"GOOD-BYE, GOOD-BYE"
All was ready very early in the morning, for Dot was to start upon her
journey at ten o'clock.
The little school trunk and the family portmanteau stood side by side in
the hall, labelled and ready to go forth--neat clean labels, bearing the
inscription in Dot's best hand-writing--
"MISS BRUCE,
Passenger to Katoomba,
Blue Mountains."
A strange excitement was upon Dot. She had never before in her life been
upon a railway journey.
The household generally, from her father down to little Nancy, treated
her with gentle politeness as a newly arrived and just departing guest.
At breakfast the bread was handed to her without her once asking for
it; Nancy watched her plate eagerly, that she did not run out of butter;
Mary ran in with a nicely poached egg just at the right moment; Mrs.
Bruce kept her cup replenished without once asking if it was empty.
"Don't do any view hunting or gully climbing alone," said Mr. Bruce.
"It's the easiest thing in life to be lost in the bush. Besides, no girl
should roam about alone."
"Oh, don't be too venturesome, darling!" said Mrs. Bruce. "Just think if
you fell down one of those valleys or gaps or falls!"
Yet Dot had never been "too venturesome" in her life.
"A little more bread?" inquired Cyril; "don't bother to eat that crusty
bit; we can, and I'll give you some fresh."
"More butter?" piped Nancy; then taking a leaf from Cyril's book--"Don't
bover to eat it if it's nasty; _we_ will. Have some jam astead."
And Betty, in the silence of her bedroom, was drinking cold water and
eating dry bread, without any one asking solicitously "if she would
have a little more, or leave that if she did not like it, and have
something nicer."
"Yet I was trying to earn money for them all," she said aloud. "I won't
try any more. Dot only spends it, but they love her more than me."
It was while these thoughts were busy in her mind that Dot ran down the
passage and opened the door suddenly. Such a dainty pretty Dot, in her
new blue muslin dress that _almost_ reached to the ground, and fitted
closely to her slender little figure, and a new white straw hat with a
new white gossamer floating out behind waiting to be tied when the
kisses were all given and taken.
The girl's face was like a tender blush rose; her eyes were shining with
actual excitement (rare thing in placid Dot), and her hair hung down her
back in a thick plait tied with blue ribbon.
It was the plait which caught Betty's attention.
"Oh!" she cried in disappointment, and then stopped, remembering the
silence that had been imposed upon her.
Dot ran to her and kissed her.
"It's all right," she said. "You may talk to me. I asked mother, and she
says _yes_ until I go."
"I can't when you're gone," said Betty; but she brightened up very much.
And she thought it very kind of Dot to have asked her mother to break
the rule of silence, if it were only for an hour.
"I thought you were going to wear your hair on the top of your head,"
she said, surveying Dot's plait somewhat contemptuously.
"Mother won't let me," said Dot; "she says sixteen's too young."
"Why sixteen is _old_," said Betty, "and you've left school."
"I know. And mother was married at sixteen. But she says she wants me to
keep my girlhood a little longer than she kept hers."
"Hem," said Betty.
"_I_ don't want to," said Dot, and added virtuously, "but we can't do
just as we like even with our own hair."
"_I_ shall," said Betty, and gave her morsel of a plait a convincing
pull. "Wasn't my hair as long as yours once; and didn't I cut it off
because I wanted to?"
Then Dot bethought her of the wisdom of sixteen, and the foolishness of
twelve and a bit, and she slipped her arm as lovingly around her little
sister as she was wont to do around any of her friends at Westmead
House.
"Dear little Betty," she said, "promise me, you poor little thing, to be
good all the time I am away."
But Betty, unused to caresses, slipped away.
"You always are away," she said. "I'll be as good as I want to. I wonder
how good you'd be if suddenly you had to stay at home and wash up and
dust."
The picture was quite unenticing to Dot. _Wash up and dust and stay at
home!_ She moved slowly to the door, feeling very sorry for Betty.
"I must go now," she said. "All this is just a finish up to my school
time. Afterwards I shall have to stay at home and be eldest daughter
while you have _your_ time. Mother says you may come to the gate and see
me off if you like."
But she was genuinely sorry for Betty all the way down the hall to the
front door, and her heart gave her an unpleasant pang when Betty sprang
after her and thrust a shilling into her hand.
"It's my own," whispered Betty; "take it; it will buy something; I
earned it. Don't be afraid; I'll earn plenty more some day," and she ran
away down the path to the gate.
"Dear little Betty," said Dot, and slipped the shilling into her purse.
"I'll buy something for her with it."
They all came down to the gate to see the little traveller off.
Mr. Bruce wore his best suit--well brushed--because he was going to
accompany his eldest daughter as far as Redfern station. As the others
were saying good-bye to her, he occupied himself by counting his money,
to make sure he had enough for a first-class return ticket for her, and
the three half-sovereigns he had decided to slip into her purse before
they reached the station.
Mrs. Bruce, slight and small almost as Dot herself, put Baby down on the
brown-green grass at the gate, while she put a few quite unnecessary
finishing touches to her eldest daughter.
"I went away from my home for a visit when I was sixteen," she said--"to
Katoomba, too!" Then she took Dot into her arms and held her closely for
a minute. "Come back to us the same little girl we are sending away,"
she said as she let her go.
Cyril was waiting on the bush track, with the home-made "go-cart" piled
up with Dot's luggage. He had to push it to the corner of the road and
help it on the coach.
He was very anxious to get home again, for he had heard a few words
whispered pleadingly by Dot, then a whispered consultation between Mr.
and Mrs. Bruce. He knew what it was about. Even before his father patted
Betty's head and told her to start afresh from that minute, and his
mother kissed her and said, "Be a good madcap Betty, and we'll commence
now instead of to-morrow morning."
Whereat Cyril became anxious to get home again to discover his sister's
plans for the day.
Nancy was crying and clinging to Dot's skirt.
"Be quick and come home again," she said. "You look so nice in that
hat!"
Betty climbed over the gate instead of going through it.
"I'm going down to the road to wave my handkerchief to you," she said.
"Oh, mother, will you lend me yours. Mine's gone."
When she reached the road corner, a dog-cart flashed by, almost
upsetting Cyril's equilibrium as he laboured along the road.
In the dog-cart were Captain Carew and big John Brown. John looked
steadily at the horse's head, fearing an explosion of wrath from his
grandsire if he smiled at his fellow fortune-seeker. He, too, was going
to the mountains for his holidays, preparation to commencing life at a
Sydney Grammar School.
But the Captain himself looked at Betty, and his grim face smiled. And
there are not many who can translate a smile, so that we may take it
that he was not altogether displeased with the little singer.
Down the road went Dot, after her father and Cyril--a little maid fresh
from school--dainty and fresh and crying gentle tears that would not
hurt her eyes, and yet _must_ come because of all these partings.
Perhaps we shall see her again some day when she comes back again to try
to be an elder sister. Perhaps we shall see Betty, too, in her new
position as one of the "young ladies" of Westmead House.
But just now she has climbed an old tree-stump, and is standing there
bare-headed and waving her handkerchief to cry--"Good-bye, good-bye."
_Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner, _Frome and London_