“What! our Tom make custards!” exclaimed the mother.
“Why not?” replied the young man, evidently anxious to show that he
could turn his hand to anything useful.
“I see, I see how it is,” said the father, “Tom heard that Mrs. C. was
coming, and he wants a wife.”
“A wife! the like of him want a wife,” said the mother, who, for the
first time, looked on his athletic and manly form with sad anxiety.
“Tom made the custard,” said Jane, “and William the tart.”
“I did not bring the oranges,” replied Tom, as Frank Gore entered with a
dish of grapes.
“It’s a regular plot,” said the mother.
“A down right contrivance—and I expect it is a settled affair,” observed
the father.
“Jane, don’t blush,” sportively remarked Lucy.
“Let me see,” said the father, thoughtfully. “Tom is four years older
than I was when I married, so he is,—but Jane is too young.”
“Say a word,” whispered the mother to me; “say a word, Mrs. C.”
“A snug home indeed,—I only wish my father could have seen the comforts
I now enjoy.”
The young people, seeing the turn matters were taking, scampered off
with glowing cheeks.
“We have four farms I can say master to,” pursued the father, “and eight
hundred sheep, and six hundred head of cattle, forty pigs, and a bit of
money in the bank, too, that the youngsters don’t know of. Well, all the
lad will want is a good wife. Let me see,—I’ll be in Sydney next Monday
five weeks,—I must buy them a few things, a chest of drawers,—yes,
they’d be handy; and I might as well buy one for Jane, poor girl. Like
to deal out to all alike; and the wife wants one. I only thought of
taking the cart, but I will want a dray, and eight good bullocks,
besides,—that’s easy enough to be seen. Well, well; it’s a nice snug
home—one hundred and four acres,—two acres laid out for a
vineyard,—forty under crop,—handy for the station, too.” Thus the good
man musingly spoke, partly to himself, and partly addressing his wife,
who, with a cheerful and approving look, nodded consent.