boats,” continued Doris.

“Tail boats!” echoed Baby.

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

“Let me see—ah——”

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

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

“Sh! Go on, Mollie,” from Eva.

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

“Oh! isn’t it lovely?” gasped Eva.

“Bosker!” agreed Eileen.

“Bueful, bueful,” gurgled Doris.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI.
A SURPRISE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then they both read the letter.

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

“What does he say there, again?”

Mother read aloud:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll have no more,” declared Doris.

“Me, too,” said Baby, looking solemn.

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

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

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

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

“Oh, but the pretence!” said Eva.

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

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

“Castor oil,” said Doris.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he glanced towards them.

“And these are your little girls, Vera?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The children looked more important and solemn than ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you like that?” asked Uncle.

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

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

“Me be pitty lady,” said Baby.

And then they all laughed.

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

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

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

“Thank us!” they exclaimed.

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

“Oh, yes, Uncle—beautifully!”

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII.
FRANK.

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

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

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

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

Then down the track to the river she sped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Frank tried to comfort her.

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.
THE STORM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX.
ANTICIPATION.

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

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

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

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

And at last Mother had consented.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Righto!” said Eileen, making a note.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So it’s next week you’re going?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X.
MOSMAN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dood-day,” said Doris.

“Day,” said Baby.

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

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

“Yes,” said the little boy.

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

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

“Did you always live in Sydney?”

“Yes, all my life.”

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

“No, never!”

“Well, that’s where we live.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yes, do! Good-bye—good-bye.”

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

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

“Learn to ride!”

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

“Oh! I wonder could I?” he gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

After that he haunted them like a shadow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you might,” agreed Eva, mournfully.

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

At that Baby cried, too.

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

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

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

“We—we—wa-nt—Willie,” sobbed Doris.

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

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

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

Then Baby roared real genuine tears of distress.

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

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

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

“An’ he’ll die!” shrieked Baby.

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

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

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

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

“She said, she said——”

“Go on! what did she say?”

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

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

“She gave us lollies.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Might never come back?” asked Eva.

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

“No, you won’t!” said Doris, stoutly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI.
HOME AGAIN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XII.
WILLIE.

It was three days later.

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

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

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

“And we’ll take Gussie,” said Willie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, damn the gate!” cried Willie.

“Oh, Willie!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And is it open now?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” answered Eva, shortly.

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

“Yes,” answered Eva.

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

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

“Do you think so? What a pity!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIII.
A SYNDICATE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Willie!” they all shrieked again.

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

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

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

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

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

“We’ll ex—ex—periment,” said Willie.

“Yes, we’ll ’speriment,” said Doris.

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

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

“Where, Doris, where?”

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

“I believe it is,” said Willie.

“I believe it is,” echoed Eva.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She made dozens of trips to the water’s edge.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, lovely!” said Doris.

“Lovely!” echoed Willie.

“Lubly tand!” cried Baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And promise not to tell?”

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

“Mind the specimens!” cried Willie.

“Specimens?” cried Mollie.

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

“Oh, playing mines?” said Mollie.

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

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

Mollie laughed gaily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So he was,” cried Eva.

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

“Yes, let’s ask him,” cried Eva.

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

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

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

“Oh, yes, let’s!” agreed Doris again.

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIV.
LESSONS.

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

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

But learning music was her one trial.

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

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

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

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

Things reached a climax after about a month of lessons.

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

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

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

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

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

“Really, Miss Eileen, you forget yourself.”

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

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

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

“What old box?” asked Marcia, perplexedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Dear Mother,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XV.
EILEEN’S RETURN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forgot to leave old Payne’s tobacco,” said Teddy.

“Oh, never mind it this time!” pleaded Eileen; “let him smoke tea-leaves or bark, or anything; why, it’s ever so far back!”

“No, I promised I’d fetch it,” declared Teddy, stoutly, “and a promise is a promise, even if it’s only made to old Payne,” and Teddy looked quite pleased with himself after this statement, while Eileen sat back in a resigned manner.

At last the little bridge near the homestead came in sight through the trees, and Eileen shouted aloud for joy.

“Thought you were going on the stage down there?” said Teddy, giving a parting shot.

“Oh, that’ll come later on!” said Eileen, loftily. “I’m too young yet. I want a little more home life before I leave for the stage.”

Then Teddy made a grimace and murmured under his breath.

“Stage!—I don’t think!”

There was shouting and commotion when the sulky drew up at the gate, and Eileen sprang to the ground. Then a babel of voices filled the air as everyone tried to speak at the same time.

“Oh, I am glad to see you all again!” Eileen told them over and over, and Mother actually had tears in her eyes, though she couldn’t for the life of her tell you why.

And Doris and Baby, with fat, happy faces and the roses of winter on their cheeks, danced round the new-comer.

“I have a little new pet lamb; you can have a nurse of it if you like when you have had a wash.”

“Oh, thank you, Doris, but I don’t think I will this evening!”

“And dere’s dear little puppies over at de shed,” volunteered Baby.

“There’s Willie, and goodness me if he’s not riding! Doesn’t he look funny?” shrieked Eileen.

Willie overheard the remark, and looked daggers at Eileen. Then he dismounted and walked slowly up to her with a great stockwhip wound round his arm.

“Good evening, Eileen; how did you leave them all in Sydney?” he asked, coolly.

“My goodness, but you do look funny!” answered Eileen. “You are different; why, your Mother wouldn’t know you—you’ve grown that tall, and you’re getting fat, too, and fancy you being able to ride!”

“Oh, it doesn’t take a fellow long to learn that!” he answered, carelessly.

“I’ve got some nice presents for you from your mother,” said Eileen.

“Presents?” gasped Willie, with his eyes lighting up and his grown-up manner completely gone.

“Yes, a pair of stockings and a muffler and some tooth-paste and scented soap.”

“Ugh! Presents. I don’t call them presents,” said Willie, in tones of disgust. “Anything else?”

“What did you think I’d have?” asked Eileen, hotly. “A motor-car or a carriage and pair?”

“Come off,” said Willie, “I thought you might have a cricket bat or a football, or something that would be of some use and fun to a fellow, instead of old tooth-paste and old scenty soap; none of the men up here use scenty soap, I bet.”

“No, and it might be all the better if they did,” flashed Eileen; “and, another thing, I think you’ve got real spoilt since you came up here, with your stuck up, grown-up airs, for a kid of your age.”

“Oh, come in Eileen, before you two start fighting!” said Mollie, with a laugh.

“Fighting!” echoed Willie. “Pshaw, I wouldn’t fight with a girl!”

They all met again before teatime, and chased round with the pet lambs, and climbed the fence of the calf-pen, and gazed at the little calves, and tried to coax out the chickens from under their mother’s wing, where they were nestled for the night.

“They’re such little beauties,” said Mollie. “Little fluffy golden ones and speckled and snowy white and brown, and some are real black.”

“Oh, the darlings!” said Eileen; “I’ll see them all in the morning.”

“An’ tometimes we ’as fosts in de mornin’s,” said Baby, clasping her chubby hands; “no fosts in Tidney?”

“No, you darling,” cried Eileen, “it’s as mild as butter down there. Oh! but I’m glad to be back again, for all Sydney’s niceness, and I’ll never, never, never grumble any more at the bush or the quietness or the work or anything else. I’m never going to grumble again as long as ever I live.”

“Oh, dear!” gasped Doris, shaking her head solemnly and looking in wonder at Eileen.

“Oh, dear!” said Eva, in tones of surprise.