The lobby was still a scene of wild unpacking; but in the third bedroom,

a tiny apartment off the dining-room, the American oil-stove stood in

all its bravery of black paint and bright blue enamel, the glass door of

the oven shining invitingly. A copper kettle simmered over the flame:

on nails on the wall hung Aileen's aluminium pots and pans. A rough

shelf held an imposing stack of cookery books, flanked by a big pile of

dish towels.

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

Mother?"

"As soon as I have a clean house," Aileen answered. "To-morrow we'll

have to attack that awful store-room: and I foresee heart-to-heart talks

with Horrors on the subject of milk buckets. His look as if they were

washed about once a month. Tom, how lovely you've made the bath!"

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

little bathroom.

"Seeing that I used gallons of boiling water and about half a ton of

soda to it, I should think it ought to look lovely," said Tom. "I

doubled myself into the thing for so long that when I finally emerged, I

thought I'd never straighten myself!" His eyes twinkled. "What a heap

there is in housekeeping one never suspected! I've regarded Julia and

Annie as quite ordinary people for years, but now they strike me as

rather more than human!"

"But is you two people always going to work?" asked a small voice.

"Nothin' else at all?"

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

"Poor man! He has never seen us do anything but play!" Aileen murmured.

She patted his head. "We'll have to work a good deal, sonnie, but there

will be time for quite a lot of fun, too. That has simply _got_ to be

arranged. And to begin with, I think it's high time you showed me

things outside. It's disgraceful to have come to a new home and not to

have put one's nose out all day. And outside is so much lovelier than

inside!"

"It just is--ever so much," Garth cried. "Come along! I wonder will

the pigs have gone to bed!"

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

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

moment all day."

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

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

He watched them stray off into the twilight. Then he went to the

forgotten tea-table, cleared it, and washed the dishes. He did it very

badly, and with a great deal of mess, never having washed dishes before;

but no one who saw him as he worked would have judged the work hardly.

Having finished, he wiped up the mess--of which there was a good

deal--with a clean towel, surveyed the result with pride, and strode

forth to find his family.

"You've been ever so long!" Garth complained. "Whatever have you been

doing, Daddy?"

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

*CHAPTER VII*

*THE RIDING OF JANE*

A week went by--so swiftly that each day slipped away on wings, and yet,

when they looked back, it seemed that years had passed since the grey

morning when they left the "House Beautiful." It was a week of

ceaseless hard work. At the end of it they looked at each other,

toil-worn, but cheerful: in their hearts a queer pride in the new home

that the "House Beautiful," with all its charm, had never succeeded in

waking. There, it had been so easy to take things for granted. But here,

only their own hands and their own brains counted; and they had used

each to the full.

It had not been an easy week. The only really easy thing, Torn said,

was to make mistakes; and of those, they had made enough and to spare.

But they very rarely made the same mistake twice.

Now, within and without, the little bush home was spick-and-span.

Everything had been scrubbed and re-scrubbed. Light streamed into it

from wide-open doors and through brightly-polished windows. The

packing-case furniture swaggered in new petticoats of gay colours. From

the barrel-chairs the dingy coverings had been ruthlessly stripped, and

they, too, rejoiced in fresh clothing. Dainty belongings were scattered

here and there: Aileen's piano, having survived the long journey by

steamer and bullock-dray, stood in a corner of the sitting-room; and

there were books and pictures and fresh flowers. They felt that they

had reached a high level of success when Garth sniffed approvingly, and

remarked, "This house is beginning to smell like you, Mother!"

The kitchen had suffered a transformation. With the pained assistance of

Horrors, it had been emptied and scraped and cleansed. Unceasing

warfare had fallen upon the horrified tribe of cockroaches, and now not

one was to be seen, either by night or day. No scrubbing would remove

the marks of ancient filth from the walls, and in desperation, Tom had

at length given them two coats of whitewash, and had painted the tin

sink with white enamel. At the conclusion of the job it was hard to say

whether more whitewash had fallen on the walls or the artist; but the

general effect was beautiful.

The colonial oven had been so long a stranger to blacklead that the

first two coats had merely made it look as if suffering from an attack

of black measles: at which a streak of obstinacy in Tom's soul developed

strongly, and he brushed it daily, until, at length, it shone with an

ebony lustre most uplifting to behold. They had routed from its

interior a large collection of socks, in the last stage of decay--the

property of Horrors, who had a pleasing habit of drying wet and dirty

garments on the warm oven shelves. The gloom which had been settling

more and more profoundly on Horrors since their arrival deepened

perceptibly when he discovered that this artless practice must in future

be denied him; and when, in addition, he was set to scrub the oven with

washing-soda and boiling water, despair seized upon him.

"He's got to the depths," Tom said, laughing. "Nothing can make him feel

worse now. When I told him that in future he'd have to wipe his boots

before coming in, he only uttered a hollow grunt. I think speech was

beyond him!"

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

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

"I didn't pick it up--I was only telling you what Horrors said," Garth

rejoined, somewhat aggrieved. "And I asked him what was, and he said,

'Soap, an' scrubbin', an' all that rot!' He says Mr. Gordon never

bothered him about things like that and he wishes he was back."

"I don't doubt it," said Tom. "Under Gordon Horrors seems to have done

little except wax fat!"

"He isn't nearly as fat as he looks," Garth said. "He wears all the

clothes he's got at once. He's got three suits on now, and lots of other

things as well."

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

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

"Which nobody can deny," said Tom. "Now we understand why Horrors isn't

what you might term lissom. Do you think you could speak to him like a

mother, Aileen?"

"It's almost the only thing I don't feel like when I look at Horrors,"

she said. "No--I think it would come better from you. Be brave."

"We pay for his clothes, so I suppose we have a right to expect that he

doesn't wear them out in batches," remarked Tom. "Did you gather

whether he ever takes any of them off, Garth?"

"Only the top layer, if he gets very wet," Garth said. "But he said he

fell into the creek one day before we came, and got soaked right

through."

"He must have hated that!"

"Yes, he did. He said, 'Why, me _skin_ was wet!'--just as if it hurt

him. So he had to take them all off and put them in the oven, and he

went to bed till they were dry."

"Well, you have got more interesting information out of Horrors than I

should have believed possible," said Tom. "He never does more than

grunt when _I_ speak to him."

"He only speaks in grunts, any time," said Garth. "Only sometimes, if

you listen hard, his grunts seem to mean something."

"You fill me with hope--I'll listen harder in future," said Aileen,

laughing. "Sonnie, are my scones done?"

They were sitting in what Garth insisted on calling "the new kitchen";

Aileen darning socks swiftly, while Garth and his father sat on the

table--which, having refused to look clean under any scrubbing, was now

covered with white oilcloth. Preparations for afternoon tea were upon

it, and a pleasant smell of baking filled the air.

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

oven.

"They've risen ever so, and they're turning a lovely brown," he

announced. "I'm so hungry, Mother--don't you think they're done?"

"Very nearly, I think," said his mother, coming to join the inspection,

while Tom lent an inquiring eye over their shoulders. "They do look

pretty good, don't they? Cooking is so exciting; I don't feel as if I

would ever learn to feel calm while I turned out a pudding!"

"If you go on as well as you have begun you'll soon cease to worry,"

said Tom, preparing to make tea.

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

They all laughed. The pie had certainly been rather peculiar. No one

knew quite what had happened to it, but after sampling it, the family

had fallen back on bread and jam. The pie had gone to Horrors, who had

eaten it all at a sitting, with the nearest approach to happiness they

had yet seen in him; and had afterwards become, as might have been

expected, extremely unwell, his complexion for the rest of the day being

a delicate green.

"The pie was an accident, but there's nothing accidental about those

scones," said Tom, as the scones, light and puffy, emerged from the

oven. "Tea is ready, and I'm hungry enough to eat the lot. Sick boys,

of course, aren't allowed more than one, are they?"

Garth uttered a howl of protest.

"I'm not sick!"

He did not look sick now. Even a week of Gippsland air had put colour

into his cheeks and brushed away the tired lines from his eyes. He was

no longer a city boy. No snow-white collar encircled his neck; his good

suits were packed away, and he lived in blue jerseys and extremely brief

knickerbockers, beneath which his brown knees were scratched and

bruised. From daylight until dark he was in the open air, exploring the

country that was so new and so delightful. There were still traces of

delicacy from his illness; but already, watching the light in his eyes

and the spring in his step, the father and mother knew that the great

sacrifice had been worth while.

"He ate two of my tarts yesterday; and as no ill effects followed I'm

beginning to think that nothing could hurt him," Aileen said. "It's

difficult to think that only a fortnight ago we were tempting him with

delicate strips of toast!"

"They wouldn't be much good to me now," Garth uttered, accepting a large

buttered scone with thankfulness. "This is the hungriest place I ever

was in: and your scones are scrummy, Mother!"

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

"You're such satisfactory people to cook for," Aileen said, "you like

everything that is at all possible, and when it isn't--like the pie--you

make a beautiful joke of it."

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

"Poor Horrors! I ought to have given him extra wages, I think, and

instead all I gave him was Epsom salts!"

"He needed them more than wages, I should say," Tom said. "No money

would have paid for that pain of Horrors'. Well, you didn't ask him to

eat the whole of that pie, so I don't think you need worry. More milk,

Garth?"

"Please," said Garth, surrendering a large empty mug. "Daddy, I've got

the old pony up!"

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

"I've caught her lots of times," said his son, slightly embarrassed.

"She isn't any trouble if you take her a milk-thistle. So to-day I took

a halter with me, only I didn't know how to put it on, so I just tied it

round her neck and led her up. It's funny how difficult a halter is when

it's in your hand--it's all twists and knots."

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

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

Garth had flushed, and his eyes were very bright.

"Truly?"

"Certainly--if you like."

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

"Oh, there's not much teaching in getting on a pony," said his father

unconcernedly. "You must find out some things for yourself. Take her

into the little calf paddock--she can't get away from you there. Of

course, I'll come and lift you up, if you'd rather."

"No, thanks," said Garth, his head well up. "I've finished--can I go,

Mother?" She nodded, and he clattered out of the kitchen. The gate of

the yard slammed behind him.

"Tom, is it safe?"

"Was I a brute?" he asked, and smiled at her. "I do want the little

beggar to be independent--and he can't hurt himself on that old mare, in

a little paddock. He'll manage all right, and be twice the boy for it."

"Come into the store-room--we can see him from the window," said Garth's

mother. She caught Tom's hand, and they hurried into the store-room.

The window looked out upon a tiny paddock where the grass was green and

thick, since its calf inhabitants had long been turned out into a wider

run. Garth was leading old Jane, the brown pony, through the gate.

Jane, it was evident, had no wish to be led; she hung back obstinately,

until the long grass caught her eye. Then she became docile, and went

through meekly, beginning to eat at once. Garth shut the gate, and,

returning to his steed, looked at her. He wished he could remember how

it was that people got on a horse. Finally he made a little run and

sprang awkwardly in the direction where he would be.

There was never any sudden movement about Jane. Whether she stepped or

swerved aside would have been difficult to say, for it was done

unobtrusively; but the fact remained that when Garth was at the top of

his spring, she was no longer there, but a yard or two away, eating

peacefully. Garth came down on all fours in the grass, and arose,

brushing his knees, his colour somewhat heightened. No four-footed

beast had ever looked more innocent than Jane.

He twisted the halter round his wrist for his next attempt and clawed

wildly at her withers. Jane gave a slow wriggle, and Garth found himself

kneeling beside her, caressing his nose, which had bumped rather heavily

against her plump side.

"Old beast--you did it on purpose!" they heard him say. He looked

around him for means of help.

An old bucket in the corner caught his eye, and he went for it, placing

it beside the unruly Jane, who still ate with a peaceful determination

not to be worried by small boys. The bucket was rusty and ancient, but

Garth was not in the mood to be delayed by trifles. He up-ended it, and

hopped up nimbly, catching at the pony's mane.

Jane walked on sleepily, as if looking for another bite of grass. For a

moment Garth struggled to hold her back; then the bucket gave way under

his boots and he fell through the bottom, standing imprisoned in the

rusty tin. His grasp on the halter brought Jane's head round, and they

stood looking at each other--the small boy red-faced and angry, the pony

with an air of meek surprise.

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

joined him.

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

"If he does, he's going to beat that pony permanently," said his father.

"Let's see what his next move will be."

Garth's next move was to extricate himself from the bucket. It smote

Aileen's heart to see long, red scratches on his legs, as they

emerged--she sought in her memory for the correct treatment of

blood-poisoning. The matter did not worry Garth. He stared for a

moment at Jane, who cropped the grass placidly. Then he hauled her to

the fence, and tied her to a post, bringing her as close to the rails as

she would permit. Jane stood meekly until the boy inserted his small

person between her and the fence, and mounted the second rail.

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

Jane knew better. Just as he leaned towards her she slued round gently,

so that she faced him again. Her nose drooped towards the grass so far

as the restraining halter would allow. Garth poised on one foot for a

moment; then, losing his balance, dropped off into the grass, his face

redder than ever. It is regrettable to record that at this point he

administered a hearty kick to Jane, who looked piously surprised, but

otherwise took no notice.

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

He made a sudden angry rush at the pony, and was on her back before she

realized it. Unfortunately he went a little too far. For a moment he

lay across her, kicking and clawing to get his balance; then he shot

down, head foremost, and again found himself in the grass. Jane stepped

carefully away from him, and continued to eat.

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

Garth pondered. That he was angrier than they had ever seen him was

clear; but there was a set look about his lips that told of

determination not to give in. At this point Horrors sauntered up from

the milking-yard and put down his bucket joyfully.

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

"Hang that boy!" muttered Tom.

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

myself."

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

Garth thought deeply, his eye wandering round the little paddock. Once

more interrupting Jane's meal, he dragged her to a corner, and tied her

so that the fence would prevent her sidling away. Then he stepped back,

took a little run, and landed on her back. There was a moment's

struggle, bare legs waving in the air, while Jane hugged the fence as

closely as possible in the hope of preventing him from getting his foot

down on the off side. Unluckily for Jane, her rotund sides were against

this plan. Garth struggled to a sitting position triumphantly, and

uttered a whoop. It was echoed--silently--by his parents.

"Bless him, the darling!" breathed Aileen, after the fashion of mothers.

"Come on, Tom--let's go and encourage him!"

"Wait a minute," said her husband, restraining her. "I want to see what

will happen when he realizes he's tied up."

Garth was just realizing it; and so was Jane. He leaned forward, and,

seizing the rope, tried to haul himself and his steed towards the post,

that he might untie her; and might as well have tried to haul a mountain

down into a plain. Jane stood passively, with no faintest indication of

having noticed that any one was on her back. Garth struggled until he

was scarlet, and at length gave it up.

A bright thought struck him. It might be dangerous and rash to be on a

pony's back without even a halter, but that was better than being

ignominiously tied to a post. Even if she wanted to run away, she could

not, in so small a paddock, run far; and then, Jane had not shown any

inclination to run at all. So he leaned forward again, managed to reach

the knot of the halter on her neck, and began to untie it.

Jane moved forward gently--which Garth welcomed, since it allowed the

rope to fall slack, and eased the tension on the knot. It seemed that

she knew when she was beaten. Her head drooped lower and lower: sleep

apparently stole over her. Garth went further and further forward, as

her neck declined, his fingers busy with the knot.

There was the slightest upward movement of Jane's hind-quarters. It

could hardly have been said that she kicked up; but there certainly was

an elevation, and, slight as it was, it was sufficient for Garth. He

was already precariously balanced, and he slid over her head, and landed

on his back turning a neat somersault. Jane looked at him sadly.

"You--you old _cow_!" they heard him splutter.

He gathered himself up, a vision of red fury. To kick Jane was his first

task, to untie the halter from the fence his second. Then he flung

himself at her, and for once Jane was not ready. She backed and sidled,

but her activities came a thought too late. Garth was already astride

of her, gripping her with his legs, more in blind anger than in

intention. He brought the end of the halter down on her neck with a

resounding thwack.

"Get on, you old pig!" he shouted

Jane moved on slowly. This small insistent person on her back was no

longer to be denied. The anger lingered in Garth's face for a moment;

then, as he found he was actually riding--_riding_--it died out, and a

wide, happy smile took is place. It was a vision of ecstatic triumph

that waved gaily to his father and mother as they appeared at the back

gate.

"Daddy--I can ride!"

He drummed his heels against Jane's sides and the pony, surprised and

indignant, broke into a jog. Garth bumped happily for a little, not

knowing that his heels were still assaulting Jane. Then the jog merged

to a shambling trot, and he slipped first to one side, then to the

other, went further, clutched at her mane to regain his balance, and,

missing it, descended abruptly to the grass. Jane instantly stopped,

and began to eat.

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

the fence.

"Isn't she an old pig!" he said, his eyes still dancing. "I don't

care--I did ride her right round the paddock, anyhow, didn't I, Dad?

Glory, my wrist hurts!"

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

Garth held up a wrist for inspection, catching his breath as he did so,

unable to restrain himself from wincing. It was queerly twisted. Tom

gave a short whistle.

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

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

shoulders.

"Tom! What will we do?"

"There's a doctor staying at the hotel, I know," Tom said quickly. "I'm

afraid to tackle it myself--I don't know enough about it. Don't worry

old man, we'll have you right in no time. Get ready, Aileen, and put

his arm in a sling. I'll run the horses up."

He flung himself on to the amazed Jane, who went out of the gate and

across the paddock with more haste than she considered either pleasant

or proper. Aileen caught sight of Horrors' gaping face.

"Get the buggy out--quickly!" she told him. "And have the harness

ready." She watched him go shambling towards the harness-room before

she turned to take Garth indoors.

"Does it hurt you much, little son?"

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

Mother?"

"Oh, twisted a little," she told him. "A doctor will make it all right

very quickly; only it will hurt you until we get to him." She looked at

the set little face. "Garth dear--don't try not to cry, if it is very

bad."

"I would be awful 'shamed if I howled," said Garth steadily. "And Dad

would think I was a coward. Dad wouldn't howl."

"Dad is grown-up, and you are only seven," Aileen said. "He wouldn't

expect you to be able to stand as much as he can. He will understand,

if it's a bit too much for you, dear."

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

"Let me see if this will ease it," she said, her own eyes full of tears.

She folded a silk muffler into a sling, and raised his arm, very gently.

Even under the soft mother-hands the child turned white.

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

"I'm ... jolly glad you haven't," panted Garth. His mother put him into

a chair, watching him narrowly, lest he should be faint.

"Sure you're all right, sonnie?"

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

"Of course I'm coming." She pinned on her hat quickly, throwing her

apron into a corner. "I'll be back in a minute."

Running, she found Tom's flask, and mixed some weak brandy and water in

it, slipping it into her pocket. Then there was nothing to be done

until a "Coo-ee!" told them that the buggy was ready.

Tom lifted the boy very tenderly to the seat, and they drove out, trying

vainly to avoid jolting on the rough track. Garth steadied the injured

arm with his free hand, and tightened his lips, uttering no sound; but

at an especially severe bump he gave a little sigh, and, half-turning,

put his face against his mother's shoulder. She put hers down to him,

murmuring broken words.

"I wish you'd howl, or something, old son," said Tom miserably. A

muffled "Won't!" came from the hidden face. They drove on slowly

bumping and jolting.

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

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

They turned out of the paddock and down the lane, winding in and out

among the trees. Presently Tom uttered an exclamation of impatience.

"Cattle! What beastly luck!"

Ahead, a small mob of half-grown calves blocked the narrow lane. A tall

man on a brown cob came riding some distance behind them. The calves

were feeding lazily, and took very little notice of Tom's angry shouts;

nor did their driver hurry himself at first. Presently, however, he

seemed to awaken to the fact that his property was in the way, and

trotted lazily forward.

"I wish to goodness you'd clear your confounded cattle off this track!"

Tom sang out wrathfully.

"One'd think you was in a hurry," said the tall man easily. "Ain't I

got as much right to the road as yous?" Then his face changed as he

looked at Aileen. "Beg pardon," he said, and they saw that he was their

acquaintance of the steamer. "I didn't know it was you, Mr. Macleod. Is

the kid hurt?"

"Dislocated wrist," was Tom's brief answer. "Do you happen to know if

the doctor is still at the hotel?"

"I know he's not," was the unexpected answer; and Aileen felt Garth

shiver. "Went away by this morning's boat."

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

"Not nearer than Bairnsdale." The man swung himself to the ground,

leaving the reins trailing over the brown cob's head. "Can I have a

look, son?"

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

"H'm," said the man. "Rotten luck, eh, son? Fell down an' trod on it,

did you? Think you can trust me to put it right?"

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

"I'd like a bob for every one I've done," said the new-comer. "Most

chaps in the Bush know a bit o' surgery." He nodded to Tom. "Hold him

steady."

He took the little wrist in weatherbeateh hands that were wonderfully

gentle. "It won't take not half a second, son--just set your teeth."

There was a moment's quick manipulation, while Aileen turned sick: a

smothered gasp from Garth, and then a sharp click.

"There!" said the tall man, "all over; and you stood it like a brick,

old man. Oh, poor kid--hold him, missus!" For Garth had suddenly grown

limp and helpless in her arms.

"On'y fainted--can't blame him, neither," their new friend said. "Give

him to me, missus, an' I'll lay him flat."

Garth opened his eyes some minutes later to find himself staring at the

sky, with uncomfortable spears of grass tickling the back of his neck.

His wrist was tightly bandaged, and there was an extremely unpleasant

taste of brandy in his mouth. He felt queer, and very lazy; even though

the spears of grass were very uncomfortable, it was far too much trouble

to move. Then he saw his mother's face, white and strained as he had

learned to know it during his illness, and he smiled at her weakly.

"Hallo, Mother!"

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

"Had a stiff time, didn't y', ol' chap?" said the tall man, smiling down

from a height which seemed to Garth about sixty feet in the air. "Well,

you're a man, anyway. I tell you, I've pulled joints in for full-grown

men an' heard 'em howl like a dingo over it."

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

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

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

"An' you fell off of a pony, they tell me," said the tall man. "Well,

we all do that, sometime or other. When are you goin' to ride her

again?"

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

For the second time that day Aileen checked herself in a quick protest.

She looked at Tom.

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

old son."

*CHAPTER VIII*

*RAIN--AND A FRIEND*

But it was not to-morrow, nor for a good many to-morrows, as Tom had

probably foreseen, that Garth was in a position to apply himself anew to

the education of Jane. He passed a restless night, and morning found

him feverish and heavy-eyed, his wrist stiff and painful. He had

neither appetite nor energy, and did not resist his mother's suggestion

that he should stay in bed.

"You can't expect anything else," Tom said sagely. "He's had a nasty

shock, poor youngster, and we must remember he isn't really strong yet,

even if he _has_ got a little colour in his cheeks."

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

"Don't worry; he'll get it back again." Tom was far from feeling as

cheerful as his words, but to reassure the tired girl across the

breakfast-table seemed necessary. "Just make a baby of him for a few

days, and let the other work rip. Don't do any cooking except for the

boy."

"And let you starve on tinned things? I don't want both of you ill,"

responded his wife, laughing. "You give me splendid advice except where

you're concerned yourself: and there you are just no good at all. It's

a pity, because it shakes my respect in you!"

"You might remember with advantage that I'm the head of the house, and

treat me with reverence," he told her severely. "I'll be forced to take

steps to make you obey me!"

"I would laugh very much if you did," said his wife, with conviction.

"Run away and play in your garden; I'm going to make a pudding as soon

as I have fixed up Garth's room, and I really can't be bothered with

heads of houses!" She swept him a mock curtsey, and was gone.

When she emerged from Garth's room half an hour later the dining-room

was neat and tidy and breakfast cleared away, save for a loaf of bread

ornamenting the writing-table--since the best of men is apt to overlook

such unconsidered trifles in tidying after a meal. She laughed softly,

and restored it to the bread-crock. In the kitchen Tom was just

finishing washing dishes.

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

really, Tom!"

"Why shouldn't I?" asked her husband. "You're just jealous, because I

wash up so much better than you!" A large fragment of ash from his pipe

fell into his dish as he spoke, and clung lovingly to the saucepan he

was cleansing.

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

events!"

"That's more jealousy, because you can't smoke," said he loftily.

"Every one who is well brought up knows that ashes are invaluable, for

cleaning saucepans!" He polished vigorously. "There--look at your old

porridge-pot!"--waving a wet and gleaming aluminium utensil at her,

regardless of a shower of soapy drops.

"It's lovely," said his wife, accepting the saucepan and the shower with

meekness. "And you're a dear, though in the interests of your character

I generally try to conceal the fact. What vegetables do you intend to

present to your starving family to-day?"

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

in the city.

"Cabbagee, cauliflow', gleen pea an' dly pea, Flench bean, bload bean,

spallowglass!" he chanted. "No, not asparagus; but I felt so like old

Ah Chee I couldn't stop! Just give your orders, ma'am. Whatever old

Gordon didn't do on this place, he certainly left us a good vegetable

garden."

"He did indeed," Aileen said. "Now, having dangled all these before my

eyes, tell me what ought to be used first."

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

more so."

"I'm so glad--it doesn't have to be shelled!" said his wife. "Peas or

beans would have embarrassed me this morning. Where's the cookery book?

I never can remember whether it goes into boiling water or cold."

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

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

"Mere red tape," said Tom scornfully. "Why not try both ways, and see

which comes out best?"

"Think of your feelings on the day when it happened to be wrong," said

his wife absently, puckering her brows over her book.

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

erected for towels.

"There, that's done," he said. "Now I'd better go and catch a

cauliflower, since my suggestions only meet with scorn. Want any

potatoes?"

"Please," said Aileen. She watched him cross the yard to the shed, and

return with his spade, and presently heard him singing as he worked--a

gay little snatch of comic opera that was somehow oddly out of place in

the Bush.

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

so."

She went out upon the veranda, and stared across the paddocks. The

loveliness of the country always helped her--even when the realization

was strong upon her that she hated her new life. Not for worlds would

she have admitted it to either Tom or Garth; that would not have been

playing the game--and to play the game had been instilled into her since

her childhood as the one thing worth doing.

She did not always admit it to herself; then it was easier to be cheery

for her two boys. She met each day with a laugh and tried to laugh

until it ended. But sometimes it was hard. She missed the "House

Beautiful," with its dainty comfort and luxuries; the ease of the old

days, the little pleasures and excitements, the stir and bustle of city

life. The loveliness of the country lay like a weight upon her. Beyond

the blue hills her mind saw Melbourne, with its broad streets and great

buildings in their setting of gleaming river, and jewelled parks; the

huge shops, the gay streets, the "Block," with the familiar faces going

up and down. There were all the friends who had helped to make life so

merry; here was nothing but silence and green spaces--and work. How she

hated the work! the dull repetition of each day's tasks, the grime, the

greasy dishes, the hot kitchen, the sight and smell and touch of raw

meat! In the first days, while they fought the dirt of the house

together, it had been easier, hard as the fight was for her unaccustomed

strength. Now she was settling down to a dull routine of daily tasks,

and her existence seemed bounded by pots and pans and dish-mops. It was

all very small and paltry: but then, life nowadays was made up of small

and paltry things, which somehow mounted to a big whole. Perhaps it was

because she was tired that morning that it seemed rather too big for

her.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Well, I suppose I'll get broken in, in time," she said. "I hope it

won't take too long."

Tom came round the corner suddenly, and chaffed her for idling; and she

answered him laughingly, until a call came from Garth's room, and, with

a cheery, "Coming, sonnie!" she ran to him. Tom finished scorning his

vegetables, and shouldered his spade once more.

"Well, it's a queer sort of a life to come to--and not much of a one,"

he muttered. "But thank goodness, Aileen's as happy as a cricket, so

it's all right!"

There were days that followed when Aileen found it harder than ever to

play at being happy.

The fine weather deserted them, and for nearly a week rain fell

unceasingly. Mud came up to their very doors, so that to keep the house

clean was no easy matter. The garden paths were muddy rivers, the

flowers sodden with wet. Garth, a prisoner to the house, and with his

bandaged arm in a sling, moped for lack of occupation, became as naughty

as was possible to his sunny nature, and openly declared that the

country was beastly, and he wanted to go home. Even Tom ceased to sing,

and grew bored with long days in the house. The hills and the lake

disappeared, blotted out behind a drifting veil of grey rain. The roof

developed unsuspected leaks, which all Tom's untaught efforts failed to

locate; and, to catch the drips, tubs and basins sat on the floor in the

passage--traps for the unwary in the dark. Tradesmen, never very

regular callers, ceased coming altogether. Their bread ran short, and

Aileen tried her hand at baking, producing loaves that were responsible,

through indigestion, for much of the family's low spirits. Tom tramped

through the downpour to the township, and returned empty-handed and in

disgust--it was the weekly half-holiday, and the baker's shop was shut!

So Aileen baked again--this time the soda-bread of Ireland, as taught by

Julia; and was more successful. Meat ran out; they would have killed

fowls, but no one knew how to prepare them. It was a dreary time. They

ate strange dishes made with lentils, and wondered how vegetarians

contrived to look cheerful.

The days crawled by slowly, to the ceaseless sound of the drip-drip-drip

on the corrugated iron roof. The tanks ran over, and made rivers about

the house---they were as yet too new to the country to be grateful for

any sign of a superabundance of water. All the firewood was wet and

sodden, and refused to burn: and the chimneys smoked furiously. Aileen

found, to her horror, that there were signs that already her temper was

beginning to feel "frayed at the edges"; more than once she caught

herself up just in time to prevent herself making a sharp answer to some

remark of Tom's. It made her afraid.

"If I'm like that within three weeks, what shall I be in three months?"

she asked herself. "Aileen Macleod, you _can't_ be a pig! I'll begin

praying Mrs. Wiggs' prayer every day--'Lord, keep me from gettin' sour.'

It wouldn't do, with two boys to look after."

A cry startled her, and a heavy splash, and the little mother dropped

the food she was preparing and fled to the rescue. In the passage, now

nearly dark, Garth's boots protruded from the largest of the tubs.

There was water everywhere: and Garth, half-choked, and hampered by his

slung arm, was endeavouring to struggle out of the tub. To her relief,

he was laughing.

"I'm an awful goat!" he said, dripping, but cheerful. "Didn't it serve

me jolly well right for being grumpy!"

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

feet.

"Not a scrap--wasn't it luck! But I'm soaked, Mother." The small boy

gave an irrepressible chuckle. "I say, I must have looked funny! Don't

you wish you'd seen me!"

Suddenly, to her astonishment and disgust, Aileen found that she was

crying. The stupid little accident was the last straw to her endurance:

her self-control slipped from her in the relief of finding Garth unhurt.

She struggled in vain to command her voice, and took refuge in silence;

but presently a stifled sob made Garth lift his head in amazement, and a

tear fell on his upturned face.

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

sorry!"

His arm was round her neck and his cheek pressed to her wet one. The

clinging touch helped to calm her.

"I'm all right, sweetheart," she told him. "Don't worry--I was just a

bit tired, that's all. You mustn't tell Daddy, or he'd be worried."

"Sure you aren't sick?" Garth asked, greatly alarmed. That mother

should cry was sufficiently amazing to mean something very bad indeed.

"No, not a bit. I was only tired, and I was afraid you were hurt. I'm

a silly old mother, that's all." She was helping him into dry clothes,

handling his stiff arm very gently.

"I've been making you tired--cross beast I am!" said Garth penitently.

"I won't be horrid any more, Mother!" He hugged her again violently.

"Poor old man; you've had a horrid week," she said. "Never mind; Daddy

says he thinks it is going to clear up, and you may be able to get out

to-morrow. Listen, Garth!" She raised her head as the sound of voices

came through the thin boarding of the wall. "Daddy has a visitor. How

exciting!"

"Who d'you think it is?" Garth asked eagerly. "Why, we haven't had a

sign of a visitor since we've been here!"

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

buttons.

"That nice man what pulled my arm straight?" Garth said. "I'd like to

see him. He did hurt, but he was jolly quick. I was getting sick of

that old arm. He's a--a very decent sort of chap, isn't he, Mother?"

"Very decent, I think," she said. "At least, I never was so glad of any

one in my life. Let's go and see him, sonnie."

Tom rose as they entered the sitting-room.

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

"Thought it was about time I came to see how my patient was," said the

big man. "Hullo, old chap; your Dad says you're nearly all right.

Looks a bit washy yet, don't he?"

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

this old sling?"

Nick O'Connor laughed.

"Seems to think I'm his doctor, don't he? Well, I wouldn't be in a

hurry for a few days. You don't want a weak wrist, do you? And when

you do take it out, mind you wear a wrist-strap." He turned back to

Aileen. "And how d'you like Gippsland, Mrs. Macleod?"

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

country."

"Oh, it's pretty enough. But there's no fortunes to be made here; it's

hard scratchin' for a living. I was just askin' your husband what he

was thinkin' of doin' with the place."

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

"Queer chap, ol' Gordon," said their guest. "He wasn't the sort of

fellow you could talk to at all: lived by himself, and never spoke to no

one. Him and that kid Horrors. I wish I'd known you were coming in;

some of us would a' done something to the house. Awful dirty, I suppose

it was, Mrs. Macleod?"

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

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

"I bet it was a pigsty," said O'Connor, chuckling. "I was on'y here

once, about six months ago, lookin' for a stray calf: but then I poked

me nose into the kitchen, an' mighty quick took it out again."

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

"Not they. Well, it's all very well to laugh, but it was jolly rough on

you, Mrs. Macleod. My word, you've got the place nice now! And the

garden's a fair credit to you: it was the on'y part of the place where

old Gordon did any work. As long as he could go fishin', much he cared

for anything else. What was you thinkin' of doin' with the land?"

Tom gave a short laugh.

"I'm blessed if I know," he said. "To tell you the truth, I don't know

a thing about it. I've a little stock running on it, so I've just been

pegging away at getting things ship-shape before I tackled farming in

earnest. What would you advise me to do with it, Mr. O'Connor?"

The big man drew out his pipe.

"Mind me smokin'? Well, it all depends. If you'd bought the place it'd

be different; then I'd start clearin' it up a bit, if I was you. But

you've on'y got it on a lease, an' so that ain't worth your while. Ol'

Gordon'd never appreciate it, if you did clear it for him. No; you

might dairy in earnest--an' a dawg's life it is; or you might run sheep

an' a few calves. That's easier, an' it pays. Young stock does pretty

well on these hills."

"That would suit me better," Tom said. "I'm too old to start dairying,

not knowing anything about the game: and labour is too hard to get.

"That's so," agreed O'Connor. "An' when you've got men to milk, ain't

you fair under their heel! They're boss, an' they make you know it.

Why, I knew one man employin' six milkers: Mr. Beresford, up Lindenow

way. Mrs. Beresford was doin' all the cookin' for them, and she wasn't

a bit strong, either--a delicate lady, she was, an' awful nice: an' it

was hot weather. They _was_ beasts. If she sent 'em down a stew they'd

put earth in it an' send it back and tell her they wanted joints; and

one day she made 'em a ginger pudding, an' they chose to think it wasn't

good enough for them, so they plastered up the cracks in the walls of

their hut with it, and sent up word she had to make something else. An'

she had to."

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

"So'd Mr. Beresford. But he couldn't see sixty cows left unmilked. An'

those six beauties of his would have walked off like a shot an' left his

cows. They've done it on lots of places. Once you start dairyin', you

can be as proud as you like on your own account, but you've got to be

jolly meek and humble on account of the cows."

"Is Beresford still at it?"

"Not he. He sold all his cows, and went back to sheep; it was a pity,

too, 'cause he'd good land an' a lovely herd. But Mrs. Beresford was

too delicate, an' he wouldn't have her worked to death. Anyhow, she did

die, afterwards, poor thing!"

"Well!" said Tom expressively. "That puts dairying out of the question;

one doesn't want to risk experiences of that kind."

"It's all very well if you're brought up to it," said the visitor.

"Then you get used to all sorts of things. But you ain't." He looked

at them reflectively. "You've both of you got 'city' written all over

you, if you don't mind me sayin' so. That bein' so, I couldn't advise

you to try cows."

"Well, look here," said Tom. "Say I go in for sheep and young stock, as

you said--knowing nothing about them. Is there a reliable man--any

settler living near--who would buy them for me--for a commission, of

course--and advise me about selling, when they were fit to sell?"

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

cheerfully.

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

"Take up my time! Why, you've on'y got to come to sales with me--I'm

always 'goin' to them--an' let me give you a word of advice: an' I can

come over here now and then, to see how they were doin'. That ain't

nothing to be paid for. You'll want to put in a bit of a crop for

winter feed, an' I'll lend you my plough an' horses an' 'Possum--you can

pay for them, if you like."

"Who is 'Possum?"

"'Possum's me right hand-man," said Nick O'Connor, with a twinkle.

"Very useful, too. I can ride over an' help you get the crop in.

You'll want to put in potatoes, too, won't you?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Tom said.

"Oh, there's money in spuds," said the big man. "And in fruit: you

ought to make a bit off your orchard. And the hotels will always buy

vegetables--likewise the summer visitors."

Aileen leant forward, a new light in her eyes.

"I can help in that," she said. "And, Mr. O'Connor, I want to go in for

fowls--lots of fowls: chickens and ducks and turkeys."

"So you'd ought to. They take mighty little feeding: eat insecks and

grasshoppers all the summer, an' they do fine on peas in the winter!"

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

"Yes, dry peas. We'll make him put in some for you, Mrs. Macleod--just

a little crop."

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

"Oh, 'Possum's the one to help you there," said the visitor. "What

'Possum don't know about fowls ain't worth finding out. Don't you

worry, Mrs. Macleod, we'll fix it up all right."

"But we can't take up your time and 'Possum's without paying you," Tom

said. "I know how valuable a man's time is."

Mr. O'Connor exhibited symptoms of impatience.

"Now, look here," he said. "You're neighbours; an' for five years we

haven't had not what you could call a neighbour on this place. Nobody's

very proud about here, but we do get full up of a man like ol' Gordon,

who thinks himself too good to speak to any poor Australian. You ain't

that sort, an' we're jolly glad to have you. If I needed advice about

buyin' things in the city, wouldn't you give it to me?"

"Like a shot," said Tom. "But----"

"Well, thank goodness, I don't!" said Mr. O'Connor, pursuing his

argument. "But I'll come to you when I need a lot of shares, or a

swaller-tail coat an' hat, or anything fancy like that. Meanwhile, if

you won't let us advise you about things like calves and spuds, where's

the fairness come in? I've said I'll let you pay me for the ploughin',

'cause it's cheaper for you to do it that way than to buy an outfit an'

start learnin' to use it. But the rest is on'y bein' neighbours. So

s'pose we don't say any more about it. Eh, son--would you like to learn

to be a farmer?"

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

"Oh, you're quite big enough for a start. I'll tell 'Possum to keep an

eye on you." He rose, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "Well, they'll

be waiting tea for me: I must get along home." He shook hands all

round. "We'll make good Gippslanders of you in no time," he said.

"Jolly nice drop o' rain we've had this last week, isn't it?--good thing

for your ploughin', Mr. Macleod. Well, so long!" He was gone.

"Didn't I tell you he was a jolly decent sort of chap?" Garth said.

"And he is, too!"

*CHAPTER IX*

*"MAGGIE OR SOMETHING"*

Morning broke clear and fine, with a golden sun smiling over a

clean-washed world. Garth greeted it with a merry little shout.

"Hurrah, Mother! No more rain!"

"Not a drop," answered Aileen from the passage, where the steady swish

of her broom could be heard. "It's going to be the most beautiful day!"

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

in bed, Mother."

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

"I'm all right," Garth responded. "I'll be quite careful of my

arm--don't you bother." He capered out into the passage, a cheery

figure in pyjamas, flourishing a bath-towel; and disappeared into the

bathroom, whence came presently much splashing, mingled with snatches of

song.

"Bless him! I'm sure he's better," Aileen murmured. Something of the

weight on her heart seemed to be lifted this morning. Perhaps it was

the beauty of the day: perhaps an added hope and interest in life since

their visitor of the night before. She sang as she swept. That in

itself was not unusual, since singing was a cheerful exercise, and she

believed in encouraging cheerfulness. "One's mouth can't turn down at

the corners if one is singing," she was accustomed to think. But her

song was not forced to-day: and Tom, coming up the path, caught the

happy note in it, and smiled unconsciously.

"Look here," said he, later, at breakfast. "I want to draw the family

attention to a painful fact. It's more than a fortnight since we came

here; and for that whole fortnight Mother Aileen has not been outside

the house!"

"Why, Tom, I've been----"

"You've been into the garden about three times, and once to the pigsty,"

he interrupted. "I knew that quite well, but it doesn't count. Does

it, Garth?"

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

"Not at all. Your only other excursion was when you went to poke your

nose into Horrors' room, and nearly fainted at what you saw there!"

"I didn't--though indeed, any one might well have fainted," Aileen

defended herself. "It was like a charnel-house!"

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

"Horrors' room," said his father promptly. "At least, it was, until we

went through it with fire and sword. Never mind; we're getting off the

subject. Does the family think it's the square thing for Mother Aileen

never to have been outside her gate?

"No!" from Garth.

"Certainly not!" from Aileen, amiably.

"I'm surprised to find you so sensible," said Tom, grinning at her.

"Well, seeing that you have done nothing but scrub, and sweep, and cook,

and generally behave like a galley-slave since we left Melbourne, it's

time something was done about it. You're getting thin, and you've no

colour, and if you're not very careful you'll get the blues; and where

would Garth and I be then?"

"You needn't worry: I don't go in for such stupid things," said his

wife, laughing. A shade of pink crept into her cheeks; behind the laugh

it made her a little afraid, to think how near the surface blues had

really been.

"Anyhow, it really won't do, old girl;" he said seriously. "No one

could stand it: and this last week of wet weather has been enough to try

any one. Therefore, I propose that to-day we leave the house to Horrors

and the cats, and go exploring."

"Glory!" ejaculated Garth.

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

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

"Lots."

"Anything else?

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

"There you are--what more do you want? That's supper, all ready. We can

take out bread-and-butter and hard-boiled eggs, and make billy-tea: and

that's lunch. We'll all hurry up, and finish the housework, so that you

can go out without having awful thoughts of coming back to find the

piano undusted!"

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

Mother!"

"What a horrid mother I'd be if I didn't," she said, smiling at them

both. "I think it would be perfectly lovely. Mind you eat a good

breakfast, both of you, for it will be the only hot meal you'll get

to-day."

"The same applies to you," said Tom, placing another slice of bacon on

her plate. "No, you needn't dodge!--you know you haven't been eating

enough lately to support a fly. Garth and I decline to have you

swooning by the wayside from hunger."

"I wish you would be nice enough to forget the only occasion in my life

when I did 'swoon,' as you call it," she said. "I truly won't do it

again--I'm too ashamed of it. By the way, isn't that man of Mr.

O'Connor's coming over to-day?"

"The chap he calls 'Possum? I'm not sure," Tom answered. "We won't

stay at home on the chance of his coming, at any rate; we can tell

Horrors to let him know what direction we take, and he wouldn't mind

riding after us. After all, we can't go far. But even a little way

will be better than nothing. I do want you to forget cooking-pots for a

day."

It was still quite early when they left the house. The long grass was

wet, but overhead fleecy white clouds swam in a sky of perfect blue, and

were mirrored in the blue of the lake below. Just the day for a

holiday, Garth said, capering ahead of his father and mother, while Bran

raced in pursuit of skimming swallows, having been recalled sternly from

the more hopeful pastime of chasing cows. The spirit of the morning had

even entered into the elderly Jane, who was seen to kick up her heels

and gallop across a hill-side, in stiff-legged imitation of the more

youthful Roany. Everything was glad of the rain--especially now that

the rain had ceased.

"Rain is like med'cine," Garth said sagely--"simply beastly when you're

taking it, but it makes you feel better."

They followed the track leading down to the lake, skirting the fern

gully, where the tiny creek had become a most excitable stream, leaping

downward in a series of baby waterfalls, with all the ferns on its banks

awash. The great tree-ferns overhead dripped steadily, but the sunlight

lay upon their spreading fronds, turning the dewdrops into jewels. Far

above them, bell-birds, hidden in the branches of a gum tree, chimed as

if they could not be busy enough in ringing to welcome the glory of the

morning.

The lake itself lay clear and blue, broken now and then by the splash of

a leaping fish. Just below their land it turned, widening to a great

pool: but they saw now that it was only an arm of the larger lake, and,

beyond, it narrowed until it was like a river. A footpath led along its

shores, and they followed it in single file. Sometimes the cleared

paddocks came down to the water's edge, bare of timber: sometimes they

passed through belts of forest where shy Bush creatures slipped

noiselessly away through the undergrowth as they approached. They

caught a glimpse of a wallaby hopping off to shelter; and once they came

upon a native bear, sitting in a little gum tree, very still and solemn.

Garth uttered a shout of delight.

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

"His book name is Koala, but we used to call him just 'monkey-bear' when

I was your size," Tom answered. "He's a nice old chap, isn't he?"

"He just is!" breathed Garth, looking at the soft, grey, furry thing

with its chubby body and wide, innocent face. "Daddy, do you think I

could take him home and tame him?"

The monkey-bear looked with extreme disfavour at Bran, who was barking

frantically at the foot of his tree and making ineffectual leaps towards

him.

"Bran wouldn't agree," said Tom, laughing. "And anyhow, the old bear's

no good as a pet. He's pretty, enough, but he's awfully stupid. The

fact is, he's practically blind in the daytime--he can only see at

night, and even then he hasn't much brain-power. Anything he

meets--you, or a gate-post, or a house--he wants to climb up

immediately, thinking it's a tree. He's really uninteresting; and he

can scratch like fury!"

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

"I don't think he means to be savage," Tom said. "He only claws in

self-defence, if he's touched."

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

Dad?"

"He may coo to his young, for all I know," said his father, laughing.

"But he's generally considered a silent beggar; only if he's hurt or

badly frightened, he cries exactly like a child. The blacks have a yarn

that he was really a child, ages ago. I once saw some dogs attack an

unlucky little fellow that was trying to get to a tree, and the way he

cried made me shiver."

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

captivity?"

"I don't think so: he's too stupid to be really tamed. You couldn't

make a pet of him."

"Then it's really a pity he looks so jolly," was Garth's verdict;

"'cause it only excites your hopes for nothing. I vote we go on; he

doesn't look as if he'd move if we stopped here all day."

"He won't," said his father. "I always think he'd make an excellent

heathen god, for he looks so wise, and it wouldn't matter in the least

that he hasn't any brains at all. His great ability is for sitting

still, and that's quite a desirable quality for a god."

They went on, through scrub that grew so closely that the path they

followed became a mere sheep-track, and the bushes brushed their

shoulders. Overhead a laughing-jackass broke into a peal of wild

laughter, and was answered by another some distance off: and presently

they saw one of the big brown birds alight on a bough, turning up his

broad tail with a jerk as he came to rest, and then laughing as if the

world were one huge joke.

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

"Do they, truly, Daddy?"

"Nothing they like better, I believe. They drop on him like a stone,

catch him in that big powerful beak, and take him up into a tree, where

they batter him to death against a limb, and then eat him. I should

think Mr. Snake must shudder, wherever he is, at the sound of a

jackass's laugh."

"That's a nice, useful kind of a bird," Aileen said. "I would like to

encourage a dozen or so to live round the house. I've never seen a

snake, and I know I should run if I did."

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

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

"I killed them as a boy, but I haven't seen any since, except in the

Zoo," Tom said. "I suppose there are plenty in this district, so we

shall have to make up our minds to meet them."

"Don't you try to attack them, Garth," said his mother anxiously. "If

you meet one, get out of its way and let it pursue its business in

peace."

"But if it came after me?"

"Run," said Tom. "But they don't, as a rule: they are only too anxious

to avoid you. A tiger-snake may show fight, but not often: the others

are of a retiring frame of mind, unless you happen to tread on them."

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

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

"Oh, it was in the dark--he had put on one boot and was looking about

for the other with his foot. But he couldn't find it, so he got matches

and lit a candle. And there was his boot with a big snake in it!"

"Did he kill it?"

"No; he says he can't kill snakes 'cause it gives him the cold shudders.

But he yelled, and Mr. Gordon came and killed it. And another time Mr.

Gordon found one in his bed!"

"Ugh!" shuddered Aileen.

"He was going to bed, and he thought it looked lumpy, so he turned down

the clothes, and there was old Mr. Snake coiled up, as happy as

possible. Wouldn't he have felt funny if he'd gone to bed as usual and

put his toes on him? I bet he'd have hopped!"

But the vision of the hopping Mr. Gordon was too much for Aileen, who

declined to talk of snakes any more--much to the disappointment of her

son, who had evidently learned many more stories from Horrors, and

burned to impart them.

"I don't see why you don't like talking about snakes," he said,

aggrieved. "_I_ think they're jolly things to talk about. And so does

Horrors. I wonder who that is?"

They were crossing a paddock towards a little lane that ran down to the

water's edge; and riding along this, with reins loose on the neck of an

old grey horse, was a girl. As they drew nearer she stopped, looking at

them curiously--a curiosity which their glances echoed, for they had

never before seen any one quite like her.

She was a tall, angular girl of about sixteen, dressed in faded blue

dungaree--the thick, strong cotton material of which men's working

clothes are made in the Bush. Her blouse was a man's jumper, the collar

sagging open, showing her brown throat: her skirt, home-made, and

ornamented with patches of varying size and different shades of blue,

was short enough to reveal lean legs, and feet shod with men's blucher

boots. On her head was a battered old black felt hat, from holes in

which short wisps of yellow hair protruded oddly. Garth remarked later

that you couldn't see much of her face for freckles: but somehow, when

you had looked at her face you did not trouble about her clothes. For

it was a pleasant face, shrewd and merry, if not at all beautiful. She

had a wide mouth, showing perfect white teeth; a snub nose; and

twinkling little grey eyes that were very cheery and friendly. The

powdering of freckles, covered her brown skin as far as could be seen;

but when she pushed her hat back, her brow was startlingly white, and

without a stain. She greeted them with a cheery smile, as they came up

to the fence, though her manner had a touch of shyness.

"Hullo!" she said: and then, looking at Aileen: "You're Mrs. Macleod,

aren't you?"

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

the fence.

"Me Dad sent me over," said the stranger. "I went to your place, an'

your boy Horrors told me you'd gone this way. I thought I might cut you

off at this lane, if I had luck."

"It was very nice of you to come," Aileen said, faintly puzzled, not

knowing whether to regard this business-like young person as a caller.

She certainly did not look like an ordinary caller: but to Aileen all

things were possible in the Bush. "Will you tell me your name?"

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

"'Possum? But----"

"Me Dad always calls me that, so it's kind of stuck," said the owner of

the name. "I b'lieve I got another, but it never seems to matter: it's

Maggie or something." The puzzled faces before her seemed to demand

further explanation. "Mr. O'Connor's me Dad," she added.

[Illustration: "'Mr. O'Connor's me dad,' she added."]

Aileen began to laugh, and Tom followed suit.

"I'm sorry we were so stupid," Aileen said. "But from the way your

father spoke we quite thought you were a man!"

"Blessed if I don't think he thinks so, most times," said 'Possum, her

eyes twinkling. "It's a way Dad's got. An' I got to be a man, most

times, so I s'pose he gets accustomed to it." She grinned at Garth.

"How's the arm?"

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

it?"

"Said he pulled it straight. Hurts, don't it? I had mine put out when I

was a kid." She grinned at him again; and from that moment Garth and

'Possum were friends. "You just knew," said Garth afterwards, "that she

was a real decent sort."

"I'm so sorry you had the trouble of coming after us," Aileen said, "We

were going for a day in the Bush: the rain has kept us indoors for a

week. Won't you come, too?"

'Possum shook her head.

"Sorry," she said. "Me Dad's left me some sheep to bring home from

Nelson's, an' it'll be a bit of a job, 'cause they're leavin' young

lambs, an' drivin' 'em 'll be a caution. A mercy it ain't dusty an'

hot; if it was they'd simply sit down in the road an' look at me. But

it'll take me all me time, as it is. I just wanted to ask about that

bit of ploughin' you wanted done."

Tom laughed.

"Hasn't your father told you how ignorant I am, Miss O'Connor? I don't

know a thing about it."

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

"Well, he did say you'd need a bit of coaching," she answered. "Him an'

me had a yarn about your place last night, an' we reckoned that the

little paddock where your calves are running now 'ud be about the best

for cultivation. How about puttin' oats into the highest part, an' then

some field-peas? An' maize ought to do real well on that low-lyin'

strip goin' down to the creek. That 'ud give you about all the feed

you'll need. And there's a corner beyond the creek I've had me eye on

this long while. I'd like to try lucerne in it." She paused for

breath, looking at him eagerly.

"It sounds attractive--but large," said Tom, hesitating. "I don't know

that I can take all that on, Miss O'Connor."

"Why, it ain't much--the whole paddock's not that big," said 'Possum.

"I'll get it ploughed in no time with our disc-plough. An' Dad'll come

an' help us get the crops in. Then there's potatoes--I s'pose you'll

put them in in Mr. Gordon's little potato paddock?"

"Yes, I thought so," he said. "Look here, I'm not proposing to stand by

with my hands in my pockets while you and your father do my work. Can

you teach me to take a hand? I mean"--he flushed--"will I be too much

of a new chum to learn to be decently useful?"

"Why, we'll teach you as easy as wink," she said. "There ain't nothing

difficult about it, if you ain't afraid of work. I only know what me

Dad's taught me--you'll beat me in no time. We"--she paused, and for the

first time looked embarrassed--"we think it's jolly rough on you people

comin' into a place like this, not bein' used to anything. If there's

anything we can do, you just let us know."

"It seems to me we're casting ourselves on your mercy," he said: at

which 'Possum looked blank, and murmured something unintelligible.

Aileen broke in.

"We're terribly ignorant people, but we do want to learn," she said.

"What about me, Miss O'Connor? Can you teach me how to make an enormous

fortune out of fowls?"

'Possum grinned.

"Well, I ain't learned that meself, yet. But there is a bit to be made

out of 'em, if you go the right way about it, an' have decent luck.

We'll try, Mrs. Macleod. Me Dad said you wanted to buy some?"

"Yes."

"Well, ol' Mother Coffey, up the lake, has plenty to sell. She's givin'

up keepin' a lot--gettin' too rheumaticky. But if you don't mind me

sayin' so, she'll raise the price on you if she thinks it's a new chum

buyin'. Say you let me do the buyin'? I bet I'll get 'em pretty cheap."

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

"Well now, look here," 'Possum said. "I'll come over to-morrow with the

plough on the dray, an' then we can settle about the crops so's I can

get straight ahead with the ploughin' next day. Then I'll jog on with

the dray to ol' Mother Coffey's an' buy them chooks, an' bring 'em back.

That gives us a good start. Got any setty hens?"

"There are three who sit on their nest--it's the same nest--all the

time, and use very bad language if any one goes near them," Aileen said,

laughing. "Is that being setty?"

"That's it," said 'Possum, grinning. "Well, wouldn't you like to start

'em on some aigs? Nothin' like rearin' chicks for yourself---it's

cheaper by a long way than buyin' other people's."

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

"Bless you, yes," said 'Possum, startled by a depth of ignorance of

which she had not dreamed, "I'll show you." She turned her friendly

glance upon Garth. "We'll put you on that job--shall we?"

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

"Me little brother Joe always helps rear ours," said 'Possum. "An' he's

only six." She gathered up her reins. "Well, I must be goin', if I

want to get them old ewes home before dark. I'll be over to-morrow,

Mrs. Macleod. So long." She dug her heel into the old grey horse, and

wheeled round. Suddenly she looked over her shoulder.

"If you wouldn't mind just callin' me 'Possum," she said. She flushed

hotly, and cantered away. They saw that she rode on a man's saddle,

sitting easily sideways, with her leg crooked over the pommel.

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

"Well, of all the amazing young women!" he said slowly. "Do you think

there are any more at home like her?"

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

"I'm not sure that I don't agree with you," his father answered.

"But.... Oh, my stars, Aileen, I never felt so small in mv life! She

can't be seventeen--and I'm a baby beside her in everything that

matters!"

"Well, so am I," said his wife, laughing. "But after all, it's in the

bringing-up. We must just be grateful for having neighbours who are

willing to take pity on our ignorance. And we're going to learn, Tom."

"There is certainly plenty to learn," he said, grimly. "However, we'll

try. They're bricks, anyhow. Now I think it's time we found a good

camping-place, and boiled the billy--and the first thing I've to learn

is how to make a fire out of damp wood!"

They wandered home towards evening, tired, but content. Something of

the homesickness that had lain like a cloud on Aileen's mind had passed

away. Life did not seem so much a thing bounded by the four walls of a

kitchen. Whether the long, peaceful day in the Bush had helped, or the

tonic of 'Possum's cheery, practical voice, she did not know. But she

felt better.

As she came through the yard a low snarl greeted her from a box. The

three "setty" hens resented any one's passing by their seclusion.

"Hopeful old souls, those," said Tom, laughing. "They're sitting on a

half-brick and a hard clod, and I think they expect to hatch out a

half-acre allotment and a town hall. Goodness knows how long they have

been doing it. No wonder they're bad-tempered."

"Well, we mean to give them eggs to sit on to-morrow," was Aileen's

response. "I suppose 'Possum knows how to move them--I should have

thought it as much as one's life was worth. Do hens bite deep, Tom?"

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

Meanwhile, Miss Maggie (or something) O'Connor, known as 'Possum, had

collected her ewes and driven them slowly homeward through a long

afternoon, during which they endeavoured unceasingly to return to their

lambs, and bleated woe at being denied. It was dusk when the last

entered the home paddock, leaping high in the gateway after the idiotic

manner of sheep. 'Possum rode slowly down the hill to her home.

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

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

"Yes. Travelled jolly badly."

"Sure to. See the Macleods?"

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

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

"Yes, they're nice." She moved towards the house, and then stopped.

"But, Lor!--who ever let 'em out!" she said.

*CHAPTER X*

*'POSSUM TAKES HOLD*

'Possum arrived next morning with the old grey horse in a dray which

contained, besides herself, a small, silent brother, a plough, and a box

of eggs.

"They're me best Wyandottes' aigs," she explained. "Oh, yes, you can pay

me for 'em. Will we set the hens now, Mrs. Macleod?"

They went off to the shed, the invariable storehouse of Bush

lumber--containing much rubbish and many treasures. Among the latter

were three small empty cases upon which 'Possum pounced.

"Do first-rate," she said.

She found her way, as if by instinct, to the tool-shed: and Garth and

Aileen watched her as she split an old fruit-case into laths, nailing

them on the open sides of her boxes, an inch apart. Larger pieces she

reserved for doors, hanging them in position by short strips of leather

cut from an old boot.

"Just you keep old boots like that," she said, tenderly regarding the

green and mouldy relic she had disinterred from a rubbish-heap. "Never

know when you won't want a bit of leather on a farm: and

gen'lly-as-a-rule, when you most want it, it ain't there. Now that's

all right. Any straw?"

Garth knew where there was straw, and fled for it delightedly: and

'Possum made a nest in each box, securing the straw from escaping by

keeping it in place with bits of brick. It was all done very quickly.

She carried a box to a quiet corner of the fowl-yard--and turned to

remonstrate at finding Aileen bearing the second in the rear.

"I say--you oughtn't to do that!"

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

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

"Then the sooner I get used to it, the better!" Aileen returned for the

third box, but, being easily beaten by her determined assistant, had to

content herself by bringing the eggs in her wake.

"Thirteen to each," said 'Possum, disposing the eggs swiftly in the

nests. "There--look nice, don't they? Always makes me feel almost like

setting myself. Now for them old hens. D'you want to learn to handle

'em, Missus?" It was clear that she abandoned "Mrs. Macleod" with

relief.

Never had Aileen wanted anything less. The infuriated old hens filled

her with such forebodings as might be felt on approaching an angry

hyena.

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

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

"Oh, yes--run for them, Garth."

"Gives you great pluck, to have gloves on," remarked 'Possum. "Not that

they'll peck you, if you're quick--but sometimes you ain't quick enough.

Now, you watch."

She stooped before the box where the three hens clustered angrily,

greeting her with hisses and snarls. For a moment she watched, then her

hand shot out swiftly and grasped the nearest hen by the neck. Quick as

she was, the second hen was quicker--a red mark showed on the brown hand

as she rose with the struggling captive.

"Got me," she said cheerfully. "But it don't hurt. See, Missus--I just

slip me hand under her, but I don't let go her neck. Then she travels

nice an' easy, but she can't use her old beak. Come an' we'll put her

on the aigs."

Snarling and struggling, the hen was gently deposited upon the nest, and

the door secured. 'Possum covered the box with an old sack.

"There:--she'll get quiet enough when she can't see. Some people swears

by settin' 'em at night, but it don't matter when they're as setty as

these fellers. Like to try your hand with the next one, Missus?"

Aileen did her best. She plunged her hand at the second hen, but missed

it, thanks to warlike action on its part; and the hen arose, bestowing a

hearty peck on her glove as it passed, and fled into the open, uttering

loud squawks. 'Possum grabbed the third as it was about to follow.

[Illustration: "The hen arose, and fled into the open, uttering loud

squawks."]

"That's the worst of catchin' 'em in daylight," she remarked. "They see

too much of what you're after. Well, we'll have to leave her, Missus.

She'll go back after awhile. D'you think you could get her to-night?"

"Yes, if it takes me all night!" said 'Aileen sturdily. Her attempt had

failed, but it had taught her that the task held no especial terrors.

"My husband will help me."

"Oh, you'll be all right," said 'Possum, securing her captive, and

draping a sack over her wrathful protests. "Sit on them aigs, now, you

silly old cuckoo, an' get busy! Well, that's that. Now, about buyin'

them fowls?"

They discussed ways and means, and 'Possum made brief notes on the back

of an old envelope--a laborious task.

"I'll get 'em," she said at length. "An' I must get along. I seen the

Boss in the paddock as I come down, an' fixed up about them crops.

Ploughin' to-morrow. So long, Missus--I'll be back this afternoon with

them fowls. Come along, Joe."

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

"Got it in the cart," said 'Possum, indicating a newspaper parcel.

"Catch young Joe starting out without his dinner! Thanks very much, all

the same." She clicked to the grey horse, and he shambled off

reluctantly.

It was some hours later when she returned, her arrival heralded by the

voices of many birds. Ducks added their quackings to the notes of the

hens; and a turkey's long neck protruded from a hole in a box, gazing on

the scene with meek bewilderment. Aileen and Garth met the cart at the

yard gate.

"You did get them!" said Aileen delightedly.

"You bet," said 'Possum briefly. "And they're good, too: you'll make

plenty out of those chaps, 'cause I got 'em real cheap. Ol' Mother

Coffey's anxious to get 'em off her hands: she's stiff as a poker with

rheumatics. Them turkeys is a real bargain. They had her beat

altogether, 'cause turkeys stray most awful, an' she couldn't get across

the flats to yard 'em in." The simple joy of Miss O'Connor in the

affliction of Mrs. Coffey was touching to behold.

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

need it."

"I could do with a go of tea, but I can't let these fellers go without

cuttin' a wing of each," said 'Possum. "Mother Coffey ain't got no

garden to keep 'em out of, but 'you wouldn't care to have them rampagin'

over yours. Got a strong pair o' scissors?".

They watched little Joe hold each bird while his sister deftly cut one

wing as short as possible.

"Why not two wings?" Garth asked.

"'Cause they can fly as well as anything if you leave 'em both the same.

They can balance, then. But you watch that chap."

"That chap" was a handsome young pullet, apparently maddened by her

trials. She stared wildly for a moment when released: then, perceiving

a quince tree, decided that safety lay in its branches, and endeavoured

to fly thither. Her spring carried her a little way into the air: then,

lacking one wing, she overbalanced and fell sideways, with terrified

squawks. Reaching the ground, she bolted for shelter into Bran's

kennel: and, being greeted with an amazed and indignant yap from Bran,

who was already there, fluttered backwards in a state of horrified

panic, and, shrieking her woes, fled down the hill-side and was lost to

sight. The onlookers gave themselves up to laughter.

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

"Oh, she'll come back all right when she feels a bit lonely," 'Possum

rejoined. "Why, she ain't goin' to keep away from a place where she's

had all that fun!"

Tom came up as the last of the fowls was released. Under 'Possum's

advice he had spent the day in the cultivation paddock, with Roany

harnessed to a sledge, picking up logs and roots which, would be in the

way of the plough.

"That paddock looked quite clear: but I've a stack of wood that will

last us for a fortnight, and an appetite to match it," he said. "That's

a great lot of fowls! Are they what the fortune is to be made out of,

'Possum?"

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

crop."

They went in to tea--and for the first time they saw 'Possum awkward.

Outside, in the saddle, driving the heavy dray, or dealing with tools

and fowls, she was simple, capable, and thoroughly at home; but the

sitting-room, with its pleasant litter of books and papers and the music

open on the piano, was evidently a strange world to her, and she became

silent and ill at ease. The patched and faded blue dungaree, and the

rough men's boots, which had fitted into the working scene, were

suddenly all wrong: she looked at Aileen's dainty print frock, and felt

the difference she could not put into words. It was in Aileen as well.

Outside, she had been shy and awkward, ashamed of her own ignorance and

helplessness: here, she was on her own ground, as she had been in the

drawing-room of the "House Beautiful"; the perfect hostess, courteous

and sweet-mannered. But all her tact failed, for a while, to loosen the

mantle of shyness in which the unhappy 'Possum was wrapped.

Help came through little Joe. Nothing on earth could make Joe shy,

though he was a gentleman of few words. Here, however, was tea, which

he needed: with large fresh scones and a big cake which Mr. Macleod--a

man of understanding, evidently--was cutting into generous, plummy

slices. Cake did not often come in little Joe's way, and he greeted it

with a wide smile.

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

finger.

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

Joe's mouth drooped at the corners.

"Can't I have some?"

"But of course you can: and it is scrummy!" said Tom cheerfully. "I

know, because I helped to make it! Don't you mind 'Possum, Joe: she can

boss us when it comes to ploughing, but not when it's eating cake." He

smiled at the girl over the small boy's head. "Have a scone, 'Possum."

'Possum accepted a scone unhappily, and held it as if doubtful of how to

eat it, sitting miserably on the extreme edge of her chair, and grasping

her cup with a clutch born of despair. Visions of flight stole across

her: she wondered if it would look queer if she said that the old grey

horse would not stand, and so might escape for home. But the grey was

certainly asleep, with his nose against a post: and little Joe was

sitting up to the table, eating scones and cake together with perfect

contentment. Wild horses--let alone the old grey--would have found it

difficult to move little Joe.

"Can't 'Poss come an' sit at the table too?" queried Joe suddenly, with

his mouth full. "It's comf't'fler: an' she'll spill her tea, to a dead

cert., if she sits over there!"

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

"Well, you always say you like sittin' up to a table," Joe defended

himself. "Come along."

Aileen laughed delightedly.

"It's not a bit of good to hope that small brothers will behave the way

one expects them to, 'Possum," she said, pitying the girl's scarlet

face. "Never mind, he's full of good sense. Come, and we will all sit

up to the table; it is comf't'fler."

"I always told you it was," Tom said, drawing up his chair with joy. "I

never could see why people should be condemned to do circus

performances, balancing cups and plates, when there was a good sound

table near. Good man, Joe. Pass him the scones, Garth."

'Possum's hot flush died away. These people were comprehending, even if

their room was "sweller" than any room she had ever seen: and now that

she was at the table her blucher boots and patched skirt were hidden,

and that was a comfort. She wondered if she ought to have removed her

hat: but the certainty that her short yellow hair would be standing on

end--it always did--made her feel safe in having kept it on. She

decided that she might as well eat, and bit into her scone gingerly. It

was a good scone, and the tea was good, but very hot--and she was

thirsty. She poured some into her saucer and blew upon it to cool

it--and then turned a hotter scarlet than ever, finding Garth's eyes on

her curiously, and realizing that she was the only one so employed.

"Cake, Garth?" said Tom. He secured his son's attention to his plate,

giving him a warning glance. "Aileen, you've made this tea awfully

hot."

"More milk?" queried Aileen.

"No, thanks: it's very good." He poured some deliberately into his

saucer, and blew upon it--and gave inward thanks that 'Possum did not

perceive Garth's glance of utter bewilderment. Over the saucer he met

the girl's eyes calmly. "How long do you think it will take to plough

that paddock, 'Possum?"

"Oh, a few days," 'Possum answered. "The rain will have made it easier

work: the ground was jolly hard before that." She had regained her

calmness; the trick of the useful saucer was evidently familiar to

Melbourne tea-tables.

"And can you plough it all?"

"Well, I sh'd hope so," 'Possum said. "I bin ploughing since I was

thirteen--you've only to sit on the seat and keep the horses straight.

It's a bit hard on hills, but it's easy as wink on plain ground."

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

ask any one!"

"Keep quiet!" said his sister.

"Well, you do." He turned to Tom, secure of a sympathetic hearing.

"An' 'Poss never does what Dad did--he was ploughin' on the side of a

hill, an' he let the ol' plough topple over, and him an' the plough went

rollin' down like fun. You orter seen him!" The memory induced deep

chuckles. "C'n I have some more cake?"

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

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

Tom and Aileen burst out laughing.

"Don't worry about him, 'Possum," said Aileen. "Do have another cup.

And I want to know how many of you there are at home."

"Well, there's Dad," said 'Possum, bestowing a glance of great scorn on

her brother. "Mother died when Joe was a baby. Joe's six, even if he

ain't got no manners, an' Polly's seven, an' Bill's ten, and Bertha's

twelve. The twins 'ud be fourteen, on'y they died on us when they were

kids."

"And who looks after the children?"

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

"But who cooks and looks after the house?"

"Me an' Bertha. I used to do it all till Bertha lef' school: she's

quick, an' she passed all her exams., an' got her certif'cate last year.

Now she helps, an' I will say she's as handy as a pocket in a shirt.

Never saw a kid take to cookin' like Bert. That's all she cares

about--as long as she can dodge round in the kitchen she never wants to

put her nose outside."

"But you did it all until last year?" Aileen asked in amazement. "And

brought up the children?"

"With a bit of ploughing thrown in!" came from Tom.

'Possum flushed. She was not quite sure that they were not laughing at

her. But their faces were very kind.

"Well, y' see, there wasn't any one else," she said. "Dad was too busy

on the place. He got a woman at first, but she was always drunk, an'

stole things, an' hit us, an' bossed us round. I tol' Dad I'd run the

house if he'd send her away, so he did. My word, we was glad! She

never passed any of the kids without givin' them a clip on the ear for

luck!" Her head went up. "An' they're good kids, mind y'--'cept Joe!"

Joe grinned happily.

"But how did you manage everything?"

"Oh, I dunno. It wasn't hard. Kids in the Bush look after themselves a

lot, y' know. They get handy in no time. Bill's cut all the wood for

me since he was seven, an' he an' Bert milked before they wont to

school. Bill an' Polly's goin' still, of course. I had to leave school

when Mother died, an' I was on'y eleven then, so I hadn't learned much.

I was always a fool, too!"

"A fool!" said Tom. "Good Heavens!"

"Oh, I was--true. I never could make head or tail of books. More I

tried, the stupider I got. Sums, too: ain't they silly things? But I

used to wish I'd had time to learn a bit more, 'cause I did want to

bring the kids up decent. Mother was very partic'lar. But I jolly well

seen to it that _they_ went to school reg'lar. Joe's goin' next year.

I s'pose I oughter sent him this year, but he was the baby, so he's got

a bit spoilt."

The queer, disjointed speech stopped, and 'Possum disappeared behind her

tea-cup.

"And what does your father do?"

"Dad? Oh, he looks after the place, an' goes to sales, an' does a bit

of dealin'. Dad's a great judge of stock," said 'Possum proudly. "He

does a lot of odd jobs of shearin' too--he used to be ringer in a shed

on the Murray before he married Mother. He makes the place pay, all

right--lucky he does, with all of us to buy clothes and tucker for! An'

he potters round an' talks to men over the back gate. Men always have a

heap to talk about, don't they?"

"They do," said Aileen promptly, sending a laughing glance at Tom. "It

is their nature to."

"Well, you can't blame 'em," said 'Possum. "But I do think it's a good

thing women aren't like that."

"But they are!" wailed Tom.

"Not in the Bush, anyhow. They simply wouldn't have time. It's a funny

thing--no matter how busy a man is, he's always got time to prop up a

gate an' yarn if any other man comes along. But a woman just

can't--she'd think of the dinner not cooked, an' the spuds not dug, an'

the washin' up not done, an' like as not no wood for the fire if she

didn't cut it herself, an' the kids' pants not patched. An' they're all

things that can't be left, 'cause men expects to be fed, an' if you

leave pants when they begin to need patchin', there's mighty soon no

pants to patch. Joe's pants, anyhow--an' Bill's."

"Did you do all the sewing, 'Possum?"

"Most of it," said 'Possum--"'cept what I just couldn't do, an' Dad had

to buy those at the store. Then when Bert an' Polly started goin' to

school I made him buy their dresses--I couldn't have 'em laughed at for

being howlin' frights! There's always something very bad about the

clothes I make: y' see, I never learned how, prop'ly. I just clamp 'em

together somehow. It don't matter so much when no one ever sees them."

She flushed a little.

"I make all me own," she said. "It don't matter about me--an' I'd wear

out anything but dungaree with the rough work outside. Dad's away a

good bit, y' see, so then I have to run the place; an' when you're doin'

odd bits of ploughin' or fencin' or scrub-cuttin', you can't bother

about clothes. I know mine are pretty rum."

"I think you manage them wonderfully," said Aileen, her eyes suddenly

dim. "You make me ashamed of doing so little."

"Lor', we all think this is awful rough on you!" exclaimed 'Possum.

"You ain't used to it--an' I know this place was a fair pigsty. I saw

it once, an' it was a disgrace." Her eyes wandered to the door.

"Would you like to see how I have arranged it?" Aileen asked, fathoming

the glance.

"My word, wouldn't I!" 'Possum jumped up eagerly. "I think this is the

nicest room I ever saw! Would it be botherin' you, Missus?"

"I'd like to," said Aileen. She led the way out of the sitting-room.

It smote her heart to see the girl's frank delight in the little rooms.

To her, fresh from the "House Beautiful," they seemed unutterably small

and poky: but to 'Possum they were visions of bewildering splendour.

Most of all, to Aileen's astonishment, she admired the bright new

bedsteads.

"They _are_ pretty," she said. "There ain't one in our house that ain't

home-made, mattresses and all. Dad made 'em out of packin'-cases. I

taught the kids some of their letters off 'Johnson's Whiskey' brand on

the end o' mine. An' you have such pretty things on 'em." She touched

the Indian coverlets lightly. "Fancy a tiny little chap with a grand

bed like this! Do all the people in Melbourne have this kind, Missus?"

"A good many, I think," Aileen said. "But I dare say they are not one

bit more comfortable than yours, 'Possum."

"No, but they're awful pretty!" 'Possum said. "You must feel so jolly

nice when you wake up in 'em. An' everything is just as pretty as the

beds." Her glance travelled over the fresh curtains, the pretty

cretonnes on the box-tables, and the pictures on the walls. "It's the

loveliest house I ever was in, since you came."

"Don't you know any of the houses in the township, 'Possum?"

'Possum shook her head.

"Never go there, 'nless I can't help meself. It's five miles from us,

y' see, an' I'm too busy, gen'lly-as-a-rule: an' I don't like goin'.

They laugh at me, 'cause me clothes are queer, an' me hair's short.

Well, I just hadn't time to keep it tidy, so I got Dad to cut it. But

Bert's and Polly's is awful pretty hair. Polly's is that curly you

couldn't think. So they can laugh. I got to go in the summer, when

there's veg'tables an' things to sell, but I just get me business done

an' cut straight home again. I say, I must be gettin' home now: it's

gettin' awful late."

A sudden thought struck Aileen as she followed the girl out to the yard.

"Are you coming every day to plough, 'Possum? Then, wouldn't you like to

sleep here and save yourself the trouble of going home each night?"

'Possum's shyness returned in full blast.

"'Fraid I couldn't," she said, her voice abrupt. "I got me own work at

home, an' some one must keep an eye on the kids. Thanks awfully." Then

her face grew suddenly wistful. "Not but I'd like ever so to sleep in

one of them lovely beds!" she added. "Well, I'll just fix up that third

ol' setty hen for you, while I'm thinkin' of it, an' then I'll make

tracks for home."