“Oh, I wouldn’t mind! It would be an easy way of making a living, and I’d have plenty of fun and chocolates, and pretty dresses.”
“Some day I’d like to be a rich lady,” said Doris, “and I’d give all little girls a real nice time.”
“Me be pitty lady,” said Baby.
And then they all laughed.
“Uncle, we want to thank you for writing to us, and thank you for coming. You’ve made everything brighter already, and Mother and Father are so much happier-looking since you came, and they don’t seem to be always thinking of the old drought and hard times and debts——”
Uncle let them go on, for just then he couldn’t speak. But by-and-by he turned to the little group of upturned faces, and addressed them very quietly.
“My dear little children, you have thanked me, and now I wish to thank you.”
“Thank us!” they exclaimed.
“Yes, for many things.... Later on you will understand, but I’m very glad you sent me that letter, because I may be able to do some good for your Father before it is too late. I think you may safely leave the matter with me. I managed that letter to your Father all right, didn’t I?”
“Oh, yes, Uncle—beautifully!”
“Well, leave this to me, and don’t bother your young heads about repaying me. I’ll see to that. Father and I will fix that up....”
“Oh, Uncle, you are good! But we will feel so mean if we don’t pay you something,” blurted out Mollie.
“No, don’t you worry about money and debts. Be happy, careless children as long as you can.”
It was very quiet up at the house the next afternoon. Mother and the children had gone down to see the overseer’s wife at Jenkin’s old place. The children liked the overseer’s wife; she always made nice little hot cakes when she saw them coming, and she always had some English papers with big pictures in them, and she had boxes of sea-shells that she let them play with every time they went. They always knew just what was going to happen. First she would come out and welcome them all—and she was nice and plump and had rosy cheeks and nice blue eyes—and then when she had a little talk she would introduce the papers to the children, and then the wonderful sea-shells, which they never got tired of admiring, and they would empty them out and run their fingers through them, and wonder when they would go to the wonderful far-off beaches and play with the glistening shells and stones. They almost forgave the overseer’s wife for not having any children for them to play with, while they played with the shells. And then she and Mother would talk such a lot, that they would try and make believe that it was just as good as having the Jenkins back.
Only Mollie was at home, and she hurried about her work and set the table for tea, darkened the dining-room to keep it cool, and then, with one last look round, she hurried out and tied her shady hat on.
“Now everything is ready, I’ll slip down and tell Uncle.”
Mollie had another secret, and it was harder to tell and try and fix up than the letter.
Then down the track to the river she sped.
“I do hope he’ll understand it all,” was the burden of her thoughts as she sped on, lest her courage should fail her. Down under the oak trees Uncle was reading a book, and he looked round with surprise at Mollie’s flushed face.
“Oh, Uncle! I want to talk to you. I’ve got a lot more to tell you, but I couldn’t say it when the others were about.”
Then she poured forth Frank’s story into Uncle’s listening ear.
“And, Uncle, he goes about his work when his heart’s not in it, and people up here will be saying that he’s slow and dull, when all the time he’s not in his right place. He’s a round peg in a square hole, or a square peg in a round hole, or some such thing, and he’s helping to fight the drought and do the work he hates, and never complains, because he says he’d be a cad if he did, and all the time he’s dying to be an electrical engineer. He’s saving his money, but he doesn’t get much wages, and I believe he’ll be too tired whenever the time does come for him to go away—but if he only has a chance, Uncle—a chance while he’s young and dying to get to work, he’d be clever; I’m sure he would.”
Mollie’s cheeks were flaming now, and her eyes were shining again.
“He’s never told anyone but me, Uncle—and I’ve thought about it ever since. When I see the big Brown and Smith boys going about here and thinking they’re smarter than Frank—because they never think of anything else, and only live for land and stock—I get that wild, Uncle, to think that Frank might never have the chance to show them how smart he could be—but you won’t tell him I’ve told you, because he would be so annoyed. I want you to pretend you’ve found out for yourself and give him a chance, Uncle—or tell him you will later on. Oh, if he only knew that there was a chance of his getting to his loved studies, and a chance to make a name for himself later on, this work wouldn’t be half so hard, because he’d have something to live for—and if you will help him, Uncle, tell him soon, please,” Mollie rattled on; “tell him to-night if you can, because there’s a big sheep draft to-morrow, and I know he hates them, and if you tell him it will help and cheer him through the heat and dust of the day.”
“Well, well, Mollie, you’ve given me something to think about. So Frank wants to be an electrical engineer, does he? Well—well——”
Then Uncle gazed away into space, and sat so long silent that Mollie became anxious.
“It’s awfully mean of us to trouble you so much, Uncle, because you have money—but—but you’ll never be sorry for helping Frank—and——”
“Well, well, Mollie, so that’s his dream, is it? I had dreams, too, when I was a youngster, and I had no one to help me. I’m rich now, but my dream has never been realised—but—the boy must have his chance; we must get the square peg out of the round hole—and we must do it soon!”
“Oh, Uncle!” was all Mollie could gasp, and then almost before she was aware of it she had thrown her arms round his neck and kissed him; then sped away through the trees towards home, with a great, singing gladness in her heart. And Uncle, left alone, threw his book down and gazed into space.
“God bless you, little Mollie,” he murmured. “You’re smoothing the way for others. Frank must have his chance; I knew he was out of his groove here—and I’ll tell him to-night to cheer him—through the heat and dust of the day.... Ah! Jean! Jean! if only you’d been true and cheered me through the heat and dust of the years!”
Late that night, when the moon was shedding its glory over the Gillong garden, and glinting on the shining pepper leaves, Mollie stole out to where she saw a figure pacing to and fro among the moonbeams and shadows.
“Oh, Mollie! Mollie! Mollie!” cried Frank; “you’d never guess what’s happened! My dream’s coming true—at last! Uncle Harry is going to send me away after Christmas to learn the engineering! What do you think, Mollie—he said he knew I was out of my groove here, and he’s sending me off next year! Oh, Mollie! Mollie! I can’t believe it’s true.”
The boy’s voice was jerky, as he told the wonderful news.
“To think it’s nearly all over, Mollie—all the tons and tons of work that I’ve hated! Oh, Mollie! I’m glad you came! I felt I couldn’t wait till morning to tell you.”
Loyal little Mollie commenced to tell him how glad she was, but she burst out crying and told him between her sobs how much they would miss him.
“You’re the only brother we’ve ever had, Frank, except little Jim, and we hardly remember him.”
For little Jim had come and gone like the glint of a star, and only a little white cross on his tiny grave under the wilga tree in the paddock told that a little life had been kindled for a space, and was then wafted to its long home. But deep in the mother’s heart was a wild abiding desire for her only son that not even the presence of five little girls could quite banish.
“It’ll be so lonely without you, Frank. I don’t know whatever we will do—we’ll all miss you always.”
Then Frank tried to comfort her.
“But I’ll come back sometimes, Mollie, and when I’m rich you must all come and live with me. Oh! and I’ll write to you often, Mollie, and you must try not to miss me too much, because I’m going to work hard and get on, and then——”
For to Frank everything seemed possible, once the great desire of his heart was about to be gratified, and Mollie did her best to try and think of the good times ahead.
All day long the air was thick and murky. All day long there were signs of a gathering storm. Great big banks of fierce, sullen clouds began to bank up in the afternoon, and far-off, ominous sounds of thunder were heard. At first it was a mere growl, and the edges of the great jagged clouds were illumined by lightning. By-and-bye the thunder grew louder, and cruel forked and chain lightning began to play in the heavens.
The children wandered round the verandah and looked at the sky, and wondered and wondered again would it rain.
“I believe it’ll be the end of the drought,” said Mother, hopefully. Eva had a rug ready to cover her head when the thunder grew louder, for she was terrified of storms; and Baby and Doris would squeal that they were frightened.
Mollie and Eileen, too, hung in the background, blinking at each flash and sincerely hoping that it would soon be over. Old Joe was in his element, and talked volubly to Mother and Uncle.
“I said all along it’d break this way, same as the ’82 druith. There’s the same bank of clouds down west, and another storm abrewin’ over ’ere. They’ll meet directly, and there’ll be the deuce of a smash. Shouldn’t wonder if the creek ain’t up to-night——”
“Oh, Joe! wouldn’t it be lovely?” chimed in the children.
“An’ it’s more’n likely she will be. I recollect the time the ’82 broke. Why, all the rivers and creeks and gullies and gilgies and swamps were runnin’ mountains high!”
A low moaning sound reached their ears, and they looked at each other in alarm.
“Oh, Joe! what’s that?” asked Eva, creeping up to him.
“It’s the wind. It’s comin’ this time, right enough. Got the windows closed? She’s comin’ strong,” said Joe, who dearly loved a storm, and had no fear of even the “dizziest” chain lightning, much to the little girls’ admiration.
“I wonder will it hurt us, Joe?” asked Eva.
“’Urt you? ’Ow could it ’urt you?” asked Joe, with fine scorn. “Just you watch the lightning play up in them clouds directly; it’ll be real pretty.”
But already Eva’s head was enveloped in her rug.
“Sakes alive! you’ll be smothered before it’s over!” cried Joe.
The moaning sound grew louder and louder, and the leaves began to tremble and the branches to sway, while great flights of bush birds winged their way hurriedly away to the east.
“Look at ’em!” cried Joe—“same as the ’82!”
At last, with a sudden gust of fury, the trees were tossed and bent before the weight of the gale.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear! I wish the others were in,” cried Mother anxiously, and then away across the paddock Father and Frank were seen coming at full speed. They pulled the saddles and bridles off their horses and turned them loose, and then rushed into the house as a blinding flash of lightning lit up the gathering darkness.
“Ah, here we are!” cried Frank’s ringing voice, for ever since the evening that Uncle had spoken he had been a different Frank, and his laugh rang clear and gay on every possible pretext. For such is the power of a gleam of hope.
How the storm raged and tore! Clap after clap and flash after flash! Away in the distance a tree was heard to crash to the ground, and then great drops of rain began to fall, banging on to the iron roof as though they would come through. Then it fell in blinding sheets, and fairly danced on the hard glazed ground.
“The same as the ’82,” said Joe again, as he lit his pipe; “all the creeks’ll be down in the mornin’, and we’ll have to move them sheep,” he went on complacently.
Sure enough, when morning came, the creeks and gullies were roaring with thick, muddy waters, and thousands of frogs were croaking lustily. And what a time the children had, wading through the muddy streams, and finding all the ruins of the trees that had fallen, and making “ridey-horses” out of the great branches that had once reared themselves so proudly in the air. For the rain had poured steadily all night, and the cruel drought was ended.
“Well, of all the things that could ever happen, this is far and away the best, and I’ll never grumble again,” said Eileen. “To think we’re all going to Sydney for a holiday. Oh, it’s nearly too good to be true! When did he tell you, Mamma?”
“Only last night, and I shouldn’t have told you so soon, for I know you’ll do nothing but talk about it for the next month; but I couldn’t resist telling you,” said Mother.
Uncle had left that morning. He had changed his plans, and had stayed longer at Gillong than he had intended, and before he left he had made Mrs. Hudson promise that she would bring the children down to Sydney for the remainder of the summer.
“I will take a cottage,” he said. “You all need a change of air, Vera, and will come back with renewed energy to cope with bush life.”
And at last Mother had consented.
Oh, the preparation and excitement at Gillong for the next few weeks! Mrs. Grey, the overseer’s wife, came down and insisted on helping. She brought with her a sheaf of fashion books and patterns, and cut out little frocks of the very latest design, and took them home and ran them up on her new machine. She also helped and gave hints about everything, for she had spent a good deal of time in Sydney. And, oh! the questions she was plied with by the eager children!
“Do you get sea-sick going to Mosman?” asked Eva. “Because that’s where Uncle’s going to take the cottage; and it’d be terrible if we were sea-sick every time we went to town.”
“I’m dying to see the crowds and crowds of people,” said Eileen. “But it’ll be hard not to talk to them. Up here people would think you funny if you didn’t speak to them, even if they are strangers.”
“I wish we could take the sticks,” sighed Doris.
“Pretty sights they’d be!” said Eileen. “You couldn’t ride them down there. You’ll be able to ride boats and trams instead.”
So the stick horses were laid away, rolled up in paper, till their little owners returned.
Already Eileen felt quite the “lady,” as she was fitted for her new frocks, and talked nothing but Sydney.
“Did you hear we’re going to spend the rest of the summer in Sydney, Teddy?” she remarked, carelessly, to the mailman, as he drank his tea.
“In Sydney?” gasped Ted. “Bli’ me, I never heard a word about it.”
“Yes, we’re going the week after next,” she replied, coolly, as though going to Sydney were the most usual thing in the world. “Mamma and all of us, and later Dadda and Frank are coming for a while.”
“Bli’ me!” gasped Ted again. “The bloomin’ family’s going! Well, this is news! I suppose that’s why I’ve been carrying so many parcels for you lately,” he said, a light suddenly dawning on him. “Where are you goin’ to stay down there?”
“Oh, Uncle’s taking a cottage!” put in Eva.
“Oh, that big swell cove that was staying here? Bli’ me, your luck’s in!”
“We’ll tell you all about it when we come back, Teddy,” said Doris. “And I’ll bring you home sea-shells and all sorts of pretty things.”
“Right you are, little ’un!” said Ted, as he finished his tea and commenced to fill his pipe. “I’ll tell you what you can get me, if you don’t mind—some real good sorts of straps; you know the sort,” he said, turning to Eileen, “same as them I strap the bags on with. Last time I sent to one of them Sydney firms they sent bad buckles. Here, I’ll give you the money now,” and he pulled out a pound note.
“Oh, Teddy! it’ll do when we come back,” said Eileen, not taking the proffered note. “They won’t be near that much.”
“No, take the note now and give us the change when you come back. ‘Pay as you go’—that’s Teddo’s motto.”
And every mail day Teddo’s list of requirements grew bigger, until it seemed as though the pound note would not meet them; and Eileen would jot them in her little notebook.
“You see, you know me, and know just what I want,” he would say, apologetically.
“I’ll tell you what I would like,” he said one day after he had fixed and patted and arranged the mailbags ever so many times—“a tie like that your Uncle used to wear; sort o’ black with little silvery streaks in it.”
“Oh, but, Teddy, that was real dear!” said Eileen, quickly.
“Oh, I don’t mind price!” he answered; “when Teddo sets his heart on anything, he don’t mind paying up.”
“Righto!” said Eileen, making a note.
So the time flew away, and one day, to their surprise, Enid Davis dashed up in the big new car from the station.
“Why, we thought you had gone for the summer,” said the children, in amazement.
“No, we’re home for a month or so,” she answered, “and I felt a bit lonely, so I popped down here.”
“Oh, well! I’m afraid we won’t be company much longer,” said Eileen, as she straightened herself in her chair and put on the “real lady style,” as Mollie said afterwards.
“Why—how is that? I love coming here,” answered Enid.
“Oh, we’ve decided to spend the rest of the summer in Sydney!”
“Oh!” Enid looked astonished, but was too polite to say so. “That will be nice,” she went on.
“Yes, it’s just as well to enjoy yourself while you’re young,” said Eileen, calmly. She always felt a bit jealous of Enid’s fine clothes and pleasant times. “Our Uncle is going to the Continent later on, and he is anxious for us to spend a little time with him in Sydney.”
“Oh, yes! Dadda met your Uncle at the railway, and said he was such a nice man.”
“Yes, we think a lot of him,” answered Eileen. “So your Dadda met him?” she asked, eagerly, for she was glad to know that Enid’s father had seen their nice Uncle.
“Yes, they had dinner together just before the down train left, and Dadda said he was sorry he was not at home while your Uncle was here, because they could have had some nice chats.”
“Oh, Uncle was kept pretty busy chatting with us,” answered Eileen.
But Mollie hastily added that it would have been real nice for the two men to have met often.
“We’re going back to Sydney in about six weeks’ time,” said Enid. “Perhaps we’ll meet down there.”
“Yes, if we’re not too busy sight-seeing,” put in Eileen.
“Oh, we’d love to see you!” said Mollie.
“Yes, we’d love it,” chimed in Doris, as she stroked Enid’s pretty silky dress. “And I’ll give you some pretty sea-shells if you haven’t got any.”
“Oh, thank you, Doris! I’d love to have some if you can spare them.”
They talked on for an hour or so, and Enid rose to go.
“So it’s next week you’re going?”
“Yes, Monday, and this is Friday; so we haven’t much time,” said Mollie.
“I’m glad she knows we’re going,” said Eileen, as the car hooted away.
“Oh, Eileen; you’re not a bit nice to Enid!” said Mollie.
“I always think she’s showing off,” put in Eileen.
“Well, she’s not, then. It’s you that’s jealous,” replied Mollie.
“Jealous? I don’t think!” snapped Eileen.
The next day Mr. Davis called and asked to be allowed to send his car to take them to the railway on Monday, as Enid had told him of their anticipated trip, and, to the children’s delight, the car was accepted.
“Won’t it be beautiful,” screamed Eileen, “to be bowling along in that grand new car, and won’t the people at the railway look? I’m sorry I said that about Enid now, because I’m sure she asked her Dadda to lend it.”
And so on Monday a car-load of merry, excited young people, and Mother looking pleased and excited, too, were bowled away to the big iron horse that was to land them in the wonderful city.
“I never thought it could be so nice,” said Eileen.
“I never thought there were so many people in the world,” said Eva. “Why, we must have seen millions and millions and millions to-day!”
“The sea was just lovely this morning. I could watch it all day long. We’re going out again the first moonlight night,” said Mollie.
“I gave de ole organ man two pennies while you was away,” said Doris, “and he played all the choones I liked best.”
“And I gave a penny to the old blind man near the Savings Bank,” said Eva.
“And I bought a dear, darling little duck of a lace collar for sixpence,” said Eileen, displaying it.
“Oh, I wish I’d saved my pennies for one,” said Doris, regretfully.
“Never mind, you enjoyed the music,” said Eileen, consolingly.
“Yes, but it’s all over now, and you’ve got the collar and I haven’t got anything.”
Every evening they met and talked over the events of the day. They had been in Sydney a month, and were enraptured with all they saw. They had quite run out of a stock of adjectives. Everything was lovely, or beautiful, or great or grand! They had gone to the beaches and gathered great bags of shells. They had dipped in the surf and shouted with glee as the big white-topped waves dashed over them. They had gone to the garden and gallery, and Zoo and picture shows over and over again, and could go through the whole programme cheerfully again, till Mother remonstrated with Uncle.
“You are spoiling them. Let them stay in and play in the garden,” she said.
But Uncle only smiled. He knew the months of loneliness those little girls had put in in the country, and was determined to give them a feast of enjoyment.
“I think Mosman must be the dearest place in all the world,” Mollie would say, as she gazed at the pretty homes nestling in their well-kept gardens.
Their cottage was only about five minutes’ walk from the ferry, and when nothing better was on they would race down the hill and watch the boats come in and go out, and talk and wonder about all the people. They became quite familiar little figures on the Mosman wharf—the five of them together—as they sat and criticised and compared notes.
They grew quite familiar with the postboy, and told him all about Teddy, and made him wish he was a country mailman.
“It’s a wonder you don’t ride round with your letters,” said Eileen.
“Ride round? I’d like to see a horse climbing these steps and hills. It’d have to be a different horse to any I’ve ever seen,” answered the post-boy.
“Oh, yes, of course!” said Eileen. “I’d forgotten that. You see, up where we live there’s no hills or steps. It’s all as flat as—as the verandah here.”
“I wish you’d bring some of your land to Mosman,” grinned the post-boy.
They became quite friendly with the tradesmen, too—the baker and butcher and milkman.
“It’s so funny to have you all coming here,” confided Eileen, “because up the country we bake our own bread and kill our own sheep, and old Joe milks the cows.”
They grew to know the people in the post office, too, as they would call in occasionally to see if a country letter happened to be delayed or missed in the sorting. At first the officials glared at them, but by-and-by they came to know the merry faces of the bush children, and only smiled at their questions.
They had only been a week in Mosman when they chummed up with the little boy next door.
“I wonder who our neighbors are,” Mollie had said the day after they had arrived and finished unpacking. “I’d love to talk to them.”
“Would you?” asked Mamma. “Well, we’ll have to wait a while. Sydney people are different to country; they know so many people that they mightn’t have time for more friends.”
“There’s a real nice-looking girl in there I’d love to know,” said Eileen, “and if she doesn’t soon speak I’ll speak to her.”
“And we want to know the little boy,” said Doris.
A few days later Doris and Baby spoke to the little, well-dressed boy, as he was coming down the steps on his way to school.
“Dood-day,” said Doris.
“Day,” said Baby.
“Good-morning,” said the little boy, politely.
“We’se your new neighbors,” said Doris.
“Yes,” said the little boy.
“And we’se been waiting for you to speak to us. Don’t you speak to new neighbors?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” said the little boy. “I want to speak to you, anyhow.”
“Did you always live in Sydney?”
“Yes, all my life.”
“Wasn’t you ever away up in the country, ’undreds and ’undreds of miles?”
“No, never!”
“Well, that’s where we live.”
“Do you?” gasped the little boy. “Oh, do tell us all about it,” he went on, eagerly, and he listened and asked questions till he found he was late for school, and jumped up and seized his books.
“Oh, dear, I’m late! Whatever’ll teacher say?”
“Oh, leave ole school!” said Doris, quickly, “and come and play with us.”
“I can’t. But I’ll come in after school, if Mamma will let me.”
“Oh, yes, do! Good-bye—good-bye.”
Then a friendship sprang up, and little Willie spent most of his time with his new friends. He could listen for hours and hours about the horses and sheep and rabbits, and he asked such funny questions that the children would scream with laughter.
“Oh, Willie! you ought to come up with us, and see it all,” they said one day. “It’ll be all pretty and green now, and you could learn to ride.”
“Learn to ride!”
Willie closed his eyes for sheer joy at the thought. Would ever such good luck come his way?
“Oh! I wonder could I?” he gasped.
“’Course you could!” said Doris. “I can ride ole Brownie when she walks slow.”
“Sometimes Mamma lets me ride on the baker’s cart up to the Spit Junction, but it’s only very seldom,” he added with a sigh, “and I have to walk back.”
“Our horses are better’n the baker’s,” said Doris.
“Oh, lots!” said Eva; “an’ you’d soon learn to ride on ole Brownie.”
“Oh, dear! do ask Mamma to let me go. Let’s beg and beg and beg, all of us,” pleaded Willie.
“All right, we’ll all ask,” they promised.
After that he haunted them like a shadow.
“Ask yet?” he would say a dozen times a day.
At first his Mamma wouldn’t even listen to it. What! let her little boy—her little Willie—go up to that outlandish place hundreds and hundreds of miles away: oh, she couldn’t hear of it! And Willie was heart-broken.
“Why, there’s no doctor within miles of your place, is there?” she asked Eileen.
“No, we don’t want doctors; nobody ever dies up there.”
“Nobody ever dies?” echoed Marcia, Willie’s sister.
“No. We’ve seen more funerals since we came to Sydney than we ever saw in our lives. And I believe Mamma only saw about three funerals up there, and she’s been there for years and years!” said Eileen, proudly.
“Dear me! However does that happen?” asked Marcia.
“Well, you see there’s hardly anyone up there, so I suppose that accounts for some of it,” went on Eileen.
“Oh, well! no thanks to them for not dying if there’s no one there,” said Marcia, disdainfully. “I thought there might have been hundreds of people living to be about a thousand.”
“Oh! but those that are there don’t die—well, hardly ever, except old Dave and a few more I know of,” went on Eileen. “And if a lot of old people I know keep on living for a long time yet, they’ll very likely be about a hundred when they do die.”
But this argument did not move Mrs. Taylor in favor of Willie’s going. One day Willie came in with a very determined face.
“I know what! If Mamma doesn’t let me go, I’ll run away!”
“What! Run away to sea?” asked Eva, eagerly.
“No, run away to the country, up to your place, silly!”
“It’s too far to run,” said the practical Doris.
“’Course, I don’t mean to run all the way. Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“Well, dat’s what you said,” persisted Doris.
“Ugh! just like a girl. If you were a lot of boys now, you’d run away with me—just to show ’em that you’re not afraid of anything. I mean to clear out and walk up to your place, and when I’m gone Mamma might be sorry she didn’t let me go with you in the train,” said Willie, almost on the verge of tears; “and I might starve and die on the track,” he went on, with tears of self-pity welling into his eyes.
“So you might,” agreed Eva, mournfully.
“You just might,” said Doris, ready to cry; “and we’d never see you again, and you’d never see us,” she went on, bursting into tears; “and the dingoes might come and eat you up.”
At that Baby cried, too.
Then Willie grew grave. “I’ll tell you what!” he said, suddenly struck with a bright idea. “Go and ask Mamma while you’re both crying. Quick—don’t leave off! You cry real hard, Baby!”
And up the “next door” steps the two young rascals went, and cried copiously when Willie’s mother opened the door.
“Why, my dears, what is wrong?” she asked, in dismay, as she drew them inside.
“We—we—wa-nt—Willie,” sobbed Doris.
“Want Willie!” echoed Baby, and cried out loudly.
“But he’s not at home, my dears. Isn’t he in at your place?”
“Ye-es, but we wa-wa-nt him up the country with us, an’ if you do-do-don’t let him come, he’ll—he’ll run away to sea,” went on Doris, getting mixed up in her story; “an’—an’—die on the track—an’—an’ the dingoes’ll eat him all up.”
Then Baby roared real genuine tears of distress.
“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Taylor, “he’d never do that, would he?”
For she saw through their conspiracy and guessed that Willie was waiting next door, all impatience to hear how his two little champions got on.
“Ye-es, he’s goin’ to run away soon,” went on Doris.
“An’ he’ll die!” shrieked Baby.
Then Willie’s mother talked quietly to them. “Well, well, we’ll see about it. Perhaps I’ll let him go with you, after all.”
And then, because Willie’s Mamma had a sense of humor and guessed that her small son was waiting to hear the news, she kept the little girls for quite a time, and gave them lollies and dates, and they quite forgot about Willie waiting to hear the answer.
Willie met them with a very angry face when they trudged up their own steps ever so long after.
“It’s a wonder you ever came back,” he said, sarcastically. “Did you forget I was waiting? What did she say? Quick!”
“She said, she said——”
“Go on! what did she say?”
“She said p’raps, an’ she’d see. An’ I think she means to let you come.”
“Is that all she said, all the time you were in there? ‘P’raps, and she’d see!’ A lot of sense there is in that! Didn’t she say anything else, Baby?”
“She gave us lollies.”
“Oh, hang the lollies!” cried Willie, in despair. “Did you cry when you got in there, or did you chew lollies?”
“But she means to let you come, I do believe, Willie,” said Doris, earnestly.
“Oh, yes, Willie! If she said perhaps and she’d see, I think she means to let you go. Another time she wouldn’t listen to us,” put in Eva.
“Yes, I believe she means to let me go, too,” said Willie, hopefully. “Oh, if I could only go, I’d stay there months and months!”
“You might get lonely,” said Mollie, who had just come in.
“No, I wouldn’t get lonely. I’d never get lonely if I stayed there all my life,” said Willie. “And I might stay there all my life, too. I might grow up a big man up there, and I might never come back.”
“Might never come back?” asked Eva.
“No, I might stay there and help your father with the horses and sheep, and after a while I might buy your place.”
“No, you won’t!” said Doris, stoutly.
“All right, then—but I might, all the same,” he went on under his breath.
“I’ll tell you what!” cried Eileen. “Let’s get Mamma to go in and ask your Mother while she’s thinking about letting you come.”
“Oh, yes! let’s ask your Mother to go in right away,” cried Willie.
So Mother was persuaded to go and ask, and in the end she won the day.
A great friendship had struck up between Eileen and Marcia. Eileen admired Marcia’s dainty dresses and ribbons and hats, and took to copying her. And then they commenced to go out together to little tennis parties, for Marcia had many school friends who had musical evenings and little entertainments, and she always asked Eileen to go with her, and Eileen enjoyed them all immensely. It was nice to sit in the beautiful drawing-rooms and lounges and have ices and salads and coffee handed to you, and to be asked all kinds of questions about country life, and to be considered someone wonderful because you could ride so well, when up the country they took it as a matter of course. And Eileen, like many another girl, began to wish that this kind of life would last for ever. Marcia was kept very busy at school, and had many studies. She was very keen on physical culture, and perhaps some day would become an instructor. She would come in and give demonstrations in Hudsons’ drawing-room or kitchen, and have them all twisting and turning furiously, trying to manage exercises that she could go through so gracefully.
Then one day an idea came to Mrs. Taylor. Why not ask Eileen to stay with them, while Willie went to the country? So the question was put, and it was agreed that Eileen would remain for a few months with Marcia.
They were all back again at Gillong. All except Eileen and Frank, for Frank had gone to Sydney early in March, to commence his studies; and they were all glad of Willie’s company, for he filled up to some extent the blanks left by Eileen and Frank.
After their splendid holiday they were all glad to be back again, for the ground was covered with a carpet of greenery, and there was plenty of water in the creeks and gullies, and the children raced up and down the banks and shouted for sheer gladness and lightness of heart. Mollie would mount her horse and canter away across the paddocks, singing as she went, for hadn’t everything gone well lately? Frank had his darling wish gratified, and Mother and Father looked so well and happy because their burdens were lightened. Uncle sent them cards from every port; and she would recall Uncle’s last words as he stood on the deck of the big ship that bore him to England (for they had all gone to see him off):
“Good-bye, Mollie, dear; and the next time I go I hope you will be with me. It is you I thank for this reunion; and, remember, Mollie, it is through you that Frank has got his chance while he is still young and keen—God bless you, little girl!”
After that she felt she could never be very unhappy again, and she would think of a time that might come when she would stand on the deck of a big out-going ship and plunge away through the rollicking, dancing waves, out past the Heads, where the snow-capped breakers foamed and tossed and tumbled, and away o’er the trackless ocean, till wonderful new lands were reached!
Willie declared that the country was the best place in all the world, and he would never, never, never go back to “old” Sydney again!
“Pshaw! I hate all the rows and rows and rows of houses, and no big paddocks and no mobs of sheep or horses, and I hate all the old cart-horses now, the old baker’s and butcher’s and milkman’s, and I hate all the cab-horses, and all the horses in Hordern’s and Lassetter’s vans, and I hate the trams, and I hate everything in Sydney! I wish Mamma would come up here and live!”
“What a pity we couldn’t get a nice little house built in the little paddock for your Mother,” said Eva.
“Oh, yes! wouldn’t it be grand?” cried Willie. “Or a tent would do.”
“A tent?” cried Eva, in disgust. “Oh, no!”
“Yes, we lived in a tent for weeks once at Narrabeen.”
“Oh, but that’s different! That was picnic-like.”
“Well, we can make it picnic-like up here,” declared Willie, “and Dadda could come up when he gets his holidays.”
“Oh, no, Willie! they could never live in a tent up here,” said Eva, decidedly. “It’s real different to Narrabeen.”
“I don’t see any difference,” declared Willie, “except there’s no surf. That’s the only difference. Besides,” he added brightly, “we could be nearly always at your place. We needn’t spend much time at all in the tent.”
Just now Willie was more in love than ever with the country, for they were to have a short shearing at Gillong while the days were still warm. It would be only for a week or so, but Willie had visions of snow-white sheep being driven away from the woolshed, of great thick fleeces being tossed on the wool-table, and all the noise and excitement and bustle of shearing time. And perhaps he could drive the sheep up from the paddocks to the yards sometimes, and he was looking forward to a real good time.
Willie was perfectly happy. He was actually driving sheep from the creek paddock to the woolshed, all by himself. Mounted on old Brownie, he rode slowly backwards and forwards behind the sheep.
“You’re sure you know your way, Willie?” Mr. Hudson had asked.