Robin flung the gate open.

(See page [275])

ROBIN

BY

MARY GRANT BRUCE

Author of Hugh Stanford’s Luck, A Little Bush Maid,

Mates of Billabong, Norah of Billabong, ’Possum, etc.

AUSTRALIA:

CORNSTALK PUBLISHING COMPANY

89 CASTLEREAGH STREET, SYDNEY

1926

Wholly set up and printed in Australia by

The Eagle Press, Ltd., Allen Street, Waterloo

for

Angus & Robertson, Ltd.

89 Castlereagh Street, Sydney.

1926

Registered by the Postmaster-General for transmission

through the post as a book

Obtainable in Great Britain at the British Australian Bookstore, 51 High Holborn, London, W.C.1, the Bookstall in the Central Hall of Australia House, Strand, W.C., and from all other Booksellers; and (wholesale only) from the Australian Book Company, 16 Farringdon Avenue, London, E.C.4

CHAPTER I
CALTON HALL

“Gone!” said the cook, tragically.

“They can’t be,” said the parlourmaid, with that blank disbelief that is so helpful in times of stress. “Did you look in the cake-tin?”

“Did I look in the cake-tin?” demanded the cook, in tones of fury. “They was never in the cake-tin, and they aren’t now. Wotever may be the custom in your home, Elizer, it’s not my ’abit to pile up fresh cream-puffs in a cake-tin when they’re all filled with cream and just ready for a party. ’Ow’d they look, I arsk you, all messed up, and the cream stickin’ ’ere and there on ’em in blobs? I left ’em spread out singly on them two big blue dishes, same as I could serve ’em in two jiffs. And they’re gone.”

“There’s the dishes, right enough,” said the parlourmaid, still bent on being helpful. She inspected faint traces of cream on their blue expanse, with the air of a Sherlock Holmes. “They been there once, anyone can see. Oh, have another think, Cook, dear—you must have put them on the cake-plates!” She dashed hopefully at a large safe, peered into its recesses, and lost heart visibly on meeting only the cold stare of a big sirloin and a string of pallid sausages.

“Anyone as ’ud think I’d put cream-puffs in the meat-safe—!” said the cook, wearily. “ ’Ave sense, Elizer, if it’s any way possible. I tell you, I left ’em on the blue dishes; there’s the cake-plates all ready for ’em, clean d’oyleys an’ all. An’ not a cream-puff left! Well, you can search me. I give up.”

“But where can they have gone to?” wailed Eliza, dismally.

“I dunno. But there’s young limbs in this school as is equal to anything. It ain’t the first time things ’ave disappeared from my pantry. Scones I’ve missed, time and again; and there was sausage-rolls last week, and ’alf a jam-sandwidge another time. Lots of little oddments, as you might say. But this is ’olesale, an’ no mistake!”

Eliza was understood to murmur something feebly about the cat.

“Cat!” said the cook. “There’s cats enough and to spare, goodness knows, but cats don’t browse on scones and cream-puffs. It’s two-legged cats, or my name’s not Mary Ann Spinks—you mark my words, Elizer! Not that I’d mention names, nor even red ’air; but I have me suspicions!”

“Red hair!” ejaculated Eliza. “You aren’t thinking of Lucy Armitage? Her that’s a prefect?”

“I am not,” said the cook. “Prefeck or no prefeck, that one ’ud never ’ave spirit enough to come a-raidin’ anyone’s pantry. Not that I ’old with raidin’, Elizer, ’specially when it’s me own pantry. But I was young meself once, an’ I remember there was an apple-tree me an’ me brothers used to visit. Not our own apple-tree. I ’ave me memories. The apples weren’t any too good, ’specially as we always collared ’em green. It wasn’t ’ardly the apples we cared for, but the fun of it. Ah, well, one’s only young once, an’ the school food ain’t any too good either, as I well know.” The cook sighed, and apparently gave herself up to her memories.

“But raiding’s just stealing!” said Eliza, whose youth held no such recollections of buccaneering. She regarded the fat cook with a cold and disapproving eye.

“Not when you’re young it ain’t,” defended the cook.

“Well, I don’t see any difference,” Eliza stated. “Don’t the collect say to keep one’s hands from picking and stealing?”

“Ah, the collecks!” said the cook. “Them as wrote the collecks weren’t young, either. ’Tisn’t all of us lives up to ’em all the time—until we grow up, of course, that’s to say.”

Eliza was thinking deeply.

“Red hair!” she murmured. “Young Robin Hurst has red hair, and so has Annette Riley. Is it either of them you’re thinking of, Cook?”

“I’m not thinkin’ of anyone in particular,” averred the cook, definitely. “Not my business to think. Wot you an’ I ’ave got to bend our minds to is Miss Stone, an’ wot she’s goin’ to say when she finds there’s no cream-puffs for her party.”

“My Hevins, yes!” agreed Eliza. “And she’s that particular about having them always!”

“Don’t I know it!” the cook uttered. “ ’Cause why, they’re my specialty, an’ always ’ave been, wherever I’ve cooked. ‘Cream-puffs, of course, Cook,’ says she, yesterday, as sweet as sugar; ‘it isn’t a Calton Hall party without your puffs, you know!’ An’, though I says it, Elizer, they was never better.”

“Fair melted in me mouth, the ones you gave me, Cook,” said Eliza, soulfully.

“They would so. I must say, I’d like to see ’ow they manage ’em in the drorin-room, all in their Sunday best,” pondered the cook. “I can’t eat a cream-puff meself without needin’ a wash afterwards. But I s’pose they ’ave their dodges. Well, they won’t get any this afternoon to worry about, an’ that’s that. An’ it’s near four o’clock now, Elizer, an’ we’ve got to think of a substichoot.”

“My goodness!” Eliza uttered. “What are you goin’ to give ’em, Cook?”

“Fancy Mixed!” said the cook, grimly, advancing with slow dignity towards a tin that graced the upper shelf.

“Biscuits!” breathed Eliza, faintly. “She’ll take a fit, Miss Stone will. I never saw biscuits at one of her parties, all the time I’ve been here.”

“No, an’ you never won’t again, if I know it. I reckon I’ll keep the key of me pantry firm an’ tight in me pocket after this. It’s lowerin’ to me pride to send in fancy-mixed, but there it is—I ain’t a jugular, to conjure up a fresh set of puffs in ten minutes. Oh, well, they won’t starve: me scones take some beatin’, an’ there’s the other cakes. But them puffs lend tone to a party, Elizer, as you well know: an’ this particular party’s goin’ to be lackin’ in tone. Just you make the biscuits look as respectable as you can, while I make the tea: the bell’ll go any minute.” And Eliza, sighing deeply, prepared to face the tragedy of the drawing-room.

Meanwhile, under a great pine-tree that stood in the corner of the Calton Hall playground, three girls sat in a state of palpitating expectancy. School was dismissed for the day, and the “crocodile” walk, loathed by the boarders, which usually followed hard upon the heels of the last lesson, was not to take place—a joyful omission which always signalized the afternoons when Miss Stone gave a party, since the junior governesses, who escorted the “crocodile,” were required in the drawing-room to assist in pouring out tea. Sounds of mirth came from the tennis-courts, where a hastily-arranged tournament was in full swing. Across the playground the space sacred to juniors echoed with the shrill cries attending a game of rounders: other enthusiasts made merry over basketball. But the three under the pine-tree, although ready for tennis, were evidently a prey to emotions deeper than could be excited, at the moment, by any ordinary game.

“I know she’s been caught!” Annette Riley breathed, anxiously. “She ought to have been here ages ago.”

“Oh, give her time,” said Joyce Harrison, endeavouring to be comforting. “She might have been delayed in ever so many ways. Ten to one she’s found that the whole thing is no go, and she’s given it up, and is getting into her tennis things.”

“Not Robin,” said Betty O’Hara, quietly.

“Well, Robin can’t do everything she wants to, no matter how plucky she is,” Joyce responded. “And I really do hope she isn’t going to pull this off. She’s been in such an awful lot of rows already this term—Miss Stone’s getting madder and madder about her. I wish that silly ass of a Ruby hadn’t dared her to go raiding the sacred pantry.”

“So do I,” said Annette. “Everyone knows it isn’t safe to dare Robin to do anything. If you told her she wasn’t game to climb feet foremost up the electric-light pole, she’d be doing it in five minutes!”

“Ruby Bennett takes advantage of that,” Betty said hotly. “Half the scrapes that Robin has been in this term have had Ruby’s nasty little jeers at the bottom of them. And Robin’s such a dear old blind bat that she never sees it.”

“Well, Robin seems to like rows,” said Joyce. “But there will be an awful one if she’s caught this time.” She dropped her voice dramatically. “When Mother was down last week Miss Stone talked to her in her very stoniest manner about my being friends with Robin——said all sorts of horrid things about her wildness, and that she had a bad influence in the school. Poor old Mother was quite worried about it, until I made her see that Robin is just the straightest ever—she does mad things, but she wouldn’t tell a lie if she were burned alive!”

“I should just say she wouldn’t!” uttered Betty. “Robin a bad influence, indeed! I never heard such rubbish. Why, there isn’t a junior that wouldn’t lick her boots! Prigs like Lucy Armitage, of course——”

“Oh, old Lucy isn’t bad,” said Annette. “She’s rather overweighted by being a prefect, that’s all. She’s worried about Robin too, because Miss Stone told her she meant to make an example of her, next time she broke a rule. And Robin’s simply incapable of not breaking rules!”

“But she never does an underhand thing, as half of Miss Stone’s pets do,” said Betty. “Everyone knows that girls whose parents have money are all right in this school: Miss Stone keeps her telescope to her blind eye where they are concerned. If Robin’s mean old uncle were a bit more generous to her, she wouldn’t be Miss Stone’s black sheep. He must be a horrid old pig! Robin and her mother have a perfectly vile time at home. It’s no wonder the poor darling kicks over the traces when she gets away from him.” She fanned herself with her racquet. “I wish she’d come—it will be time for out set very soon.”

“Wonder if Miss Stone has caught her and locked her up,” conjectured Joyce, gloomily.

“Not much she hasn’t!” said a cheerful voice—and the three girls sprang up with exclamations of delight as a fourth whirled suddenly into their midst, laughing.

“Robin!—you didn’t manage it?”

“You weren’t caught?”

“Tell us what happened!”

“Easiest thing ever,” said Robin Hurst cheerfully, sitting down on the thick carpet of pine-needles. “I waited until the front-door bell was going every two minutes and Eliza was marking time between rings in the hall, and then I slipped into the servery. Cookie was up to her eyes in hot scones: just as she was brooding over the cooking of a great oven-trayful I dodged into the pantry—and oh, girls, you should have seen the cream-puffs!”

“Cream-puffs—wow!” said Annette.

“They were just waiting for me—two big blue dishes full. It seemed a sin to leave any, so I didn’t. That little suit-case of yours just held them all, Annette, darling—it’ll be a bit creamy, but I’ll clean it for you.”

“And nobody saw you?”

“Not a soul. It didn’t take two minutes. I shot up the back stairs just as Eliza came out—she was too full of importance to glance upwards, and tennis-shoes are nice quiet things. We’ll have a gorgeous supper to-night—and I’ll show Ruby Bennett I’m not as scared as she tried to make out.”

She laughed defiantly, tossing her hat from her mane of bright red hair. Even though shingled, Robin Hurst’s hair was a defiant mop, resisting all her efforts to make it resemble the sleek demureness of her schoolfellows’ heads. Its very colour was defiant: no such head of flame had ever before enlivened the sober rooms of Calton Hall. It blazed round a narrow delicate face, with clear pale skin that made its owner furious by its trick of blushing at the slightest provocation. Until humourously-inclined schoolgirls had found that the pastime was dangerous, it had been considered rather good fun to make Robin blush—to see the quick wave of colour surge to the very roots of her hair, and even down her neck. That was two years ago, when she had been a new girl, shy and uncertain of herself. Now that she was nearly sixteen, no one took liberties—it was too much like jesting with gunpowder.

For the rest, she was tall and very slender—almost boyish in her clean length of limb; with brown eyes that were rarely without a twinkle, and a mouth altogether too wide for good looks, with a little upward quirk at the corners. Lessons were abhorrent to her; history and poetry she loved, but in every other subject she held a firm position at the bottom of her class, and was wholly unrepentant about it. The teachers liked her, while they despaired of her. Miss Stone, the principal, regarded her with cold disapproval, as a girl who was never likely to reflect the slightest credit on the school. From the first she had shown a disregard of law and order that landed her perpetually in trouble. Whatever might be her deficiencies in class, she was possessed of an amazing ability for getting into scrapes—and for laughing her way out of them. She took her penalties cheerfully, and was ready to plan fresh mischief the next day.

An impatient hail came from the tennis-courts, and the four girls gathered themselves up and ran to answer it. Over a hard-fought set Robin apparently forgot altogether that any weight of crime lay upon her shoulders—possibly because she did not regard the raiding of a pantry as in the least criminal. She prepared for tea with serene cheerfulness, that deepened a little as she met Ruby Bennett’s enquiring eye.

“Well, how did the raid go?” asked Ruby, lightly. One was never quite sure of one’s ground with Robin: it was necessary to feel one’s way.

“What raid?” queried Robin, with an air of sublime innocence. They were filing into the dining-room, and conversation was frowned upon by the authorities during the procession.

Triumph flashed into the other girl’s face.

“I thought you wouldn’t be game!” she said, smiling unpleasantly. She went to her place, radiating satisfaction. Miss Stone was not present; it was usual for her to remain in seclusion on the evening following a party. The teachers, especially the junior ones, looked rather troubled, as if the festivity had not brought pleasure in its train. They were preoccupied, and when conversation at the long tables rose above its permitted hum they failed to quell it with their customary promptness. There were plates of biscuits on their table—Fancy Mixed—but they seemed to regard them without appetite.

These things did not trouble the pupils, who were unusually hungry—hard exercise in the playground having more effect upon the appetite than the slow and sinuous meanderings of a walk in crocodile formation. They ate all before them, and did not grumble unduly at the jam, which was that peculiar blend that arrives in very large tins, and is said to be nutritious—as, indeed, it may well be, having as a basis the wholesome turnip and vegetable marrow. Calton Hall was one of those semi-fashionable private schools that loom attractively in advertisements and preserve a certain amount of outside show, while assisting profits by a steady system of cheese-paring in matters under the surface: its boarders owed much of their healthy appearance to the fact that the digestion of youth is tough and long-enduring. Tea being over, they dispersed for the half-hour of liberty before preparation: during which time Robin and her friends were at some pains to avoid Ruby Bennett. That damsel was clearly bent on triumphing openly. Since, however, she could not find Robin, she philosophically postponed her jibes until bedtime, when her victim would be at her mercy in the dormitory.

Ruby was not the only occupant of Number Four who went up to bed with a keen sense of anticipation. Every girl knew that she had dared Robin Hurst to raid Miss Stone’s pantry: eight out of the twelve had gathered, more or less indirectly, that Robin had not taken up the challenge—and it was always interesting to see Robin baited, especially by Ruby Bennett, who had a very unpleasant knowledge of the best places to plant her winged darts. Robin’s peppery temper lent peculiar excitement to the frequent encounters between them.

It was, therefore, extremely disappointing to find that Robin took all Ruby’s jeers meekly on this eventful evening. She said very little, and what she did say was vague: she alluded apologetically to the manifold risks of raiding before a party, and led them to infer that her spirit had quailed at the task. Ruby rose to the occasion with vigour, though she might have been warned by her adversary’s suspicious humility: now was her chance to be avenged for many encounters when Robin had triumphed. She let all her smouldering jealousy of the more popular girl find vent in her sneers, until Number Four marvelled at Robin’s self-restraint.

That lasted until the lights were out and the teacher on duty had made her round. Then came stealthy movements and choked laughter; and the flash of Annette’s electric torch revealed Robin perched on the end of Betty’s bed, an elfish figure in pale-blue pyjamas.

“Friends—Romans—countrymen!” she declaimed. “Are you awake?”

Ten convulsive moments demonstrated that the dormitory was indeed astir. There was a sense of development in the air. Betty O’Hara giggled hopelessly. Ruby lay still.

“Miss Stone regrets—I feel sure she regrets—the poor and insufficient food set before you at the evening meal. She realizes that more is owing to you; that you cannot be expected to sleep without a little extra nourishment.”

“Robin, you lunatic—what have you been up to?” ejaculated someone.

“I am not a lunatic,” said Robin, with dignity. “I am the commissariat department of this dormitory, just as Ruby is its top-notch orator—when she gets a chance. It is my joyful privilege to beg you all to sit up—which I perceive ten of you are already doing—and to invite you to join in Miss Stone’s party festivities. Willingly and gladly have her guests denied themselves that you may now feast on Cook’s extra-special cream-puffs!”

Smothered yelps of joy broke out from the beds, and leaping figures hastened to form a ring round the red-haired speaker. Many hands patted her on the back, until she begged for mercy.

“Keep off, you stupids! And for goodness’ sake, be quiet, or you’ll have Miss Bryant in! Got the suit-case, Betty?”

“Robin, darling, how did you do it?”

“Quite easy, when you know how,” said Robin, airily. She opened the suit-case, and the torch revealed a mass of cream-cakes, more or less amalgamated by this time. But no one was critical.

“Help yourselves, everybody.” No second bidding was necessary. Ten hands plunged into the booty, and choked sounds of satisfaction arose. From Ruby’s bed came neither voice nor movement.

“Cream-puff, Ruby?” invited Robin.

“No, thanks,” said Ruby, sulkily.

“Too bad!” said the commissariat department. She selected a fairly undamaged puff, and took it over to Ruby’s bed, holding it within an inch of her nose. The nose twitched longingly, but pride was stronger than hunger.

“I don’t want it, I tell you. Take it away!”

“Oh, I really couldn’t,” said Robin, lightly. “They’re ever so good, aren’t they, girls? I couldn’t bear you to go without any, when I really did risk my life and liberty to get them for you.” She laid the delicacy gently on Ruby’s pillow, disregarding a furious command to take it away, and capered back to the circle of girls, who were choking with laughter, between mouthfuls.

“All gone!” said Joyce, mournfully. “Oh, but they were lovely, Robin!”

“Robin Hurst!” said Betty, suddenly. “You never had one yourself!”

“Didn’t I?” answered Robin, innocently. “Well, that was an oversight on my part. Never mind, I really don’t much like squashed cream-puff. Next time I have the chance of—er—abstracting any, young ladies, I shall endeavour to pack them more neatly.”

“Oh, that’s a shame, Robin—when you ran all the risk. What beasts we are! And I had three!”

“I had all the fun—except what Ruby had,” laughed Robin. “It was worth it. And Ruby did enjoy herself so. Own up you’re beaten, Ruby, and eat that puff!”

“Cave!” said someone, in a sharp whisper.

There was a faint sound in the passage. Robin shot the empty suit-case under the bed, and in a moment every girl’s head was meekly on her pillow, as the door opened and Miss Stone’s portly figure appeared. She switched on the dormitory light. Behind her, Miss Bryant’s face showed, worried and anxious.

“Girls, what are you doing?”

There was profound silence.

“I heard your voices—you need not pretend to be asleep.” The principal’s angry glance swept the long room. “Joyce Harrison—what have you been doing?”

“Talking, Miss Stone.”

“And what else?”

No answer. Mild surprise was visible on Joyce’s innocent face. Talking in bed was against the rules—to admit to one breach of regulations seemed to her sufficient.

“You need not try to hide your guilt from me,” boomed Miss Stone, in tones of concentrated wrath. “I am very certain of what has been going on.” She moved from one bed to another, peering with short-sighted eyes. “What is that on your pillow, Ruby?”

She made a hasty step forward, and her foot caught on a trailing blanket. Stumbling, she put out her hand, to save herself. It came down squarely on Ruby’s neglected cream-puff. Triumph mingled with disgust as she regained her balance, cream dripping from the hand she held aloft.

“I thought as much! A towel, if you please, Miss Bryant—quickly! You wicked, deceitful girls! Which of you stole these cakes from my pantry this afternoon?”

The profound silence that greeted this question was broken by a smothered burst of irrepressible laughter from two beds at the end of the room. The scene had been too much for Robin and Betty. They ducked their heads beneath the clothes, whence gurgles proceeded.

It was all that was necessary to fan Miss Stone’s anger to white heat. Words failed her for a moment, while she rubbed furiously at her sticky hand.

“You will find it by no means a joke, young ladies,” she said, bitterly, her voice shaking. “Ruby Bennett, what do you know of this theft?”

“I didn’t do it,” said Ruby, sulkily.

“The cake was on your pillow—do you think I am going to believe that you know nothing of it? Answer me!”

“I never touched your cakes—and I never ate any,” Ruby gulped. Fear of Miss Stone’s wrath mingled with fear of her schoolfellows, should she tell all she longed to tell.

“Did you put the cake on your pillow?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then who did?”

“I—I—”

Robin Hurst sat up in bed, her hair a vivid flame round her pale face.

“Oh, Ruby doesn’t know anything about it, Miss Stone,” she said, her voice faintly bored. “I did it all. None of the others had anything to do with it.”

Joyce, Betty, and Annette bobbed up with Jack-in-the-box effect.

“We were in it too, Miss Stone!”

“That’s not true!” flashed Robin. “I took them by myself.”

Miss Stone surveyed them bitterly.

“I had guessed you were at the bottom of it, Robin Hurst,” she said. “No other girl in the school would lower herself by the actions in which you find pleasure. I warned you last week—this time I shall certainly make an example of you. Do not go into school in the morning; you may come to my study at half-past-nine!” She swept majestically from the room, leaving silence and consternation behind her.

CHAPTER II
NEXT DAY

The school hummed in the morning. Before breakfast it was known that a row transcending all other rows had occurred in the night, and that Robin Hurst, who had figured in so many scrapes before, was liable to “catch it” this time with unexampled severity. Fearful stories of the wrath of Miss Stone circulated among the juniors. It was reported that she had fallen into a basket of stolen cream-puffs, rising in a condition of messiness and fury most terrifying to contemplate. That Robin had been foolish enough to laugh at the wrong moment was readily believed—it was the kind of lunatic thing that Robin would do. As to her punishment, the school palpitated amid the wildest guesses. Expulsion was hinted at by a few, since ordinary penalties seemed feeble, considering Miss Stone’s anger. The whole dormitory was to suffer—except Ruby Bennett, who, having instigated the crime, had refused to share in its fruits. Ruby found herself ostentatiously cold-shouldered.

Whatever thoughts or doubts mingled in Robin’s mind, she gave no hint of them to anyone else. Before breakfast, she risked further trouble by a whirlwind visit to the kitchen, for the purpose of making her peace with the cook.

“I’m afraid I gave you an awful lot of trouble, Cook,” she said, breathlessly. “It wasn’t that I really wanted the blessed things, you know—but it was a dare, so I had to get them. Please don’t be cross with me!”

“Some day you’ll take a dare once too often, my young lady!” said Cook, affecting sternness, and grinning in spite of herself.

“I’m not sure that I haven’t done it this time,” answered Robin, with a sigh and a twinkle. “There’s going to be an awful row. Well, I don’t care if I am sent away—except for Mother. She’d hate it. If I’m only a red-haired memory to-morrow, Cookie, darling, think of me kindly and remember I loved you. And they were scrumptious cream-puffs!”

“They say you never tasted one of them,” said the cook. For gossip travels swiftly in a school.

Robin tilted her nose.

“Well—no,” she said. “I don’t snare things to eat them myself. It’s different, you see.”

It was hardly a lucid explanation, but the cook saw.

“Well, between you an’ me, I rather any day they went to you young things than to the droring-room,” she said. “I ’ope she won’t be too ’ard on you, my dear, for ’twas only a prank—but ’er state of mind was fair ’orrible, Elizer said, when she saw them Fancy Mixed biscuits I ’ad to send in, instead!”

Robin gave a low chuckle.

“It would be,” she said. “Well I must run, Cookie dear, for it will be the end of all things if I’m caught. But I had to tell you I was sorry!” She flashed a smile at the cook, and was gone.

Breakfast was eaten in unhappy silence: the weight of disgrace that lay over Number Four dormitory was felt by all the boarders, and many surreptitious glances were stolen at Miss Stone’s grim face, striving to forecast the extent of the penalty to be exacted from the chief sinner. In the playground, afterwards, Robin found her three allies banded together by a high resolve.

“We’re going in with you,” Betty stated.

“To Miss Stone? Indeed you’re not, my children!”

“We’re just as much in it as you are,” said Annette. “We knew all about it beforehand.”

“I never heard such rubbish,” said Robin, laughing. “I was the only criminal, and now I’m the only one asked to the party. You can’t butt in without an invitation—it isn’t polite!”

“Bother politeness!” Betty’s voice was almost tearful. “It will be ever so much better if she has four of us to deal with, Robin, dear—she can’t expel four of us.”

“She isn’t likely to expel any one,” Robin answered, in cheery tones that hid her own forebodings. “But if she is, I’m the one, and you three have nothing to do with it.”

“It isn’t fair for you to put on that ‘Alone I did it!’ air,” said Joyce. “You were only the catspaw; as Annette says, we knew all about it, so we’re just as guilty. I think all Number Four ought to go in with you.”

“What—Ruby too? Wild horses wouldn’t drag her, and you know it.”

“Oh—Ruby!” Joyce’s tone was scornful. “She doesn’t count. Anyone else would have whipped that beastly cream-puff under her pillow, but she just let it sit there to give us all away. She’s an outcast!”

“She’ll emerge with a perfectly good halo, in Miss Stone’s eyes,” said Robin, laughing. “I can see Ruby as a prefect before long, ruling us all with a rod of iron. But truly, girls, you can’t come with me. I’ve got to take my gruel alone.”

“You can’t stop us,” Betty said, stubbornly.

“It will only make things worse,” Robin pleaded. “Miss Stone wants a victim, but she doesn’t want four: she will be madder than ever if you all march into the study. And it isn’t fair, no matter how you look at it. I’m the Knave of Hearts who stole the tarts, and if I have to be beaten full sore, well, it’s just. You can’t get away from it, that it is just.”

“Justice is all right, but Miss Stone can be such a pig,” said Annette. “If she hadn’t such a down on you, already, Robin, we wouldn’t mind. We’re coming, and that’s all about it.”

The big bell clanged out, and from every quarter the girls began to hurry towards the schoolroom.

“Well, I must go,” Robin said, straightening her shoulders. “Trot off into school, my dears, or you will be marked late.” She smiled at them, turning to go.

“We’re coming,” said the three, in an obstinate chorus. They formed round her, and marched across the playground and into the house, while Robin protested vainly. She was still protesting when they reached the study door and Joyce tapped gently.

Miss Stone’s eyebrows went up as they filed into the room.

“I summoned Robin only,” she said, stiffly. “Why are you all here?”

“We were in it too, Miss Stone,” Joyce said. “It doesn’t seem fair to us for Robin to take all the blame.”

The principal looked at them indifferently.

“Possibly I have not understood fully,” she said, with cold politeness. “You mean me to believe that you were concerned in the robbery yesterday?”

Joyce flushed angrily.

“We knew Robin meant to take the things—if she could.”

“Quite so. And you were willing to let her do it?”

“It was only a joke—another girl had dared her to do it.”

“But you did not help in this very peculiar species of joke?”

“No. But we would have, if Robin had wanted help.”

“They had nothing whatever to do with it, Miss Stone!” Robin interrupted, hotly. “It was entirely my own affair. It’s quite ridiculous for them to come in with me. I’m the only one who should be punished.”

“I am glad you realize that,” said Miss Stone, smoothly. “Everyone who helped to gorge upon what you stole is worthy of punishment, and will certainly be dealt with in due course; but you were evidently the ringleader, as you have been so often before in every kind of lawlessness. Since your companions have chosen to burst into my study with you they may remain to hear what I have to say to you.”

“I wish you would send them away,” muttered Robin.

“I daresay you do. But it may hinder them from following in your footsteps if they are enabled to form a clear idea of how such behaviour as yours is regarded by people with ordinary ideas of honour.”

The colour surged over Robin’s face, and ebbed as quickly, leaving it very white. Betty O’Hara uttered a choked exclamation.

“Miss Stone! Robin’s the honourablest girl——!”

“Is she?” Miss Stone smiled faintly. “I fear that does not say much for the others—if I accept your view, Betty. But then, I do not.” She paused, and took off her pince-nez as though fearing they might be a handicap to her eloquence. Then, very deliberately, she proceeded to avenge her wrongs by dissecting Robin’s character.

The three who listened carried away no very clear idea of the long oration that followed. They heard the smooth voice rising and falling in waves of scorn and condemnation; but most of their attention was centred on the white face of their companion, who listened to the recital of her own misdeeds in utter silence, infuriating the principal by the shadow of a smile that lurked about the corners of her mouth. Miss Stone was a woman of an evil temper: she had never liked Robin, and she had chosen to consider herself humiliated. Now she forgot that the girl before her was little more than a child, and her anger grew as she lashed her pitilessly with her tongue. She searched an ample vocabulary for the most stinging words: her voice was bitter as she spoke of deceit, theft, dishonour, meanness, greed. “If Robin had been a murderess she couldn’t have been more beastly,” said Annette, tearfully, later. And Robin listened, and the little smile did not fail.

“I have not made up my mind whether I can permit you to remain in the school,” finished the principal, as breath began to grow short. “The disgrace to your mother weighs with me, of course, though I cannot expect it to weigh with you: but I have to consider your contaminating effect upon my other pupils. For the present you will remain entirely apart from the others, studying, sleeping, and taking your meals alone, and debarred from all games. Later on——”

There was a knock at the door. Eliza entered, visibly nervous at finding herself in the hall of justice, yet able to send a look of sympathy at the criminal in the dock.

“I told you I was not to be disturbed, Eliza,” said Miss Stone, angrily.

“Sorry ma’am. But it’s a telegram, and it’s marked “Urgent.” So I thought I’d better bring it in.”

Miss Stone took the envelope from her hand, and tore it open hastily. Her face changed. She looked at Robin uncertainly.

“This—this alters matters,” she said. “It concerns you, Robin.”

All the defiant carelessness died out of Robin’s face. She sprang forward.

“Mother!” she cried, and her voice was a wail. “It isn’t Mother!”

“No—no. Not your Mother. She has telegraphed for you to go home at once. There is bad news for you, I am afraid.”

“Then she is ill! Tell me, quickly!”

“It is not your mother at all,” Miss Stone answered. “It is your uncle. He—he died yesterday, my dear.”

Robin stared at her, helpless in her overwhelming rush of relief.

“Oh—Uncle Donald!” she said. She gave a short laugh, and caught at Betty to steady herself, forgetting Miss Stone altogether. “I—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to laugh. But I thought it was Mother!”

CHAPTER III
MERRI CREEK

It was late on the afternoon of the following day when Robin Hurst changed from the main line and entered the narrow-gauge train which marked the final stage of her journey home. The little line was a new one, opening up a great stretch of bush country that had hitherto been almost unknown, save for scattered farms and sawmills, where plucky settlers earned a hard enough living among the giant hills. Robin had not travelled on it before: it was still under construction when she had left home after the May holidays. She remembered her drive to the station then, over twelve miles of bad road, in torrents of rain. She and her mother, half-smothered in heavy black oilskins, had tried to be merry as they urged the slow old horse up and down the hills: she had a sudden very vivid memory of her mother’s face, still determinedly cheerful, when the train that they had only just managed to catch puffed out of the station. Mrs. Hurst had stood on the platform, tall and erect, the water dripping from her hat and coat, and forming a widening pool round her: and though her smile had been gay, Robin had never forgotten the loneliness of her eyes.

Now she settled herself in the corner of an empty carriage with an unwonted sense of relief. She did not for a moment pretend to herself that Uncle Donald’s death caused her the slightest grief. He had been her father’s brother, very much older than the big, cheery red-haired father whose death, three years before, had left his wife and child alone and almost penniless. Until then, their home had been in the Wimmera district, and they had scarcely known Donald Hurst: but when everything was over, and he realized the helplessness of their position, he had offered them a home.

They had taken it gratefully enough, and through the years that followed they had tried to please the hard old man: but it had never been a happy home. Donald Hurst’s wife had died many years before, and there had been no children; he was alone in the world, and he had asked nothing better than to be alone. He lived in a house much too big for him, with an old housekeeper as hard and dour as himself, and made the most of his small hill-farm; it would not have been enough had he not possessed a small private income as well. At first Mrs. Hurst had tried to teach Robin herself, for there was no school within five miles. Then, realizing that the girl was beyond her powers of teaching, she had come to an arrangement with her brother-in-law, by which she took the place of the housekeeper, and with the money thus saved he paid Robin’s expenses at a school near Melbourne.

It was a very profitable arrangement for Donald Hurst. The housekeeper had been wasteful and lazy; had demanded high wages and had cooked abominably. Now he saved her wages and “keep,” as well as that of Robin; and if he groaned heavily over the school-bills, he knew well that he was a gainer by the transaction. Mrs. Hurst made his house run on oiled wheels: his meals were better, his monthly store-accounts less. Most of the house remained shut up, but the rooms they occupied shone with a cleanliness they had not known for years. The old man chuckled in the depths of his calculating old soul.

It pleased him, too, to be without Robin. He hated all children, and Robin, with her red hair and her overflowing high spirits, reminded him sharply of the younger brother he had never liked, and of whom he had always been jealous. She was constantly getting into trouble; it seemed almost impossible for a day to pass without a brush between her uncle and herself. Robin had never known anything but happiness. It puzzled her, and brought out all that was worst in her nature, to be in a house where there was no home-like atmosphere—where grumbling and fault-finding were perpetual. She grew reckless and daring; dodging her uncle’s wrath when she could, and bearing it with a careless shrug when to dodge was impossible. Even though losing Robin condemned her mother to ceaseless loneliness she was glad to see the child go.

Holidays had been rather more bearable, although the long Christmas vacations had strained endurance more than once to breaking-point. Robin thought of them now with a surge of dull anger against her uncle that suddenly horrified her, seeing that he was dead, and could trouble her no more. How she and her mother had longed for a tiny place just for themselves during those precious weeks! Even a tent in the bush would have been Paradise, compared to the gloomy house where at any time the loud, angry voice might break in upon them with complaints and stupid grumbling. And now it could never happen any more. “I don’t care if it’s wicked,” Robin muttered to herself. “He was a bad old man, and I’m glad he’s dead!”

The train crawled slowly out of the junction and wound its way between the hills she knew. Robin looked out eagerly. Below her wound the road over which she had often travelled behind slow old Roany: she could see that it had been made freshly, most likely to assist in the construction of the railway. Its smooth, well-rolled surface struck an odd note, remembering what seas of mud they had often ploughed through on their journeys to the township. Slow and toilsome as those drives had been, she looked back to them as the brightest parts of her holidays, since then they had known that for hours they would be free from Uncle Donald’s strident voice.

It was early September now. The winter had been unusually mild and dry, and the hills were gay with wattle-blossom, which shone in dense masses of gold along the line of the creek in the valley below. Already the willows were budding: the sap, racing through their limbs, turned them to a coppery glow against the sunset. “Early Nancy” starred the grass in the cultivated fields with its myriad flowers: Robin almost fancied she could smell their faint, spicy fragrance. She longed to lie in the deep, cool grass, forgetting the long months of Melbourne dust and the school that she had hated. Ayrshire cows, knee-deep in marshy pools, glanced up lazily as the train puffed by, too contented to allow themselves to be disturbed: once a huge bull stared defiantly, his great head thrust forward, the sunlight rippling on his beautiful, dappled brown and white coat. Robin drew a long breath of utter happiness. Soon she would be home: and there would be mother waiting, and before them would stretch the long, quiet evening, with no harsh voice to mar its peace. Surely it was not wicked to be glad!

Gradually, as they left the township farther and farther behind, the farms became fewer and more isolated, giving place to long stretches of rough hill-country. Here there was little dairying land, and scarcely any cultivation; the holdings were only partially cleared, ring-barked timber standing out, gaunt and grey, from the surrounding undergrowth. There was evidence of the ceaseless war against bracken fern and rabbits: paddocks littered with dry, cut ferns showed a fresh crop of green fronds starting vigorously to replace them, and among them were innumerable rabbit-burrows. Already the evening was tempting their inhabitants to appear: as the train came round curves, a score of grey-brown bodies went scurrying over the hillside, and a score of white tails gleamed for an instant as their owners dived into the safety of the underworld.

They came to a little siding presently, and pulled up for a brief halt. There were no station buildings: the tall timber came almost to the railway line, save for a clearing where a sawmill had established itself, gaunt and hideous, with huge piles of giant logs waiting their turn at the shrieking saw, and great heaps of brown sawdust bearing mute testimony to those which had already met their fate. Now, freshly cut, and still fragrant with resin and gum, they waited for the trucks that should bear them to Melbourne—stacks of smooth timber, among which played the half-wild children of the mill encampment. Here and there were the tents of the workmen; their wives, thin brown women, looking almost like men, came hurrying out to greet the train that made the great event of each day. The guard flung upon the ground beside the line the stores brought from the township: sacks of bread, boxes of groceries, meat in blood-stained bags. The children came running to get them. Robin, leaning out, offered them the remains of the fruit and sweets the girls had packed into her travelling basket that morning—pressing them into grubby brown hands, whose owners hung back, half-shy, wholly longing. Then the engine-whistle made the hills echo, and the little train drew away—to be swallowed up in a moment by the tall trees.

There was a hint of dusk in the evening sky when they drew into the terminus, a tiny station in a more cleared area. Robin had the door open before the train had come to a standstill. There was the tall figure waiting, just as she had dreamed—waiting with her face alight with the joy of welcome. Robin flung herself at her mother, holding her with strong young arms.

“Oh, Mother!—poor old Mother!”

“Oh. I’m glad to have you!” breathed Mrs. Hurst, with a deep sigh. “I had to get you, Robin—I couldn’t wait.”

“I should think not! Has it been very dreadful, Mother, darling?”

“Pretty dreadful.” The tall woman shuddered slightly. “Never mind—I’ve got you now. Let us get home as quickly as we can.”

There were friendly hands to lift Robin’s trunk into the battered old buggy outside the station, and warm, kindly words of welcome; all the farmers about Merri Creek knew Mrs. Hurst and the long-legged, red-haired girl who used to run wild over their paddocks, and their wives had proved Alice Hurst’s kindness in a hundred ways. They looked at her this evening with an added touch of respect and sympathy. Old Donald Hurst’s rough nature had made him an unpopular figure in the district, and the weary life led with him by his sister-in-law was no secret. They knew she had been a drudge, unpaid save for her child’s school-fees; but hard work was the daily portion of most of the women of the bush. They pitied her, not for that, but because of the ceaseless bitterness of the old man’s tongue. It had been no easy thing, to live upon his bounty.

Robin and her mother climbed into the buggy, said “Good-night,” and took the road that wound along the valley. The horse jogged slowly, and Mrs. Hurst let him take his own pace. She drove with one hand resting on Robin’s knee, apparently unwilling to talk, only glad of her nearness; and Robin, after one glance at her worn face, was silent, too. They understood each other very well. When Mother felt that she could talk, Robin would be ready.

When they turned in at the gate of Hill Farm, it was almost dark. Roany jogged more quickly up the track that led to the stable-yard, where a big, awkward lad waited, grinning cheerfully.

“ ’Ullo, Miss Robin! Glad to see y’ back.”

“Hallo, Danny!” Robin jumped out lightly, and shook hands with him. “How are all your people?”

“Good-oh, thanks, Miss Robin. Jus’ you leave the ol’ horse to me, an’ I’ll bring your box in presently. Kettle’s near boilin’, Mrs. Hurst, an’ I lit the kitchen lamp.”

“That’s very good of you, Danny.” Mrs. Hurst’s voice was utterly weary, but she forced a smile, and the big fellow beamed in answer. Robin gathered her light luggage, following her mother to the house.

The kitchen was bright with lamp-light and the glow of the fire. Robin put down her burdens and went to her mother, taking off her hat and coat as if she were a child. Then she looked at her deliberately.

“Ah, you’re just dead-beat, Mummie!” she said softly. She gathered the tall form into her arms, holding her closely, patting her with little loving touches; and Mrs. Hurst put her head on the young shoulder, and shook with sobs that had no tears. So they stayed for a few moments. Then the mother pulled herself together.

“Oh, it is just beautiful to feel you are home!” she said. “Come to your room, darling—you must be so hungry and tired. Tea is all ready, except for the toast, and that won’t take three minutes.”

“It won’t take you any time at all,” said Robin, masterfully. “You’re going to do as you’re told, for one night, anyhow, Mrs. Hurst!” She led her into the dining-room, and put her firmly on the couch: in spite of her protests she took off her shoes, dashing to her room for a pair of soft slippers.

“Now you just lie quiet,” she ordered, as she lit the lamp. “Oh, you’ve got the fire laid!—how ripping! It isn’t really cold, but I’ll put a match to it, I think, don’t you? a fire’s so cosy when you’re tired. What a jolly tea, Mummie! that cake is just an extra-special, and you had no business to make it, but I’ll eat an awful lot. Oh, and I’ve been getting into a most horrible row over cakes!—they were cream-puffs, and I’ll tell you all about them presently. Feet warm?” She took off the slippers and felt her mother’s feet, proceeding to rub them vigorously. “They’re just like frogs—when the fire burns up well you’ll have to toast them; I’ll just get you a rug for the present.” She covered her gently, dropping a kiss on her forehead as she straightened the rug. “Now, you lie still and don’t argue—remember you’ve got a daughter to bully you. I’ll have the toast made in a jiffy. Shall I make Danny’s tea in the little teapot?”

“Yes, please, darling,” said Mrs. Hurst, smiling faintly. “But it’s too bad for you to be working after your long journey. I can quite well——”

“Never saw such a woman to talk nonsense,” said Robin. “Lie quiet, or I’ll have to sit on you, and then we’ll never get tea—and I’m so hungry!” She went swiftly into the adjoining kitchen, leaving the door open, and talking cheerfully while she cut bread and poked the fire. “Isn’t it splendid to have the railway at last! I was quite thrilled to travel on it for the first time, and to think how often we’d jogged along that dreary old road. It’s so lovely to be back, and to see hills and paddocks again, after months of dingy grey streets: and the wattle is just beautiful all the way out. That you, Danny? come in. I’ll have your tea ready in a moment.”

“I put your things in your room, Miss Robin,” Danny said. “Got plenty of wood? I got a lot cut outside.”

“I’ll want a big log for the dining-room fire after tea, thanks, Danny.”

“Right-oh. I’ll go an’ ’ave a bit of a wash.” He went out clumsily, and Robin finished her preparations.

“There!” she said at length. “I’ll shut the door, and we’ll be all cosy and comfortable. I can hardly realize that I’m back, unless I keep looking at you all the time! Let me bring your tea to the couch, Mummie, dear.”

“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Hurst, with decision. “I’m not so bad as that.” She got up and came across to where Robin stood, smiling down at her. “Let me wash my hands, and I shall be able to enjoy the luxury of sitting down with my daughter.”

“If only Miss Stone regarded me as you do, how happy she might be!” remarked Robin. “She has a total lack of appreciation of my finer qualities.” Over their meal she told her mother the harrowing story of the cream-puffs, and had the satisfaction of making her laugh more than once. To anyone who knew Miss Stone the mental vision of her plunging into Ruby Bennett’s discarded delicacy was not without humour.

“I don’t approve, of course,” said Mrs. Hurst. “It was really naughty of you, Robin, and you are old enough to know better. But I think I can leave that part of it to Miss Stone.”

“You can, indeed,” Robin assured her. “Her remarks left nothing to the imagination.”

“I suppose I would have been distressed, but nothing seems to matter much now,” said her mother. “For school is over for you, I’m afraid, dearest. You can never go back to Calton Hall.”

“Mother! Say it again!”

“Ah, it isn’t a joke, beloved,” said Mrs. Hurst. “It is a great grief to me. You are not sixteen: I had so hoped for two years yet at school for you.”

“I wouldn’t be anything but a dunce if I went to school for twenty years,” stated her daughter, with shining eyes. “I know enough now for life in the country, and that’s what I’m always going to have. Oh, Mother, I’m so glad! I’m sorry you aren’t, but I can’t help it: I’m just glad all over!”

She stopped abruptly, looking at her mother’s white face.

“Now, you’re just going to lie down again while I clear the table and wash up,” she said. “Then I’ll put a big log on the fire, and you’re going to tell me everything.”

CHAPTER IV
PLANS AND PROBLEMS

“There isn’t so much to tell you,” Mrs. Hurst said. The room was tidy, the kitchen work done; Robin had made up the fire and pulled her mother’s couch close to it. She sat on the hearthrug near her; so near that Mrs. Hurst could put out her hand and touch the shining red hair.

“I don’t know anything, you see,” Robin answered. “Was he—was Uncle Donald ill long, Mummie?”

“Only about ten days. He had been very trying for over a month: his temper was worse than ever, and nothing I could do seemed to please him. I think the poor old man must have been suffering, but he would never tell me anything, and there were times when I was almost in despair. Then one night he would not eat, and when I took him some nourishment after he had gone to bed he flew into a violent passion and shouted at me until even Danny woke and came running to see what was the matter.”

Robin set her lips.

“I suppose I ought to be sorry that he’s dead,” she said. “But I can’t be, Mother—I just can’t. He was a bad, cruel old man. That anyone should speak to you like that—!”

“I think he was sorry afterwards. The fit of anger ended in a violent coughing attack, and at last he fainted. I sent Danny to the village to telephone for the doctor, but he was away in the hills and could not get here until the next day, about noon, and I had a terrible time trying to keep Uncle Donald in bed: he would try to get up and dress, but he always fainted. When the doctor came he became more obedient. The doctor told me from the first that there was no hope.”

“You should have got me home,” breathed Robin. She found her mother’s hand and held it tightly.

Mrs. Hurst shuddered.

“I would not have had you here for anything. He was very difficult to manage—his temper seemed to get quite beyond his control. And all the time he hated me, Robin—he just hated me. You could see it in every look he gave me, not only in the bitter things he said.”

“And you had no help?”

“I tried to get a nurse, but there were none to be had. Some of the women about here came when they could, and Danny was a great comfort. There was really very little to be done for the poor old man. But it was a very heart-breaking thing to see him dying like that—hating everyone, and with his heart full of malice. Thank God, at the last the evil spirit seemed to leave him. For it really was an evil spirit, Robin: something that seemed to take possession of him, and to control his mind.”

“And it left him?” said Robin, awed.

“Twenty-four hours before he died. He woke up from a long sleep, very weak, but quite rational and quiet. The first thing he said was to tell me to get the lawyer out from the township at once—Mr. Briggs. Fortunately, Danny was able to get him on the telephone and he came out in a car immediately, with his clerk. Uncle Donald got him to make his will, and they propped him up while he signed it. It was all very distressing, for he was so weak, and we feared he might die at any moment. After the business was done he seemed to grow stronger, and talked to me quite kindly.”

“I’m glad he did,” said Robin. “It would have been awful if he had died in that wicked mood.”

“Yes—it would have been terrible. He said once, ‘You’ve been very kind to me, Alice, and I’ve been very hard on you.’ And he asked me to forgive him—poor old man! He seemed to want to have me with him after that, and he liked me to hold his hand. I was holding it when he died, very early the next morning.”

“I wish you had got me sooner,” said Robin, very low.

“I did not want to get you until—until everything was over. The funeral was this morning. And after that I felt as if I could hardly wait until you came.”

Robin put her cheek against the hand she held, and for a while they were silent.

“You must be just worn out, Mummie,” the girl said, at length.

“Oh, I shall be quite well in a few days. I think I did not know how tired I was until I saw you. Then I seemed to go all to pieces.” She smiled at the bent head. “It was feeling that I had someone to lean upon, I suppose.”

“Well, you’d better just lean hard,” said Robin, sturdily. “You’re going to be an invalid for a few days—I mean to keep you in bed, and make you forget everything: we’ve got such heaps to talk about. Mummie, are we going to be very poor?”

“Are you afraid of being poor?”

“Not a bit. We’ve never been anything else, have we? As long as we are together I don’t mind anything at all.”

“We shall be very poor, my girl. Uncle Donald left me all he had, but it is not much. Most of his income came from money he had sunk in an annuity, and that, of course, died with him. The farm is not valuable. I consulted Mr. Briggs about selling it, but he thinks there would be no chance of that, and that we should get very little, even if we were able to sell.”

“But we can’t work it, can we? I’ll do anything in the world to help, Mummie, but I know two women can’t run the place.”

“No, we couldn’t possibly work it; even if we employed a man it could hardly be carried on, and wages and keep would eat up the profits. Properties are hard to sell just now, Mr. Briggs says; people are afraid of the difficult life on the hill farms, with the constant struggle against rabbits and bracken. He thinks he could let the land to one of the neighbours: the Merritts need more land, he says, now that the railway has come and they can get their produce away more easily. He advises us to let the paddocks, retaining the house and the few acres round it. With very great care I think we could live on the income we should get. But it would mean looking at every penny twice.”

“Well, you know best, Mother, darling. What could we do if we didn’t let the land to Mr. Merritt?”

“I think we have very little choice. Selling is out of the question, for the present, at any rate. We might try to let the whole property, with the house; if we could do that I might get some work in Melbourne that would add to our income. But work is hard to get, for anyone of my age; and I should hardly know what to do with you.”

“I think that’s a perfectly hateful idea!” Robin sat up with a jerk. “You mean to go slaving in some beastly shop or office, I suppose—wearing yourself out altogether! Don’t you think we could manage to stay on here, Mother? We could live on awfully little—I can shoot rabbits and catch fish, and we hardly need any clothes out in this lonely place! And it would be so lovely to be together again—just you and I. You know how we used to ache to be by ourselves somewhere, in the holidays.”

“Do you think I don’t want it as much as you do? I have thought of nothing else. Oh, I think we may venture to try it, Robin—even if it were only for a year or two. I wouldn’t want you to stay here too long: when you are eighteen I should like you to learn typewriting and shorthand, so that you would have a profession to fall back upon.”

“I don’t seem to care what we do in a couple of years,” Robin said, laughing. “But at present I want to stay here, in this jolly old place, and feel that it’s our very own, and that no one can turn us out of it. It is such a dear old house, and we could make it so pretty. We’ll have a scrumptious garden, Mummie: I can do the digging, and you’ll supply the brains. I don’t see why we shouldn’t sell vegetables, because of course we can never eat all we grow!”

“That might be an idea,” said Mrs. Hurst, thoughtfully. “Now that the railway is here it would be easy to send fresh vegetables into Baroin once a week.”

“We’ll make heaps of money,” said Robin, with the gay confidence of nearly sixteen. “And rabbits, Mummie—isn’t it a mercy that Father taught me to shoot, and that we have his gun? Nice young bunnies ought to be very saleable—and think of the skins! they are worth ever so much. Danny can teach me to prepare them. We’ll have to do without Danny. I suppose?”

“Yes—we have no chance of keeping a boy. The cows must be sold. I thought we would keep the little Jersey: she has a beautiful calf a week old. She will give us more butter than we need, but I can sell it at the store in the village.”

“Well, I can milk her,” said Robin.

“That will be my job,” said her mother, with firmness.

“Certainly, if you get there first!” rejoined Robin politely. They laughed at each other, and Mrs. Hurst gave a great sigh of happiness.

“Oh, if you knew what a difference it makes to have you!” she said. “Everything looked black to me, and I was sure I could not manage to make both ends meet. And I’m not sure now: we are certain to have a hard struggle, with plenty of anxiety and care, but nothing seems to matter so much now.”

“I don’t see how anything can matter much, if we are together,” said Robin, simply. “We’re both strong—at least you will be after you have had a good rest—and you’re nearly as young as I am—”

“Robin, what nonsense!”

“Indeed, you are—you know Father married you and ran away with you when you hardly had your hair up! and you’ll grow younger every year, because we’re going to make a joke of everything, and there will be no one to be cross with you any more. At least, I shall be very cross with you if you try to do foolish things like milking cows—but you’ll soon learn that it isn’t safe! And everything will be tremendous fun, even if we have to live on turnips and buttermilk. I think we’re the luckiest people that ever owned a farm!”

“I think I am a very lucky mother,” Mrs. Hurst said, quietly.

“Indeed, Miss Stone wouldn’t tell you so. Mother, darling, I’ve come home with a horribly bad character—Miss Stone thinks I’m absolutely no good in the world. I was always getting into scrapes and sinking lower and lower in the form. I didn’t mean to be so hopeless; but I seemed to get into rows without any effort on my part, and at last I just didn’t care. I’m awfully sorry now, ’cause of you. But it really isn’t a school that makes you proud of it, and no one trusts Miss Stone. I’m just glad all over that I need never see her again!”

“Do the girls trust you?” Mrs. Hurst asked.

Robin’s head went up, and she coloured hotly.

“Yes,” she said, shortly. “They know they can.”

“Well, I am not going to let Miss Stone’s report worry me,” said her mother. “I’m sorry you have got into trouble, and I wish you had worked better, especially as you have no more chances of learning. But you and I are facing the real things of life now, and school scrapes, big as they seem at the moment, will soon be forgotten. We’re partners, my daughter, and we have to trust each other in all things, and work together.” She sighed. “I do hope it won’t mean that you will get none of the joy of life while you are young. I had always hoped to be able to give you a good time—such a time as I had myself before Father, as you say ‘married me and ran away with me’.”

Robin hugged her enthusiastically.

“If you only knew how I’m loving the bare idea of being partners!” she exclaimed. “I never dared to hope for anything so lovely: all the way in the train, even when I ached with joy at seeing the country, I was aching in a different way at the thought of going back to school! I’d never have done any good there, Mummie—you don’t know how hopeless it was. Now we’ll be working together, in our own home, and sharing everything. I’m blessed if I want more joy of life than that is going to mean!”

She sat back on her heels, the firelight dancing on her vivid face and her mop of red hair.

“And to think,” she chanted, “that they’ll be getting up in the morning at the sound of the same old bell, and ploughing through the same old stodgy lessons all day, and eating the same old awful meals, and walking in the same old crocodile down the same old dusty streets! And I’m free and independent and here——”

“Milking the same old cow!” laughed her mother—looking suddenly as young as she.

“In the same old cow-bail,” Robin flashed back. “And I wouldn’t change my job for all the tea in China!”

CHAPTER V
TWO MONTHS LATER

Robin Hurst came out upon the veranda of Hill Farm in the early dawn. It was an exquisite November morning. Mists were rising slowly from the gullies, revealing the tops of giant tree-ferns; above them, invisible in tree-tops still shrouded in white clouds, cockatoos shrieked a morning chorus. A pair of kookaburras perched on the gate-posts and looked wisely at Robin: they were old friends, christened Sally and Sam, so tame that they came regularly to find the scraps of raw meat that she left for them whenever meat occurred in the Hurst household—which was not every day. They preened their feathers, puffing them out until they looked ridiculously fat, the first sunbeams making them glint with a metallic blue and bronze. Then they broke into a wild duet of laughter. The echoes ran round the hills, “Ha-ha-ha! Hoo-hoo-hoo!” and were answered by other kookaburras beyond the creek. Robin put her head back and imitated the call—a proceeding that always puzzled and delighted Sally and Sam, who waited politely until she had finished, and then laughed as if it were the best joke in the world.