CHAPTER XVI.CONVERSATIONS.

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

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

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

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

“Forgot to leave old Payne’s tobacco,” said Teddy.

“Oh, never mind it this time!” pleaded Eileen; “let him smoke tea-leaves or bark, or anything; why, it’s ever so far back!”

“No, I promised I’d fetch it,” declared Teddy, stoutly, “and a promise is a promise, even if it’s only made to old Payne,” and Teddy looked quite pleased with himself after this statement, while Eileen sat back in a resigned manner.

At last the little bridge near the homestead came in sight through the trees, and Eileen shouted aloud for joy.

“Thought you were going on the stage down there?” said Teddy, giving a parting shot.

“Oh, that’ll come later on!” said Eileen, loftily. “I’m too young yet. I want a little more home life before I leave for the stage.”

Then Teddy made a grimace and murmured under his breath.

“Stage!—I don’t think!”

There was shouting and commotion when the sulky drew up at the gate, and Eileen sprang to the ground. Then a babel of voices filled the air as everyone tried to speak at the same time.

“Oh, I am glad to see you all again!” Eileen told them over and over, and Mother actually had tears in her eyes, though she couldn’t for the life of her tell you why.

And Doris and Baby, with fat, happy faces and the roses of winter on their cheeks, danced round the new-comer.

“I have a little new pet lamb; you can have a nurse of it if you like when you have had a wash.”

“Oh, thank you, Doris, but I don’t think I will this evening!”

“And dere’s dear little puppies over at de shed,” volunteered Baby.

“There’s Willie, and goodness me if he’s not riding! Doesn’t he look funny?” shrieked Eileen.

Willie overheard the remark, and looked daggers at Eileen. Then he dismounted and walked slowly up to her with a great stockwhip wound round his arm.

“Good evening, Eileen; how did you leave them all in Sydney?” he asked, coolly.

“My goodness, but you do look funny!” answered Eileen. “You are different; why, your Mother wouldn’t know you—you’ve grown that tall, and you’re getting fat, too, and fancy you being able to ride!”

“Oh, it doesn’t take a fellow long to learn that!” he answered, carelessly.

“I’ve got some nice presents for you from your mother,” said Eileen.

“Presents?” gasped Willie, with his eyes lighting up and his grown-up manner completely gone.

“Yes, a pair of stockings and a muffler and some tooth-paste and scented soap.”

“Ugh! Presents. I don’t call them presents,” said Willie, in tones of disgust. “Anything else?”

“What did you think I’d have?” asked Eileen, hotly. “A motor-car or a carriage and pair?”

“Come off,” said Willie, “I thought you might have a cricket bat or a football, or something that would be of some use and fun to a fellow, instead of old tooth-paste and old scenty soap; none of the men up here use scenty soap, I bet.”

“No, and it might be all the better if they did,” flashed Eileen; “and, another thing, I think you’ve got real spoilt since you came up here, with your stuck up, grown-up airs, for a kid of your age.”

“Oh, come in Eileen, before you two start fighting!” said Mollie, with a laugh.

“Fighting!” echoed Willie. “Pshaw, I wouldn’t fight with a girl!”

They all met again before teatime, and chased round with the pet lambs, and climbed the fence of the calf-pen, and gazed at the little calves, and tried to coax out the chickens from under their mother’s wing, where they were nestled for the night.

“They’re such little beauties,” said Mollie. “Little fluffy golden ones and speckled and snowy white and brown, and some are real black.”

“Oh, the darlings!” said Eileen; “I’ll see them all in the morning.”

“An’ tometimes we ’as fosts in de mornin’s,” said Baby, clasping her chubby hands; “no fosts in Tidney?”

“No, you darling,” cried Eileen, “it’s as mild as butter down there. Oh! but I’m glad to be back again, for all Sydney’s niceness, and I’ll never, never, never grumble any more at the bush or the quietness or the work or anything else. I’m never going to grumble again as long as ever I live.”

“Oh, dear!” gasped Doris, shaking her head solemnly and looking in wonder at Eileen.

“Oh, dear!” said Eva, in tones of surprise.

“Oh, dear!” cried Mollie, in mocking tones of unbelief.

And “Oh, dear me! whoever is talking?” cried Willie, in sarcastic tones.

Baby’s teeth were stuck fast in some toffee that Eileen had brought her, so she could not say anything.

A governess coming! What, a governess coming just when things were at their best. Just when the paddocks were green and the horses were rolling fat, and everything was free and easy, and everyone felt inclined for fun and gaiety and jollification. A governess coming to keep them in musty old school, and make them study dry old books and lessons and figures. They never thought Mother could be so hard-hearted and so cruel and so mean.

“And I’m just sick and tired of old school. I got enough of it in Sydney to last me a lifetime. I did think I would be free from it now and get a rest at home,” sighed Eileen.

“I wish there were no such things as governesses,” wailed Doris. “Governesses and old school!”

“I ’ate old tool!” roared Baby.

“Oh, dear, sometimes I wish I was dead!” went on Doris.

“A smart lot of good being dead would do you,” snapped Eileen.

“Goin’ to school’s worse nor bein’ dead sometimes,” said Doris.

“It’s not so bad if you learn your lessons,” said Eva, who was rather glad of the idea of the governess, but daren’t say so in the presence of the others for fear they’d laugh at her.

“Who wants to learn old lessons?” cried Doris. “I want to play all day and feed the chickens and watch the little ducks in the water, and catch crayfish and bully-frogs, and there won’t be any time for all that with a governess—boo-hoo!”

“It’s sickening,” declared Mollie, looking away over the green paddocks; “there’s always something turning up just when things are going good.”

“Don’t you like her coming, either, Mollie?” asked Eva, breathlessly.

“No,” answered Mollie, “not just yet. I want to ride and ride while the horses are fat. I don’t want old school and lessons any more than you others.”

“Oh, why didn’t you tell Mother that?” cried Eileen, breathlessly; “she might have listened to you. She thinks you are so sensible.”

“What’s the use of talking?” snapped Mollie. “She’ll come, no matter what we say.”

“And I’ll bet she’ll be old and scotty and prim and particular,” said Eileen.

“Yes, and wear glasses, and will always be losing them, and will hardly ever smile, and read a lot,” said Eva.

“Yes, dry old books—all about good people that were never in the world at all,” finished Eileen, “and expect us to be like them. She needn’t think she’s going to make me like any of her old good people in books.”

“Nor me, either!” said Doris.

“Me, eder!” said Baby.

“And I bet she won’t be able to ride!” went on Eileen, “and knows nothing about bush life.”

“And I bet she don’t like little ducks and chickens,” put in Doris.

“I wonder what will she be like, and what’ll her name be,” said Mollie.

“I bet she’ll be tall and thin!” said Eva.

“Oh, sure to!” said Eileen. “I can see her now, getting round with her head in the air, turning her long nose up at everything,” and then Eileen walked round, sniffing contemptuously, and they all laughed merrily.

“Dear, oh, dear! I do wonder what she’ll be like!” said Eva, sobering up.

“Who?” asked Willie, who just then came through the gate.

“The new governess,” they cried in one breath.

“What! heard any more about her?” he asked, eagerly.

“No, we’re just wondering——”

“Ugh! Just wondering—just like girls; that’s all you’re good for—wondering.”

Then there was an uproar, and five pairs of feet chased him round the verandah, and five pairs of arms imprisoned him.

“You’re always wondering yourself,” they cried, “and you’re too conceited to let on.”

“Yes, ’course he is, ’course he is.”

Then Willie set to wondering in real earnest, and he bet she’d be cross as two sticks, and wear ugly old dresses and couldn’t understand a fellow liking sheep-mustering, and drafting and all that, and he bet she’d never go for a swim in the river with them, and he bet she’d never fish, or if she did catch one she wouldn’t be able to take it off the line, and she’d be calling all over the place for him to do it, and she’d always be wanting him to put the bait on. Well, she needn’t get calling for him, for he just wasn’t going to stand it; if a fellow went fishing, he was going to fish and not go baiting a line for an old governess!

“Yes, and I’ll bet she’ll hate country life,” declared Eileen, eagerly.

“Of course she will,” echoed Willie. “She won’t know a thing about it. I say,” he went on, growing brighter, “we might have some fun with the old party”—(for Willie was sadly deteriorating in his manners lately); “yes, we might have some fun, you know, if we get her mounted on old Nigger and teach her to ride——”

They all laughed again, at the spectacle of the governess on Nigger.

“And I’ll crack the whip behind old Nigger, and, gee-whizz, won’t he go?” roared Willie, and the five other little sinners joined in the laugh.

“We might have some fun yet,” they agreed, hopefully.

“Yes, leave it to me,” went on Willie. “I’ll see to that. I didn’t come all the way from Sydney to shut myself up in old school. We’ll have some fun right enough.”

“But she might be nice,” said Eva, timidly.

“Nice?” echoed Willie. “Nice? What are you talking about?”

“I’ve often read of real nice governesses,” went on Eva.

“Read?” said Willie, scornfully. “Yes, you might read about ’em, but you seldom see ’em. No, they might live in books, but not in life, and don’t you forget it!”

“Oh, dear, it’s a hard life!” sighed Eileen, “just when things seemed to be going right, too; but it’s no use wishing or expecting or hoping for things to go right, because they never will.”

“No, they never will,” echoed Eva.

“No, dey never will,” agreed Doris.

“Never, never, never,” said Willie. “A fellow just thinks everything is goin’ on great, and something comes along to upset him.”

“Yes,” they all agreed, eagerly.

“Like the day I rode Dandy,” he went on. “I was that glad about it because I was goin’ to have him for my hack, and then he must go and get a stake in his leg that very night! Oh, it’s no use wishing for anything, because you never, never get it!”

“No, never!” they all agreed, mournfully.

“Oh, my goodness me, here comes the mail! There might be a letter about her.”

Then there was a general scatter and excitement. Sure enough there was a thick, important looking letter from the College for Mother, and they all crowded round her while she read it.

Her name was Miss Gibson, and she would arrive at “Gillong” on the following Wednesday.

“And here it is Friday now! Oh, dear!” they cried, in consternation. “Let’s make hay while the sun shines.”

They all rushed madly round for the next few days, trying to crowd all the outdoor life they could into their lives. One would think to see them that their school-days would begin at six in the morning and not end till six in the evening, so eagerly did they snatch up every minute and spend it outside.

“There’ll soon be old lessons and figures to take up all our time,” they would say, mournfully; and then set to enjoying themselves with a will.

“On Saturday and Sunday I’ll get up at 5 o’clock,” said Willie, “and ride all day. Yes, I’ll ride till it’s dark. I’ll let her see that she can’t keep me in all the time!”

So they all nursed a grudge against the governess who was coming into their lives.

“I’ll let her see that Saturday and Sunday belong to myself, and I’ll hardly as much as say good-morning to her on them days. I’ll let her see! And, another thing, I’m not going to ride about with her if she wants to learn to ride, so you need never ask me to. If she wants to learn to ride you can go with her—Mollie or Eileen.”

“Oh, dear, how very kind you are!” answered Eileen. “It’s not so long since you learned to ride yourself, and I heard about the day old Brownie nearly threw you.”

“Nearly threw me,” echoed Willie, in fine scorn. “I simply slipped off her, because she would go round one side of the fence when I wanted her to go the other. I wasn’t going to let her best me, so I just slid off and let her go on her own, and I caught her afterwards and took her back and rode her round the way I wanted her to go. She didn’t best me.”

Just then Eva burst into tears.

“Whatever’s wrong?” they asked, anxiously.

“We’ll—we’ll never have time to—to—go down to the bend and gather the mushrooms, and—and—I do love mushrooms!”

“We’ll have time, silly,” answered Willie. “You leave it to me; I’ll see that she gives us time to gather mushrooms.”

He stalked off with the air of a conqueror.

Down the long flat road bowled the buggy that was bringing the governess from the station, for Father had gone over the night before to meet the train; and now the children, in a state of wild excitement, were grouped together, and wondered. Even Willie let all his eagerness and excitement be seen. Just for the moment the grown-up, careless, sang froid manner that he usually adopted was quite cast aside, and he was a little, eager, natural boy again.

“I’ll bet you anything that she’s lame and’ll wear glasses,” he said, looking round at the others. “There you are now. I’ll bet before I see her.”

“Oh, sure to be!” they agreed. “Oh, dear! I wish she wasn’t coming. If only she wasn’t coming, wouldn’t it be lovely?”

The buggy drew up at the gate, and Mother went forward to meet the newcomer.

“By Jove, she don’t look bad!” cried Willie, as he peeped through the dining-room window.

“Why, she looks real young,” cried Mollie.

“She’s just like a girl,” cried Eva.

“What’d you expect her to be?” asked Willie, “a bloomin’ old man?”

“Oh, but I mean a real nice young girl!” explained Eva.

“Just you wait a bit,” he replied.

“Oh, she looks real nice!” said Eileen.

“Ugh! looks are nothing,” grunted Willie, who was somewhat disappointed at all his predictions coming to nothing. “Wait till she starts teaching, and see if she looks so pretty then. She’s got her best manners on now.”

“And what a pretty hat,” said Mollie.

“Oh, lovely!” agreed Eileen, “and a real pretty dress, too. Look, she’s taking her dust-coat off!”

“Oh! who wants to see her old dress?” snapped Willie, who felt somewhat out in the cold.

“They’re coming in. Let’s all go out the back way,” and off they scuttled.

Later on they were all introduced, and Miss Gibson was so bright and friendly and took such an interest in everything that they found themselves quite drawn to her. Even Willie said grudgingly, in his most grown-up way, that “she wasn’t half a bad sort, and if they carried things out properly they might knock out a good many holidays.”

They took her out to see the pets, and she asked their names and seemed to know all about pet lambs and even chickens, and she could actually ride. Then when they found out she used to live in the bush when she was a child they took her to their hearts straight away.

“Yes, I am a real bush girl,” she smiled, “but I’ve been in Sydney for the last four years, teaching at College. I just used to long for the bush, and the horses and the rides, and the wide, free, open spaces, and solitude when you wanted it, and to get up early and watch the sun rise, and then to watch the stars twinkle into space, and then just to gaze and gaze at the sky until there seemed nothing else in the world but yourself and the starshine.”

“Really, it was wonderful,” the children declared, “to think that a nice girl who knew all about the bush and who knew pet lambs and could ride had come to teach them, and to think that they had had all their trouble and worry for nothing, thinking and wondering about her.” Eileen said it would be a lesson to her, and she would never, never worry again.

So five very happy little bush girls went to bed that night, with the suspense of the last few weeks quite gone from their minds. And Willie, too, was quite jubilant.

“Anyhow, it’s better than having a cross, prim old dame that won’t let a fellow have a joke,” he said, as he lit his candle in the hall, “and we’ve only got to work things all right and I’ll bet we’ll get plenty of holidays. One thing, she can’t expect a man to be always stuck at school.”

And so school life commenced, and went on very smoothly, although now and then the children felt it a bit irksome, for they had been used to so much freedom that it was something quite new to have to answer bells and keep rules and silence in school hours, and sometimes they simply longed to tear out over the green paddocks just in the midst of a history or geography lesson. Their minds would wander away from names and dates down to the clover patch or to the river bend or some other well-known patches, and as soon as school was over they would rush off with wild hurrahing and run wild for an hour or two.

Miss Gibson, though kind, was firm, and insisted on good work and attention, and sometimes, as much as they liked her, they would get together and discuss her, and then perhaps they would come in and find her chatting brightly with Mother or helping her to make scones and cakes, and all their ill-feeling would vanish, for Mother looked so much brighter and happier since the governess came, and they would rush off to see if they, too, couldn’t help.

Sometimes in the afternoons Miss Gibson would let them off an hour earlier, and would take a walk with them. She had sometimes noticed traces of discontent in her little charges, and wished to imbue them with the love of Nature.

“Do you know, children,” she said one day, “I really don’t think you realise how well off you are.”

“Well off?” echoed the children, for they were in a discontented mood that day, and nothing seemed to go right.

“Yes—well off. Just think what you inherit. Those vast wide spaces, and the great blue dome of the sky for a roof, the beautiful sunbeams, or at night the silver-specked vault, and at your feet a great, green velvet carpet fit for kings to walk on.”

“Dear me, that sounds beautiful!” cried Mollie. “I often think we’re lucky, but I can’t think things like you.”

“Tell us more,” begged Eva, who regarded it as a story, and she linked her arm through Miss Gibson’s.

Miss Gibson laughed merrily.

“Very well, dear. Did you ever think what a world of wonder we live in?”

“Oh, that’s all right when you’re rich and travel about!” said Eileen. “You’re sure to see a lot of wonderful things then.”

“Why, my dear, they surround you.”

Eileen looked round. “I don’t see anything so very wonderful.” Eileen was in the mood for argument.

“Look at those lights and shades down in the gullies; look at those twinkling little golden clover flowers. Look at the sunlight flickering on those great snow-white gum trees; and later on this evening we will watch the sunset, with all its glorious colours that artists rave about and try in vain to seize for their canvas. Think of all the beauty and wonder of the seasons, the coming and going, the birth and bloom and fading and decaying and silence and rest of our wonder world. We ought to all try and keep young at heart, and enjoy and love the big open book of Nature that is flung open all around us. Think of the glorious moonlight nights and the beautiful glowing sunrises, or that pearly glimpse we get of the world just before dawn, when it all seems wrapped in mystery. I want you to become lovers of Nature, and you will never be quite lonely. Think of the joy of watching tiny leaflets and buds opening into beauty and watching and tending their growth. Think of the wonders along the river banks, where the wild ducks dip and glide and dive, and the dear little fluffy ducklings, with bright, beady eyes, fluttering about in the water, imitating their elders. Don’t you ever think what a grand thing it is to have your sight, just to see all the beauties around you?”

“Ye-es,” said Eileen, somewhat reluctantly; “it is all beautiful and wonderful.”

“Yes, it is so,” they all agreed.

“Dear me, it’s nice to think about it,” said Mollie. “You do make everything sound nice, and you make one glad to be alive and living in the country. Let’s have lessons outside sometimes, Miss Gibson,” she went on. “Oh, I’d love it!”

“So would I!” and “So would I,” they all shouted.

“Very well,” answered Miss Gibson, delighted to see them so enthusiastic. “We shall have lessons outside sometimes, and excursions to the river and different parts of the paddocks, and in the years to come you will look back with pleasure on those Nature studies, I am sure. Why, you might all develop into writers or artists or poets if you will only open your minds to the beauties about you.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed Eva. “If I could only be an artist!”

“I want to be a poet,” declared Doris.

“And I’d love to write,” said Mollie.

“I’d like to be all,” declared Eileen, “and I might be some day once I start and put my mind to things.”

“I don’t think,” jeered Willie. “It’s as much as you’ll manage to be one of ’em.”

“I’m goin’ to write poetry,” declared Doris.

After that the children grew most enthusiastic, and were always bringing in specimens and plants and leaves, and watching butterflies and ants and calling each other to watch the sunsets, and discovering new beauties in everything. But one day Mother said they were carrying things too far, when Doris came home sopping wet and her boots and socks caked with black mud; and Eva nearly as bad, for she had just pulled Doris out of the creek, where she slipped in while trying to catch a little wild duck that was playing at the water’s edge.

“Such a little beauty!” cried Doris, as she dragged her socks off. “I wanted it for spessiman.”

“You’d better leave ‘specimens’ alone,” said Mother, “if you can’t manage any better than that.”

“Yes, I better leave ‘spessmans’ alone a bit,” agreed Doris, as she shook her socks, for she generally agreed with anyone.

“Of course, you can gather flowers and plants,” said Mother, relenting somewhat, “out in the paddock, where you’re safe.”

“Yes, out where I’m safe,” echoed Doris.

“It’s a wonder you ever left the country, if you are so very fond of it,” said Eileen one day to the governess. “You tell us to like it, and yet you went away to Sydney,” she went on, somewhat defiantly.

Miss Gibson paused a while, and then said slowly:

“It was compulsory. My father was once a very wealthy man, but a big smash came, and I was obliged to earn my living, so I went to a City College, and——”

“Oh!” they all murmured, “we are sorry.”

“What was the smash—a motor-car?” cried Willie, eagerly.

Miss Gibson smiled.

“No, Willie; speculations and other things.”

“If it was a motor-car I’d never ride in one again,” declared Eva.

“Oh, dear! it must be awful to be real rich once and then get poor,” said Eileen. “I don’t know how you stand it.”

“It is hard for a while; but, after all, there are some things better than money.”

“Name them,” said Eileen, in mock despair.

“While we have health and strength and capacity for simple enjoyments left, we can never be unhappy long, and work is a great tonic.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed Eileen. “It’s a funny old world, and you seem as happy as anyone, although you were rich once and have to earn your living now. It wouldn’t suit me.”

That evening Eileen called a meeting, and they all talked in low tones.

“We ought to get up a subscription for her.”

“Oh, yes, let’s!” cried Doris, clapping her hands. She always loved anything fresh or exciting. “Let’s get it up quick!”

“Has anyone got any money? A subscription’s no good without money.”

“I have two shillings,” said Mollie.

“And I have ninepence,” said Eva; “it’s all in pennies, but I don’t suppose that makes any difference.”

“Not a bit, and I know Baby has sixpence. You’ll let us have your sixpence for nice Miss Gibson, won’t you, Baby, darling?”

“Ess,” said Baby, solemnly.

“That’s right, and I have one-and-ninepence——”

“And I have two-and-six,” cried Willie, as he rushed off and brought it back, balancing it on his fingers. “I did mean to buy a big knife with it, like old Joe’s,” he said, as he handed it to Eileen, somewhat reluctantly, “but you can have it.”

“Don’t give it if you’d rather not, Willie,” said Eileen, quickly.

“Yes, take it; I might be rich myself some day, and then get poor, and I’d like someone to get up a subscription for me.”

“Yes; and, besides, you can always get the loan of old Joe’s knife,” said Eileen, consolingly.

“Yes; and, besides, the very next half-crown I get I’ll buy one with it, so I suppose a fellow can wait a while,” he said, trying to appear cheerful.

“You’re leal dood,” said Doris.

“Perhaps you ought to only give half,” said Eva, “because you see you’re a visitor here, and oughtn’t to give so much as us.”

“No, half a crown or nothing,” said Willie grandly; “besides, I’m the only man that’s giving, so I ought to give most.”

“How much have you got, Doris?” asked Eileen.

“A penny,” she said, handing it to her.

“Is that all? Where’s the threepence you had last week?”

“I let it fall in the creek the day I chased the duck.”

“Oh, dear, dear, you are careless!”

“And de oder sixpence I give Teddy to bwing me lollies wif.”

“No wonder you were so pleased about a subscription when you had nothing to give. Let’s count how much we’ve got.”

And they all got slates and pencils and added up the sums.

“What do you get?” asked Eileen of Willie.

“Seven and seven pence,” answered Willie.

“Yes, that’s right. What a pity we couldn’t make it eight shillings.”

“Suppose we ask old Joe,” said Eva.

“Oh, no, Miss Gibson mightn’t like it. Now we’d better write out a little speech.”

“Oh, yes, let’s,” cried Doris again. “What’ll we say?”

She sat back in her chair and prepared to enjoy herself.

“We’ll write it out real nicely, and you’ll paint flowers round it, won’t you, Eva?”

“Oh, yes, do,” shrieked Doris; “roses and pansies an’——”

“Oh, no, they’re too hard,” said Eva. “Nice green leaves and berries, I think—nice red berries.”

“Oh, yes!” they all cried.

“Yes, yes,” shrieked Doris, “green leaves and wed berries,” and she clapped her hands loudly.

“You do the writing, Mollie, and we’ll all sign our names,” continued Eileen.

“Yes,” shrieked Doris again; “but what about Baby?”

“Oh, I’ll hold her hand,” said Eileen.

“Lovely,” cried Doris, subsiding again into her chair.

So Mollie set to work to write out a speech, and they all tried to help her, and after a lot of trials and a few fights they managed one.

“Let’s hear it,” said Eileen, and they sat down while Mollie read aloud.

Dear Miss Gibson,Your six pupils wish you to take the enclosed money as a little present, because we are sorry that you were once rich and lost so much money, and hope you will soon be rich again, and that you will always be very happy.YOUR FOND PUPILS.

Dear Miss Gibson,

Your six pupils wish you to take the enclosed money as a little present, because we are sorry that you were once rich and lost so much money, and hope you will soon be rich again, and that you will always be very happy.

YOUR FOND PUPILS.

“That’s all right,” said Eileen.

“No, there’s another word for ‘take,’” said Willie; “it would sound better. Let’s see, what is it now?—oh, I know!—‘except’—yes, except the money.”

“No, not ‘except,’” said Mollie. “‘Accept,’ I think.”

“Anyhow, there’s only the difference of a letter or two,” answered Willie, “and it sounds better. Put one of them in and chance it.”

“Oh, no! we’ll have to look it up and make sure,” said Mollie with a sigh, “and if there’s anything I do hate doing it’s looking up a dictionary.”

“Oh, bother the dictionary—I hate ’em, too!” said Willie.

“And so do I,” agreed Eileen; “but we’ll have to look for it.”

They got the dictionary and hunted till they found it.

“Ah, ‘accept’—that’s it!” cried Mollie.

“Anyhow, I was pretty near it,” said Willie, well pleased.

“Now, write it out to-night, and to-morrow Eva can paint it.”

“Oh, dear! I wish to-morrow morning was here,” said Doris, who hated waiting.

So to-morrow morning Eva rose bright and early and painted a spray of very bright green leaves and very bright red berries on the card, and called them to put their names on it. Willie came first, because he was in a hurry to have a ride round the paddock before school time. He hurriedly seized a pen and ducked it into the ink.

“Let’s sign, and get away,” he said, importantly.

“Oh, do be careful!” said Eva.

“Careful? Who’s not careful, I’d like to know,” he answered, and just then a great big blot of ink splashed on the page.

“Oh, look what you’ve done!” cried Eva, almost in tears.

“Oh, bother the old card!” cried Willie, in a temper, and then there was a battle-royal.

“I knew you’d blot it. There! it’s all spoilt now, and I’ll have to do another one.”

“What did you call me for? You knew I was in a hurry. I’m sorry I signed my old name now. Why didn’t some of the others write it for me? I haven’t got time for fooling about writing on old cards.”

“You’ve got as much time as any of us, and you’re real ugly—that’s what you are.”

“Oh! ugly, am I? Well, I’ve got plenty of mates, and I’m sorry I gave my half-crown now.”

“All right, then; I’ll tell Eileen what you said, and she’ll give it back to you.”

She jumped up to run off and find Eileen.

“No, you don’t!” cried Willie, now ashamed of himself. “You know I didn’t mean it. Just like a girl—running off to tell tales, and pretendin’ you think a fellow means what he says; here, let’s see if we can’t fix it up. I’ll get the loan of old Joe’s knife, and we’ll scrape the blot out.”

“No, that wouldn’t do.”

“Well, what about wiping it up with blotting paper?”

“No, no good; it would all smear.”

“What about painting something over the blot—some more leaves or something?”

“No; they’d look silly down there.”

“Well, what about painting a big butterfly over it, flying up to the berries, eh? That’d look grand.”

“No, I’ll have to do it all over again.”

“I’m real sorry,” said Willie. “I wish I could paint, and I’d do it for you. Square dink, I would!”

“Oh! never mind; I’ll do another to-day, and we’ll sign our names to-night, and we’ll have to give it to her to-morrow.”

“Righto!” said Willie, as he marched off.

Meanwhile Eileen had been very busy thinking. She actually hadn’t slept much the night before for thinking. Seven-and-sevenpence wasn’t much to give Miss Gibson. If she only had some more! If she could only make some money; but there was no way—yes, there was just one way that flashed into her mind as she tossed about in bed. Tomorrow Mr. Smith, the butcher from Bragan Junction, would call for killing sheep. Supposing she sold him Ronald, her big pet lamb. He would be sure to give fifteen shillings to sixteen shillings for him, and she’d give ten shillings of it to Miss Gibson. Yes, that’s what she would do. She didn’t care if Ronald were a pet and if she’d miss him. He’d only go out to the paddocks after a while, and get mixed up with the rest of the flock, and very likely be sent away to Homebush, or perhaps he’d be killed at home for their own table later on. Ugh! she couldn’t bear to think of that! No, the best thing to do would be to sell him to Mr. Smith. She’d be brave, and she’d see Mr. Smith the first thing to-morrow, and she’d tell him that she had a big fat lamb for sale. She’d be real business-like, and she’d take the money, and then she’d get away somewhere quickly, where she couldn’t see Ronald being driven off with the other sheep. She knew it would be dreadfully lonesome for a while without Ronald, but—she didn’t care. She would sell him.

So when Mr. Smith came she was the first to see him.

“Yes, Mr. Smith, father’s down in the gums paddock, but I have a fine big fat pet lamb I want to sell.”

“Righto!” said the genial butcher. “How much?”

“Oh! er—about sixteen shillings.”

“Let’s have a look at him.”

Eileen led the way to the little back paddock, where quite a flock of young fat sheep were grazing.

“That’s him with the red ribbon round his neck.”

“Righto! I’ll give you sixteen bob for him. I’ve got the silver now, and I’d better carry him down to the gums and put him with the others there. Them pets don’t like leaving home, and—but what’s wrong?” For Eileen was crying fit to kill herself.

“I—I—don’t think I can let him go.”

“’Pon my goodness, don’t take on like that! What! don’t want to sell him?”

“N-o—o. I wanted the money to give to—to—someone for a sub—a subscription, but—they’ll have to do without.”

“Righto, little woman; I won’t take him, but he’s prime,” said the butcher, casting a regretful glance at the fat lamb. “But, listen! Let me give something towards that subscription,” and he drew out a handful of silver. “Here, take five bob. I don’t want to know what it’s for. I’m not curious, but I want you to take it because I’m sure it’s a good object.”

“Oh, it is, it is!” cried Eileen, “but I can’t take your money, Mr. Smith. I’d feel too mean.”

“You must. I’ll be hurt if you don’t take it. There you are, real hurt, and I don’t wonder at you not being able to sell the pet; but all the same, I’d ha’ liked to have had him,” he said, as he mounted his horse and cast another regretful glance at the prime lamb. “Good luck to you, my girl!” he shouted as he rode off.

Eileen stood gazing at the five shillings.

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