[Illustration: "Seated on a partly submerged post . . . Was John Brown. "]

 AN AUSTRALIAN LASSIE

 BY

 LILIAN TURNER

 AUTHOR OF "THE PERRY GIRLS, " ETC. 

 ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. J. JOHNSON

 WARD, LOCK & CO. , LIMITED LONDON AND MELBOURNE

 TO MY STEPFATHER CHARLES COPE

CONTENTS

CHAP. PAGE

 I WYGATE SCHOOL 9

 II THE PEARL SEEKERS 20

 III "THE DAILY ROUND--THE COMMON TASK" 30

 IV GHOSTS 41

 V JOHN BROWN 59

 VI MONDAY MORNING 68

 VII "CAREW-BROWN" 79

 VIII THE FIGHT 86

 IX DOROTHEA'S FRIENDS 101

 X RICHES OR RAGS 112

 XI THE ARTIST BY THE WAYSIDE 123

 XII BETTY IN THE LION'S DEN 134

 XIII "IF I WERE ONLY YOU!" 147

 XIV JOHN'S PLANS 162

 XV ON THE ROAD 177

 XVI THE NOTE ON THE PINCUSHION 189

 XVII IN THE CITY 201

 XVIII ALMA'S SHILLING 214

 XIX THE BENT-SHOULDERED OLD GENTLEMAN 224

 XX THE DAY AFTER SCHOOL 234

 XXI "GOOD-BYE, GOOD-BYE" 245

CHAPTER I

WYGATE SCHOOL

"Emily Underwood, 19; Stanley Smith, 20; Cyril Bruce, 21; NellieUnderwood, 22; Elizabeth Bruce, 23--bottom of the class!"

Mr. Sharman took off his eyeglasses, rubbed them, and put them on again. Then he looked very hard at the little girl at the end of the furthestform, who was hanging her head and industriously biting a slate pencil. 

"Stand up, Elizabeth Bruce. Put down your pencil and fold your handsbehind you. "

Elizabeth did as she was told instantly. Her rosy face looked anxiouslyinto the master's stern one. 

"Yesterday morning, " the master said, "you were head of the class. Thismorning I find your name at the end of the list. How was that?"

Elizabeth hung her head again, and her dimpled chin hid itself behindthe needlework of her pinafore. 

A small girl, a few seats higher, held up her hand and waved itimpatiently. 

"Well?" asked the master. 

"Please sir, she was promptin' Cyril Bruce. "

"Silence!" thundered the master sternly. Then his gaze went back to thebent head of the little culprit. 

"Stand upon the form, " he said, "and tell me in a clear voice how it isyou went down twenty-two places in one afternoon. "

The rosiness left the little girl's face. She raised her head, and herbrown eyes looked pleadingly into the master's, her white face besoughthim, for one second. Then she scrambled up to the form by the aid of thedesk in front of her. 

Down the room near the master's desk stood a new boy, an awkward lookingfigure of twelve years old or so, waiting to be given a place in theclass. Elizabeth knew that her disgrace was meant as a solemn warning tohim. So she tossed back the short dark curls that hardly reached herneck, and looking angrily at him, said--

"I was top and I pulled Nelly Martin's hair, and was sent down three. Then I was fourth, and my pencil squeaked my slate and I was sent downsix. Then Cyril had to spell 'giraffe, ' and I said 'one r and two f's, 'and she sent me to the bottom. "

All of this speech was directed to the new boy who stood on one leg andgrew red. It was an immense relief to him when the master rapped thefront desk with his cane and said--

"Look at me, miss. Whom do you mean by 'she'?"

At the end of the room a sharp visaged lady of forty-five was watchingthe proceedings of the first class from over the heads of a row of smallstudents who comprised the "Babies' Class. "

"D-o, do; g-o, go, " she said mechanically, and looked anxiously fromlittle Elizabeth to her stern son, the master of Wygate School. 

Elizabeth jerked her head, "Mrs. Sharman, " she said. 

"Sit down and fold your hands behind you, " ordered the master. Heturned to the new boy. "John Brown, " he said, "go and take your seatnext to Elizabeth Bruce--but one above her. "

The new boy moved across the room, red-faced and clumsy in everymovement. When he found himself in front of the class he grew stillredder, and hung hesitatingly upon the step that led to the platformupon which the form was placed. 

Elizabeth looked at him disdainfully and drew her dress close aroundher. 

"Sit down, you silly, " she said in a sharp whisper, and indicated with alittle head toss the seat above her. 

John Brown slunk past her and dropped heavily into his seat. The masterretired to his desk and made an entry or two in his long blue book whilesilence hung over the schoolroom. 

In Elizabeth's heart a flame of anger was spreading. That this boy, thisnew boy, should be placed above her, was in her eyes the greatestinjustice. A small voice within told her that she had been punishedsufficiently yesterday afternoon. 

Her head moved slightly in the direction of the new boy and her rosylips opened. 

"You cheat!" she whispered. 

The boy sat motionless and the anger burned hotter in Elizabeth's heart. 

"Cheaty, cheaty; go home and tell your mother!" she said in a sing-songway. 

Still Brown did not move. 

Elizabeth slid her hand along the seat and gave him a sharp pinch, andhe started uneasily. 

"Stand up the boy or girl who was speaking, " ordered the master, withoutlooking up. 

A small fair-haired fair-complexioned boy, two seats above Elizabeth, flushed. His name was Cyril Bruce and he was Elizabeth's twinbrother--twelve years old. 

"I was only talking to myself--that's not speaking, " he murmured. 

Elizabeth rose slowly to her feet and stood working a corner of herpinafore into a knot. The master looked around, and his brow grew darkwhen he saw the small offender. 

"Repeat aloud what you said, Elizabeth Bruce, " he ordered. 

The little girl grew white, then red, then white again, and went ontwisting her pinafore. 

"Do you hear me?" shouted the master. "Stand upon the form and repeatyour words. "

Once again Elizabeth clambered into a higher position. 

"I said--I said, 'Cheaty, cheaty; go home and tell your mother, '" shesaid in a clear voice that sounded all over the room. 

A shocked expression passed over the face of the class. 

"To whom were you addressing yourself?" asked the master. 

"The new boy, " said the little girl. 

"Sit down, and stay in the dinner-hour and write out the sentence fiftytimes. "

Elizabeth sat down, and again her anger against the new boy blazed high. 

She put out her foot and kicked the heel of his boot, but this time sheeschewed words, for the face of the master was towards her, and anexpectant silence hung over the schoolroom. 

The clock struck ten, and the boy at the head of the class immediatelybegan passing slates down--one to each pupil, with a piece of pencilupon it. 

The sight of the well-cleaned slate and nicely pointed pencil brought afeeling of great uneasiness to Elizabeth. 

It had been in her mind how nicely she could climb above the new boy, and the tell-tale girl, and all the other boys and girls, and now theorder of the day was--sums. 

The master was writing them down on the blackboard, making them up as hewent along, with due care working nines and eights and sevens into hismultiplicand and dealing but sparsely with fives and twos and threes. 

Elizabeth copied it down and rubbed it out. Copied it down and rubbedout half, by judicious breathings directed judiciously; looked up theclass to see how Cyril was progressing, and back to the board to see ifa pleasant little short division sum was lurking near this obnoxiousmultiplication; then back to her slate to count the number of ninesonce more. And by that time the master was giving out his order:"Pencils down. Hands behind you. _At--tention. _"

Brown's face expressed such placidity that the master asked him to standand give out the answer, and he gave it gladly enough--999. 009--whichsounded particularly learned to a class not yet introduced to decimals. 

The master nodded. "You are right, " he said, "but no one is up todecimals yet. "

So it happened that Brown made his reputation straightway, and with suchease did he solve every arithmetical puzzle, that dinner-time saw himsitting smiling and covered with laurels at the head of the class, andElizabeth still at the bottom cleaning her slate to write "Cheaty, cheaty; go home and tell your mother, " fifty times. 

Wygate School was a preparatory school for boys and girls, although thegirls out-numbered the boys. At the present stage of its existence ithad eighteen girls and twelve boys. Not half a mile distant was a publicschool, to the precincts of which flocked fifty pupils daily, each ofwhom paid a modest threepence a week for educationary advantages. 

Wygate School was the only private school in the district, and wasregarded respectfully by the neighbourhood. So many "undesirables" wereprecluded from its benefits, by its charge of one guinea a quarter. 

John Brown, the new boy, whose age it appeared was thirteen years, wasthe eldest pupil in the school, and Floss Jones, who was four, was thebaby. 

The neighbourhood frequently moaned that there was no private school forthose of riper years--fifteen and sixteen or so; but in some cases itcalled in a governess, in others it forewent its dignity and adopted thepublic school, and in others again it sent its young folk over the waterto Sydney--a matter of three miles or more. 

But the North Shore Highlands was at this time uncatered for by thetramway authorities. An old coach ran twice daily from Willoughby to thesteamer--a morning trip and an evening-tide one--there and back. It waslargely patronized by the Chinese, and parents of the artisan classhesitated and frequently refused to allow their young folk to make thejourney. 

The three young Bruces went every day across a beaten bush track, fromtheir weather-board cottage home, past the big iron gates of Dene Hall, a house built of grey stone in the early days of the colony, where theirirascible grandsire dwelt, up a red dusty road to the littleschool-house on the hill. 

And special terms were arranged for them because they were three--Cyril, and Elizabeth the twins, and six-year-old Nancy. 

They had always been three. For even in the days when Cyril andElizabeth had belonged to the baby class there had been Dorothea, Dorothea who was sixteen and quite old now, who was a weekly boarder ina fashionable Sydney school (for a ridiculously small quarterly fee). 

And when Dorothea had left Wygate School little Nancy's hand had beenput into Elizabeth's and she too had taken the long red road to school. And after Nancy there was still a wee toddler who, it was said, wouldmake the number up to three again when Cyril went to a "real" boy'sschool. 

CHAPTER II

THE PEARL SEEKERS

They were round the corner and away from school--Cyril, Elizabeth andNancy. Behind them were all the trials and vexations of the day, amongwhich may be counted Mrs. Sharman, Mr. Sharman--and John Brown. 

Cyril spoke with awe of John Brown's big hands and feet, and looked overhis shoulder as he spoke. For that small hope of the Bruces had in thecloak-room inadvertently trodden upon Brown's hat, and had been startledby the way in which Brown had swung him round by his collar. 

"I pinched him, " said Betty proudly. "He shouldn't have gone above me. I'll pinch him every time. "

Her sun-bonnet was tucked away under her arm, her boots and stockingswere in the family lunch-basket that she carried, boy-like, swung overher shoulder, and she covered the ground most of the time with a hop, skip, and a jump, aided by a long stout stick. 

"I suppose, " she said, "we'll have to try the dangerous little coralislands this time. I know that's where the black pearl is hidden. "

"Oh dear, " sighed Nancy, "I don't like curral islands a bit. Let's gohome to-day. "

"Silly!" said Cyril loftily. "We've got to find the black pearlsomehow. "

"It'll be worth hundreds and thousands of pounds, " said Elizabeth. "Just_think_ of taking that to mother, just _think_ of all we could do. Itwouldn't matter _then_ grandfather not speaking. _We_ could drive pasthim in our carriage then! Come on my lass. " This last was to Nancy. 

"I want to go in the water, too, Betty, " said the small lassie, following at a trot. "Don't want to be your old wife. I've been yourwife for a lot of days now. "

"I don't know who you mean when you say Betty, " declared Elizabeth, andleapt forward so far that the other two had to sharpen their pacesuddenly. 

"Peter Lucky, " said Nancy imploringly. "Oh, Peter Lucky, let Cywil beyour wife a bit--do. "

"Cywil's"--it may be stated that Betty was still very backward sometimesin the matter of r's--"Cywil's got to be my chum--don't be such a stupidNancy--er--Polly. He's got to try to murder me in the middle of thenight to get the pearl. Look here, we've only just put you in to amuseyou a bit, we can _just_ as well do without you. "

Nancy's face fell. Such statements were lavishly used by these twoelders of hers towards herself. But the indignity she feared most was tobe told to go home and play with the baby, and she looked at her sisterwith an eager smile now to stop the words if possible. 

"Oh, don't do wivout me, Betty dear, " she said. "I'll love to be yourwife. I was only thinking it would be nice to have your feet in thewater. "

"You're six, " said Betty. "You ought to be able to be my wife wellnow--cook the dinner, and wash up, and all that. If you do well atthis, we'll see how you'll do as a man some day. "

For a second they stopped before their grandfather's gates and peered upthe long drive. It was an old habit of theirs, varied for instance bychallenges of who dared to walk the furthest distance up the drive. Betty had once advanced just beyond that mysterious bend, but she hadscudded back again soon, declaring her grandfather had a gun and wascoming after them, with it aimed at her head. Oh, how they had run homethat day!

Another time she had climbed upon the topmost rail of the gate and, scrambling down quickly, had set off madly for home, followedbreathlessly by the others who were afraid even to look over theirshoulders. "He's set the emus loose, " Betty told them as they ran, "andemus are like bloodhounds for scenting you out. And besides, they canfly. "

But that was fully a year ago now, and much of the terror had departedfrom their grandfather's gates for the two elder ones. It was only Nancywho had cold thrills down her back and shudderings at passing the dreadgates. 

To-day Betty did no more than peep through the railing, declare therewas nobody about, and swing off again with her long pole. "Nobody thereto-day, " she said, and Nancy breathed easier and ran after her. 

They were on the well-trodden bush-track now, the track that led homebetween great gums and slim saplings. The iron roof of the cottage cameinto view and the row of tall pines that stood like grim sentinelsbetween the two-rail fence and the sweet-scented garden. A small wicketgate stood invitingly ajar, and a black dog, lying meditatively outsideit, pricked up his ears and raised his head as the trio came into sight. 

They took a cross-track, however, and disappeared into the bush again, and the dog shook off his thoughtful mood and ran gleefully after them. 

For he had not grown up from puppyhood to doghood with these childrenwithout knowing what tracks led to school and home, and what to thewonderful realm of play and fancy. Moreover, his anticipations werealways aroused when Elizabeth changed her habit, and he had seen in thetwinkling of his eye that she was bare-legged and bare-headed andprovided with a pole. So he barked joyously and scampered away upon thatcross-track too. 

Down in the gully where the growth was thicker, and where the wattlesand willows made many a fairy grove, a small creek ran. The widest endof it ran into their grandfather's grounds, and had at one time in itscareer broken down the two-rail dividing fence, which now lay submergedin its waters and formed the "dangerous coral islands" alluded to byBetty. 

It pleased Elizabeth's fancy to state that her grandfather was unawareof this creek, but that some one would tell him soon, and then he wouldsend men and have it well examined by divers. 

To-day, however, a dire disappointment awaited them. Seated on a partlysubmerged post, and holding a fishing-line in his hands, was John Brown. The three stared at him for a minute in speechless disgust, but hereturned their stare with a nod and a small smile and looked at hisline. 

"Better come home, " whispered Cyril, with a lively recollection in hismind of the big hand that had played with his collar so short a timepast. 

But Betty was trying to swallow her indignation and to keep her voicequiet. 

"This is our place, " she said. "This was our place before yours. "

"Well, " said Brown, "it's mine now. "

"It isn't yours, " said Betty shrilly; "it belongs to our grandfather--sothere!"

Again Brown smiled. 

"Well, that's a stuffer, " he said, "it belongs to _my_ grandfather. "

Betty's eyes widened in horror at the new boy's depravity. "Oh, youstory!" she said in a shocked voice, then turning to the uneasy Cyril, "Hit him, Cyril!" she said. "Hit him one in the eye for taking our placeand telling such a wicked story. "

But Cyril was already widening the distance between himself and JohnBrown, and a feeling of anger was beginning to stir in his small breastagainst Betty for trying to mix him up in this quarrel. 

"Come on home, " he said, "what's the good of having a row with a fellowlike that?"

"But it's our water, " said Betty, her face red with anger towards thefisher. She stooped down and picked up a stone. 

Brown turned and looked at the little group; Cyril a good distance inthe rear; and angry-faced Betty, with Nancy cowering in terror behindher. 

"Look here, " he said, "I'm not going to have any of you people poachingon my grandfather's property. You can come as far as the fence _if_ youlike, but I advise you to come no further. "

Betty's stone flew through the air--many yards distant from the boy onthe post. 

"Good, again, " he said. "There are plenty more stones and I'm here yet. "

Again Betty repeated the process, and with even worse results. She never_could_ aim straight in all her life!

"Good shot!" said Brown, laughing again. 

"Oh, Cywil, do _smash_ him, " begged Betty in desperation. 

"He daren't, he hasn't the pluck, " mocked Brown. 

"No Bruce is afraid, " said Betty, using her favourite taunt. "Come onCyril!"

But when she looked over her shoulder Cyril was nowhere in sight, andNancy was scudding away, like a terrified rabbit, through the scrubaround her. 

Through the air rang a clear shrill voice--it belonged to golden hairedDorothea--"Betty, come home. "

"You're called, " said Brown, winding up a yard or so of his line. 

Betty stooped, grasped another stone, took aim at a distant wattle insheer desperation, and caught Brown on the hand. 

The pain of it drew a sharp exclamation from him, and brought him fromhis post in a towering rage. 

And Betty took to her bare heels and ran--ran as though her grandfatherand all his emus were after her. 

Near the wicket-gate she ran against Cyril, who was throwing stones inthe air for the dog to snap at as they fell. 

"Bwoun!" she gasped. "He's coming!"

Cyril looked down the track and beheld no one. 

"It's all right, " he said; "go inside and shut the gate. I'll give himwhat for. I'd just like to see him touch you. I'd knock him into nextyear as soon as look at him. "

But no Brown appeared. 

Cyril put his hands in his pockets and strutted towards the trackthrough the bush--to the intense admiration of Elizabeth. 

"No Bruce is afraid of any one, " he said. "You and Nancy go in. "

A girl in a short long print dress ran down the verandah steps. A maneof golden hair hung down her back and some of it lay over her shoulders, and when she stood still she tossed it away. 

"You're to come home at once, Betty, " she said, "and mind baby. And oh, you naughty girl, you've got your boots and stockings off again. What_will_ mother say?"

CHAPTER III

"THE DAILY ROUND--THE COMMON TASK"

Betty's boots and stockings were on once more, and her school frockexchanged for one whose school days lay far behind it. In spite of"lettings down" and repeated patchings and mendings it was in what itssmall wearer called the "ragetty tagetty" stage of its existence, andwas donned only when she was about the dirty part of "cleaning up. "

It was Saturday morning now, and she was very busy. Her mother couldnever capably wield a broom, or scrub, or dust, or cook--she had doneall four, but the results were pathetic. Even Nancy knew the story ofher life, which began with "once upon a time, almost twenty years ago, "and was told in varying fragments whenever a story was begged for. 

There was the story of the jolly sea-captain and his one weedaughter--their own mother--and of how they had sailed the seas and seenmany people and many lands. There was the story of the old house withinthe iron gates--built by convicts more than fifty years ago--and of howthe sea-captain had bought it and built a tower and spiral staircase anda roof promenade, which he called his "deck. " And of how he and hissmall daughter settled down in the great house together; and how herwardrobe was always full of beautiful clothes and her purse full of realsovereigns; and two ponies she had to her name, and a great dog that wasthe terror of the neighbourhood, and a little dog that lived as much asit could in her lap. There was the story of her garden full of rareflowers, and her ferneries of rare ferns, and her aviary of rare birds. 

Then there was the story of the little girl "grown up, " with hair doneon the top of her head, and long sweeping dresses, and a lover chosen byher father himself--by name John Brown; and of the pale young authorwho lived beyond the iron gates, in a small weather-board cottage withan iron roof who wrote dainty little sonnets and ballads, which he readto her under the old gum trees. 

And lastly, there was the story of the captain's pretty daughterslipping away from the great house--to become mistress of the weecottage behind the pine trees. And of how the captain returned allletters unopened and sailed away to other lands for five years; of howafterwards the poor author lay ill unto death, and the littlewife--"mother" now--carried pretty Dorothy to the great house and senther trotting into the library, saying "grandpa" as she ran; and of howthe little girl had been lifted outside the house by a servant, who hadcivilly stated the orders he had received, never to allow any one fromthe author's house to "cross the threshold" of that other great one. 

And now it was to-day--and besides Dorothea there were the twins (Cyriland Elizabeth), Nancy and the baby; a goodly number for the smallweather-board cottage to shelter and for the author, who had only hadone book published, to bring up. 

So it fell out that there was only a rough state girl to do the work ofthe cottage, and much sweeping and dusting was Elizabeth's "share"; much"washing-up" and tidying. To Nancy belonged the task of setting thetables and amusing the baby; and Cyril was engaged at a penny a week tostock the barrel in the kitchen with firewood and chips, and bits ofbark to coax contrary fires. He was the only one who received paymentfor his work, and no one demurred, for was he not the only boy of thefamily and in the eyes of them all a sort of king!

So Betty was dressed in working garb and was bestowing her usualSaturday morning attention upon the "living-room"--drawing-room they hadnone. The little room that had evidently been destined by its builder tofulfil such a mission, had been seized and occupied by the author in thebeginning of his residence at The Gunyah. 

The living-room was a low-ceiled room with French windows leading to theverandah. It had a centre table, several cane chairs, a small piano, arocking-chair and a dilapidated sofa. Its floor was oilclothed and itswindows uncurtained--only Dorothea had arrived at the stage that sighedfor prettinesses. 

Betty was quite happy when she had swept the floor, shaken the cloth, put all the chairs with their backs to the wall, and polished the piano. 

She was surveying the room with pride when Dorothea walked in. Dorotheain the frock she had worn for five mornings during the week, and whichwas still clean and fresh; with her wonderful hair in a shining massdown her back, and a serviette in her hand (an extempore duster). Italways took her the better part of Saturday to even find her own nichein the home. 

"I was going to dust this room, Betty, " she said--"someway, everything Iam going to do, I find you've done. "

Elizabeth smiled drily. She could not even sweep a room and be justElizabeth Bruce. Saturdays usually found her in imagination Cinderella;and consequently harsh words from Dorothea, who in her eyes was a cruelstep-sister, would have found more favour with her than kind ones. 

"There is the kitchen to be swept, " said Betty; "the ashes are thick onthe hearth and the breakfast things are not washed up. "

Dorothea looked startled. Betty's voice sounded tired and resigned. 

"Oh dear!" said Dorothea, "I do so _hate_ doing kitchen work. It makesmy hands so red and rough, and just spoils my dress. "

"The work is there and must be done, " remarked Betty. 

Mrs. Bruce looked in at the door. Her face was just Dorothea's grownolder, and without its roses; her hair was Dorothea's with its goldgrown dull; her very voice and dimples were Dorothea's. A largepoppy-trimmed hat adorned her head, and a basket with an old pair ofscissors in it was swung over her arm. 

"Of course you'll not do kitchen work, my chicken, " she said gaily;"slip on your hat and come and gather roses with me. It's little enoughof you home your get--that little shall not be spoilt by ashes and dust. 

"It's Mary's work, and Betty can see that she does it well. "

Betty stalked into the kitchen and regarded the fireplace in gleefulgloom, sitting down in front of it and staring into the heart of thesmall wood fire. 

Mary, the maid-of-all-work, took her duties in a very haphazard way. Shehad no particular time for doing anything, and no particular place forkeeping anything. And alas! it is to be regretted her mistress was thelast woman in the world to train her in the way she should go. 

To-day she had taken it into her head to try the effect of a few bows ofblue ribbon upon her cherry-coloured straw hat, before the breakfastthings were washed or the sweeping and scrubbing done. But thewashing-up belonged to Betty. 

Outside in the garden Mrs. Bruce was drawing Dorothea's attention to thescent of the violets and mignonette, and her gay voice caused Betty tosigh heavily. 

"If my own mother had lived, " she said gloomily, "I too might gatherflowers. But what am I?--the family drudge!"

Cyril entered the back door, his arms piled up with firewood. 

"I'm getting sick of chopping wood, " he said grumblingly, "it's all verywell to be you and stay in a nice cool kitchen. How'd you like it if youhad to be me and stay chopping in the hot sun? I know what _I_ wish. "

"What?" asked Betty, glancing round her "nice cool kitchen" without anyappreciation of it lighting her eyes. 

"Why, I wish mother had never run away and made grandfather mad. And Iwish he'd suddenly think he was going to die, and say he wanted to adoptme. "

"How about me? Why shouldn't he adopt me?" demanded Betty. 

"'Cause I'm the only son, " said Cyril. "He's got his pick of four girls, but if he wants a boy there's only me. "

He went outside and loaded himself with wood once more. 

"Cecil Duncan's father gives him threepence a week, and he doesn't haveto do anything to earn it, " he said when he came in again. "He saysevery Monday morning his father gives him a threepenny bit and hismother's _always_ giving him pennies. "

"H'em, " said Cinderella, and fell to work sweeping up the hearthvigorously. Her own grievances faded away, as she looked atCyril's--which was a way they had. 

"And he's not the only boy neither, " said Cyril. He threw the woodangrily into the barrel. "There's Harry and Jim besides. I suppose theyget threepence each as well. What's a penny a week? You can't doanything with it. "

Elizabeth lifted down a tin bowl and filled it with water; placed in ita piece of yellow soap, a piece of sand soap and a scrubbing brush, andthen began to roll up her sleeves. She was no longer Cinderella. A newand wonderful thought had flashed into her mind even as she listened toCyril's plaint. It certainly _was_ hard for him, her heart admitted, very hard. 

"How would you like to be rich, Cywil?" she asked, turning a shiningface to him. 

Cyril thought a reply was one of those many things that could bedispensed with--he merely showered a little extra vindictiveness uponthe firewood and kicked the cask with a shabby copper-toed boot. 

Betty danced across to him and put her sun-tanned face close to his fairfreckled one. 

"How would you like to be _very_ rich?" she said, "and to have a pony ofyour own, and jelly and things to eat, and a lovely house to live in, and----"

"Don't be so silly, Betty, " said the boy irritably. 

Betty wagged her head. "I've got a thought, " she said. 

"Your silly-old pearl-seeking is no good. There are no pearls, sothere, " said Cyril crossly. "You needn't go thinking you really take mein. It's only a game--bah!"

Betty was still dancing around him in a convincing, yet aggravating way. 

"How'd you like to be adopted, Cywil?" she asked--"really adopted, notpretending? Oh, I've got a very big thought, and it wants a lot ofthinking. You go on getting your wood while I think. "

And Cyril gave her one of his old respectful looks as he went out of thekitchen door. 

CHAPTER IV

GHOSTS

Betty's plan was beautifully simple. As Cyril said, he could easily havethought of it himself. It was nothing more than to effect areconcilement between their grandfather and their mother, and the meansto bring it about was to be "ghosts. "

"Mother said he was superstitious, " said Betty; "she says all sailorsare. He doesn't like omens and things, mother says. What we want to dois to give him a severe fright. "

She had thought out alone all the details of her plan, helped only by afew incidental words of her mother's. The story of baby Dorothea beingtaken to melt a father's heart, for instance, had fired Betty with theresolve to try what baby Nancy could do in that direction. 

Cyril was more matter-of-fact. 

"If he wouldn't forgive mother when she took Dot, he's not very likelyto soften to you with Baby, " he said. 

But Betty had counted that risk too. 

"You forget he's ever so many years older, " she said. "He's an old mannow, and it's quite time he woke up. I've been thinking of everythingwe've to do and everything we've to say. "

"Ghosts don't talk, " said Cyril. 

"They moan, " replied Betty; "and they _do_ talk. In _Lady Anne'sCauseway_ there's a ghost, and it speaks in sepulchral tones and says:'Come hither, come hither to my home; thy time is come. '"

The little girl's eyes were shining; the very thought of that otherghost's "sepulchral" tones gave her a thrill down her back and liftedher out of herself. Of all her plots and plans, and they were many andvarious, there was not one to compare in magnitude with this. In herthoughts she became a ghost, straightway. She glided about the house, her lips moved but gave no sound, her eyes shone. Underneath theexhilaration, that her ghostly feelings gave, was the smooth sense ofbeing about to do a great deed that would benefit every one--Cyril, hermother, her father, Dot, every one. Tears glistened in her eyes as shethought of the meeting between her grandfather and her mother, andbeheld in fancy her pretty mother clasped at last in the sea-captain'sarms. 

Throughout that Saturday afternoon she made her preparations, only nowand then giving Cyril a trifling explanation. He was much relieved tohear he would not be expected to take any active part in theproceedings, only to be at hand, in hiding, to help his ghostly sistercarry the baby. 

Tea was always an early meal at The Gunyah, that Mr. Bruce might have along evening at his writing, and the children at their home lessons. 

To-night, after the last cup and saucer had been washed and dried byBetty and put away by Dot, and after the baby, had been tucked into herlittle crib, by Betty again, a long pleasant evening seemed to stretchbefore every one. 

Mr. Bruce brought out _My Study Windows_, and declared he had "brokenup" till Monday. Mrs. Bruce opened a certain exercise book her eldestdaughter had given her, imploring secrecy, and Dot sat down to the pianoand wandered stumblingly into Mendelssohn's Duetto. The twins, to everyone's entire satisfaction, "slipped away"--Betty to her bedroom to makeher preparations, and Cyril (who was strictly forbidden even to peepthrough the key-hole) to the dark passage that ran from the bedrooms tothe dining-room and front door. He went on with his plans while hewaited. All day he had been thinking of the rainbow coloured futureBetty assured him was his. He had quite decided to leave school directlyhe was adopted, and to have "some one" come to teach him at home. Ofcourse his grandfather would not be able to bear him out of his sight. He had heard of such cases, and supposed he was about to become one. Then he decided to have a pony, a nice quiet little thing with a backnot _too_ far from the ground; and he would have a boat and sail herwhere the coral islands were, and he would have a few new marbles--andget his grandfather to have the emus killed. 

He had just arrived at the part of the story where his grandfather wasgiving orders for the destruction of his emus, when Betty opened thebedroom door a crack, and whispered his name. 

She shut the door at once, before he was fairly inside the room, andthen he saw her. 

Such a strange new Betty she was, that he almost cried out. Herface was white--white as death; two black cork lines stood foreyebrows, and black lines lay under her eyes, making them largerand unnatural-looking. She wore a black gown of her mother's, anda black capacious bonnet, and had a rusty dog chain tied to onearm. She moved her arm and fixed her eyes on her startled brother. 

"Do you hear my clanking chain?" she asked in what she fondly believedto be "sepulchral tones. " "Ghosts always have them. Come on. "

But Cyril hung back somewhat--perhaps the glories of "being adopted"paled beside the unpleasantness of walking a lonely road in such unusualcompany. 

"It's--it's a silly game, " he said. "I don't see any good in it at all. "

But the little ghost turned upon him spiritedly. 

"This isn't a game at all, " she said. "This is _real_. It'll make motherfriends with grandfather, and get you adopted. Get baby and come on--itmight frighten her if she saw me. "

"They'll find out that she's gone, " said Cyril, still leaning upon thebed-foot and eyeing his sister distrustfully. "Let's chuck it, Betty, we'll only get in a row. "

"We won't get in a row, " said Betty staunchly. "She'll be only too gladwhen we come back and tell them all. I didn't undress Baby to-night, andI put on her blue sash and everything. All you've to do is to wrap thatshawl round her and catch me up. I'll be at the gate. "

Baby was used, as were all of the others except Dot, to an open-airexistence. Most of her daylight hours were spent, either rolling on therough lawn, or sleeping in a hammock swung beneath an apple tree, and asa result, night-tide found her a very drowsy baby indeed. The childrenmight romp and sing and chatter around her very cot as she slept, butshe could not steal out of her slumbers even to blink a golden eyelashat them. 

So that when Cyril overtook Elizabeth at the gate, my Lady Baby wasasleep in his arms, and so she stayed in spite of the thumping of hisheart, and the chatter of the ghost, and the rough road. 

The night was dark with the luminous darkness of an Australian summernight. The tender sky was scattered with star-dust, a baby-moon peepedover the hill-top and the leaves and branches of the great bush treeslay like dark fretwork over the heavens. 

Betty, holding her dress well up, and Cyril carrying the sleeping baby, hurried through the belt of bush that lay between their home and theirgrandfather's. Betty strove to instil energy into her listless brother, telling him stories of a golden future in store for him. But at thetwo-rail fence below "Coral Island Brook, " Cyril came to a standstill, and urged Betty, who was under it in a trice and on her feet again, to"come along home. "

Betty turned her ghastly face towards him indignantly. "I won't, " shesaid fiercely. "Give me the baby and go home yourself if you like. "

Between the outer world of bush and the house was a slip of groundcalled the banana grove, and known in story to both boy and girl, as theplay-place of their mother. 

Cyril followed Betty through this grove, trying to make up his mind ashe went, whether to go or stay. To stay and take his part in theproceedings; to do and be bold--as an inner voice kept urging him--toblend his moans with Betty's, and carry the heavy baby; or to turn uponhis heels, and fly through the darkness from these horrid hauntedgrounds where his grandsire, and the great emus and dogs lived; whereJohn Brown stated he had his dwelling--away from all these terrors tohis small cottage home on the other edge of the bush, where were parentsand sisters, music and lights--and another voice urged this. 

So he neither followed Betty nor went home; but, in dreadful doubt andgreat fear, he hung between the two courses in the banana grove, andshivered at the tree-trunks and the rustling leaves and the straypatches of moonlight. 

And Betty went forward alone with the baby. Her heart was beating in asickening way, but her courage was, as usual, equal to the occasion. Itwas far easier to her to go forward than backward now, and she bracedherself up with a few of her stock phrases--"He won't eat me anyway";"It'll be all the same in a hundred years"; "No Bruce is afraid _ever_. "

A great bay window jutted into the darkness and gave out a blaze oflight. This was the lowest room in the tower portion of the house andwas, as Betty knew, her grandfather's study. 

Betty's mind was swiftly made up. All fear had left her, and shestepped into the soft moonlight--a ghost indeed. 

She called Cyril, and her voice was so imperative that he quitted hissheltering tree and ran to where she stood on the edge of the grove. 

"Take Baby, " she said whisperingly; "I can't do what I want with her inmy arms. "

"Come home, B--B--Betty, " implored the small youth--and his teethchattered as he spoke--"I--I don't want to be adopted. I----"

"Hush!" urged Betty, and filled his arms with the baby. "I--I don't wantto be r--rich, " cried Cyril. "It's b--b--better to be poor. "

"H--sh!" said Betty again. 

"I--I don't want to be like a c--camel!" whimpered the boy. "R--rememberabout rich men getting to Heaven. "

"Stay close here with Baby, " ordered the little ghost, and the nextsecond she had glided away over the path to the verandah. She went closeto the window--three blinds had been left undrawn and the window panesran down to the verandah floor. Surely the room had been designedexpressly for this night. 

Cyril, in horror, beheld his sister creep to the first window and peepin; creep to the second--to the third. 

All the other windows were darkened; only this one room in all the greathouse seemed to be awake. 

Then, in the silence which lay everywhere, a blood-curdling thinghappened. Betty's "clanking chain" came in contact with something ofiron reared up near the window and gave forth a fearsome sound. Coldchills played about Cyril's back, a distant dog barked--and Baby awoke. 

Betty at once perceived this to be the one moment. Many people canrecognize their moment when it has gone. Betty's talent lay in seeing itjust as it arrived. 

If truth must be confessed, fear had once or twice during this campaigntugged at her heart; when Cyril had urged home, her greatest desire hadbeen to flee. But Betty never quite knew herself--was never in anycrisis of her life absolutely certain what this second terriblyinsistent self would do. 

Instead of scampering away with Cyril through the night, her feet hadtaken her to the windows, and the proportions of her plan had growngloriously, albeit her heart-beats could be heard aloud. 

Now, when her chain clanked, it seemed to her the war drum had beensounded. She darted from the verandah across the path and snatched thebaby from her brother's arms; then, running back to the verandah, herchain clanked again and again, and she rent the air with a dismal wail--

 "Father! Father!"

From the depths of an easy chair whose back was to her there rose thetall bent figure of an old man. 

Betty had arranged to "rend the air with wail upon wail"--to "press herpinched white face, and her little one's, time after time upon thewindow pane, " but opportunity interfered, the window flew up, and Bettycrouched on the floor in terror. 

In the banana grove Cyril fled from tree to tree, crying dismally. Thedarkness, the screams, the chain, the opening of the window, had eachand all terrified him almost past endurance. Now he felt convinced hisgrandfather was chasing him with the emus. 

Meanwhile Betty on the verandah was also quaking. A stern voice from theopen window demanded "Who is there?" but her fortitude was not equal toa wail. 

"I heard some one say 'Father, Father, ' I'll swear, " said a somewhatfamiliar boyish voice. 

"I saw a face, " said the old man. 

And then Baby began to whimper piteously, and Betty's heart sank intoher shabby small shoes. 

Footsteps were coming her way; the inevitable was at hand and sherecognized it, and with an effort stood upright cuddling the baby close. 

The old man put his hand on her shoulder, and with a "I'll just troubleyou--this way please, " and not so much as a quaver in his voice, led herinto the brightly-lighted study. 

And there followed him "big John Brown, " of mathematical and pugilisticrenown. 

He stared at Betty very hard, and Betty stared at him--only for amoment, though, for Baby began to cry and had to be hushed--and thechain clanked and frightened her while it produced no visible effectupon her grandfather. 

The old man turned sharply to the wondering boy. 

"Is this a trick of yours, John?" he demanded sharply. 

"No, " said Betty, "it's--it's only me, " and she looked straight into hergrandfather's face, although her voice was trembling. 

"And who are _only you_?"

The child hesitated. In a vague way she felt she would be doing hermother's and Cyril's great future an injury to tell her name. And yet, quick-witted as she was, it did not occur to her to find a new one. 

The young face in the old black bonnet looked beseechingly into theman's. 

"_Please_ don't ask my name, " she begged. 

"Take off your bonnet. "

She put Baby on the floor at her feet and pulled off her bonnet. Andher dark curly hair fell loosely around her odd white face. 

"Now--your name!" shouted the old captain, as if he were calling to asailor high up a mast. 

"Elizabeth Bruce, " faltered the girl, for her reason showed her in asecond how John Brown would give it if she did not. 

A certain gleam that had been in the old man's eyes went away and hisbrow grew black as thunder. Betty instinctively picked up the baby againand gathered up the train of her dress. 

"Ah!" said the old man, breathing hard. 

Then suddenly a light dawned on Betty and she saw things as this old manwould see them, which was the very way of all others that he must notdo. 

She repeated swiftly to herself her old charm against fear--"No Bruce isafraid. I can only die once. He won't eat me. "

"It's all my fault, " she said, and her brown eyes looked into his brownones. "Cyril and I got tried of being poor, and I--I thought it would bea good plan if you adopted Cyril--and--and I came to frighten you. "

"Ah----"

"I thought you were old, and--and--might be sorry now, and I thought abit of a fright--I thought if a ghost----"

Her chain clanked and her hands trembled, and Baby bumped up and down inher arms. The very remembrance of her words left her, for a great frownwas spreading over the old man's face. He turned angrily to the boy. 

"Put her out of the door, " he said. "Put her out of the place!" and somehot words, fearful and unintelligible some of them to the small girl, burst from his lips. 

And Betty, Baby and chain and all went out into the darkness. Only thebonnet remained. 

Cyril was on the outermost edge of the grove, and with danger behindhim, and Betty and Baby before his eyes, safe and unhurt, a wave of veryill-temper swept over him. He refused to have part in any more ofBetty's "silly games, " left her to carry the baby unaided, and told hershe had spoilt his chance of ever being adopted. But he was all the timewishing passionately that he too had "done and dared"--that he had notcrouched there among the trees, afraid and trembling. A small innervoice, that spoke to him very sharply after such occasions, told himcontemptuously, that he had been more afraid than a girl; that he hadbeen a coward; and as soon as he reached their small lamp-lit home, heran away from silent Betty and the babbling baby, to his own bedroom, tocry in loneliness over this second self who had done the wrong. 

And Betty stole silently into her bedroom. The dining room door wasstill closed, and those quiet elder ones were having their "pleasant"evening. She undressed the baby, and kissed her over and over, then puther into her little cot and gave her a dimpled thumb to suck. And sheherself cuddled up very close to her, and began to cry too. So much forall her show of bravery now. 

And a small voice spoke to her also, and showed her the seamy side ofthis great deed of hers. Told her that no one else in all the worldwould have dreamed of doing so wrong a thing; pointed out her mother andfather and pretty Dot, Mrs. And Mr. Sharman as examples of greatgoodness. When the baby was placidly sleeping, she sat upright on theend of her mother's bed in her earnestness to "see" if any of thoserighteous five would be guilty of the wickedness of becoming ghosts tofrighten an old man. She would have felt easier at once if she couldhave convinced herself that they would; but she could only see each ofthem rounding eyes of horror at her, and her sobs, broke out afresh. 

The door opened and Cyril came into the darkness, whispering andwhimpering, --

"I didn't play fair, Betty, " he said--"I wish I'd played fair--I----"

"Oh, " said Betty sobbingly--"Oh, Cyril, you're ever so much nobler thanI am. You wouldn't frighten an old man, neither. Oh, I wish I was asgood as you!"

Whereat a sweet sense of well-doing stole over Cyril. "Never mind, " hesaid cheerfully, "do as I do another time. "

"There won't be another time, " said Betty. "I'm going to turn over a newleaf, and be as good as if I was grown up. "

CHAPTER V

JOHN BROWN

John Brown's life had hitherto been a curiously rough and tumble sort ofexistence. There had been a season, brief and entirely unremembered byhim, when his home had been in one of Sydney's most fashionable suburbs;when a tender-eyed mother had watched delightedly over his first gleamsof intelligence, and a proud father had perched him on his shoulder fora bed-time romp. When he had been taken tenderly for an "airing" by thetrimmest of nursemaids, and in the daintiest of perambulators. When hehad worn tiny silk frocks and socks and bonnets. When hopes and fearshad arisen over "teething-time. " When he had been carried round adrawing-room, to display to admiring friends, his chubby wrists, hisdimpled fat legs, his quite remarkable length of limb and growth ofbone. 

Then Death slipped in unawares, and called the sweet young mother fromthat happy home, and little John Brown became a perplexity and a care toa grief-maddened father. 

For a space it was conjectured that the baby, pending the arrival of astep-mother, would be handed over to the cook, a rotund motherly personwho was fond of asserting that she had buried thirteen children andreared one. 

But conjectures have a way of falling beside the mark. 

One morning an old schoolmate of poor little Mrs. Brown's arrived from"out back, " packed up the baby's things with her own quick brown handsand returned "out back" the same evening. 

The perambulator, the cradle, the cot, the dainty baby basket and amultitude of other things were sold the next week along with the tablesand chairs and other "household effects, " and Mr. John Brown, senior, acabin box and a portmanteau, left by a mail steamer for Japan. 

And the small suburban house became "to let. " Thenceforward the patternof little John Brown's existence became altered. He was one of threeother children, and not even the baby, although scarcely one year old. 

His elegant lace-trimmed silken and muslin garments were "laid by. " Hewore dark laundry-saving dresses and neither boots nor socks. He wasnever carried around for admiration, for the very good reason thatvisitors were few and far between--and there was (except to dotingparents, perhaps) very little to admire about him. He lost hischubbiness and his pink prettiness and became thin and wiry, brown facedand brown limbed. 

He was always abnormally tall and abnormally strong, so that he becamealmost a jest on the station. He learned to fight at three, to swim atfour, shoot at seven, ride, yard cattle, milk, chop wood, make bushfires and put them out again, ring bark trees all before he was eleven. In short, to do, and to do remarkably well, the hundred and one thingsthat make up a man's and boy's existence on an Australian station. 

At thirteen he learned that his name was Brown, and that he had a fatherother than the bluff squatter he had grown up with. And at thirteen hewas taken from the station-life he loved, and, after much travelling, delivered by a station-hand into his father's care in Sydney. 

Before he could form any idea as to what was about to happen to him, andto this grey-bearded father of his, he was taken across the blue harbourwater, and thence by coach to the little township over the northernhills. 

They walked past the small weather-board school together, and few, ifany, words passed between them. For the man's thoughts were away downthe slope of many years, and the boy's were away in that flat country"out back" where he had been brought up. 

They were close to the great iron gates when the man broke the silence;pointing beyond them he remarked--

"This is where your home will be in the future, John. "

John considered the prospect thoughtfully and shook his head--

"I'd rather go home, " he said. "Let me go home. "

"No, " said his father, "it can't be done. I ought to have fetched youaway sooner, only I shirked a duty. Open the little gate, I see the bigones are padlocked. Push, it's stiff. "

They walked up the long red drive, John's mind busy over the questionshe wished to ask his father and he began to lag behind considering them. 

"This will be your home, " repeated Mr. Brown quietly, "and it's amarvellous thing how life has arranged itself. The turn of Fortune'swheel, we may say. Walk quicker, John. "

When they stood before the great front door, Mr. Brown becameretrospective again. 

"We played here together, " he said--, "down these very steps, along thesevery paths. It is strange how life has fallen out--how my boy willbe----" He put out his hand and pulled the bell vigorously, then turnedhis back to the house and surveyed the garden. 

"Is it a school?" whispered John. But before his father could reply thedoor had rolled back and a man-servant stood looking at them. 

Mr. Brown walked in, put his hat on a table, motioned to John, andopened a door at one side of the wide hall. 

"It's me--Brown, " he said as he entered the room. "I've brought theboy. "

John followed very quickly, being curious now. His father stood half-wayacross the room, looking hesitating and apologetic. 

A man of sixty or so, with a red, merry-looking face, and anunmistakable sea-captain air, glanced up from a paper he was reading. 

"Eh?" he asked. 

Then he sent his look--it was a quick darting look that saw everythingin the twinkling of an ordinary person's eye--to the thin badly-dressedfigure in the rear. "Eh? The boy? Oh--ah! My newly-found grandson. "

"He is scarcely what I had hoped to find, " said Mr. Brown, apologeticstill. "Yet his mother was a good-looking woman and----"

"Be hanged to looks, " said Mr. Carew. "He'll get on all the betterwithout 'em. And you were never anything to boast of yourself you know. What's his name?"

"John. "

"Um! John Brown. John Carew-Brown, we'll say. It's a pity it's not JohnBrown Carew. "

"That's a matter that can easily be altered. It can be merely JohnCarew, if you like, and let the melodious Brown go hang. "

"Eh? What does the boy say? What do you say John to changing your nameand letting the Brown go hang?"

To Mr. Brown's surprise and consternation, the boy gave an emphatic"No. "

"Ah!" said old Mr. Carew, "and how's that? Speak up, John. "

"The boys 'ud forget me, " said John anxiously, "and I'd have to beginall over agen. "

"What with?--Leave him alone, Brown. "

"Thrashing 'em. They know me everywhere about Warrena. I can make 'emall sit up. I don't want to change my name. "

A sparkle came into the old man's eyes. 

"Well said, my lad, " he snapped. "I'd not have given a rap for you ifyou'd have cast your name away as easily as a pinching pair o' boots. Stick to your own name, John, and you'll look all the better aftermine. "

He waited a bit, eyeing the boy up and down keenly. The thin brown face, with its square determined mouth, quiet grey eyes and high forehead; thesturdy figure, countrified clothes, copper-toed boots, all passed underhis scrutiny. 

"So you're of the fighting kind?" he asked at last. 

"Yes, " said John proudly. 

"Ah! You never were, you remember, Brown. Things might have beendifferent if you had been. "

He waited again. Then he smiled queerly. 

"John, " he said, "your father's going away again to-night. You're mygrandson. It may not seem a great matter to you now--but it is, all thesame. You stay here. You and I have to take life together, boy--thoughyou're at one end of the ladder and I'm at t'other. Your name's yourname right enough, but I want you to be good enough to tack mine on toit, and to do a bit of fighting for mine too if necessary. I've foughtfor it hard in my day too. And now, John Carew-Brown, we'll have a bitof lunch if it's all the same to you. "

CHAPTER VI

MONDAY MORNING

Mrs. Bruce was down on her knees caressing tiny Czar violets. Quiteearly in the morning (before the breakfast things were washed or thebeds made) she had slipped on one of Dot's picturesque poppy-trimmedhats and declared her intention of planting the bed outside the studywindows thick with these the sweetest-scented of all flowers. 

"And all the time you are working and thinking and plotting, daddiedarling, the sweetest scents will be stealing round you, " she said. 

For some little time she was quite happy among her violets. Butpresently a richly hued wall-flower called her attention to a cluster ofits blooms, drooping on the pebbly path for a careless foot tocrush, --all for the want of a few tacks and little shreds of cloth. Aheavily-blossomed rose-tree begged that some of its buds might beclipped, and a favourite carnation put in its claim for a stake. 

"So much to do!" said Mrs. Bruce, as she flitted here and there in theold-fashioned garden, which was a veritable paradise to her. "The roses_must_ be clipped, the violets _must_ be thinned, the carnations _must_be staked. And there are the new seedlings to be planted. Oh, I _think_I will take the week for my garden--and let the house go!"

A flush of almost girlish excitement was in her cheeks, her garden meantso very much to her. Certainly the house had strong claims--and it wasMonday morning--the very morning for forming and carrying out good plansand resolutions! Meals wanted cooking, cupboards and drawers tidying;garments darning and patching! But then--the garden! Did it not alsoneed her. Ah! and did she not also need it!

Even as she hesitated, balancing duty with beauty, Betty's voice floatedout through the kitchen window, past the passion-fruit creeper and thewhite magnolia tree, past the tiny sweet violets and the study windows, right to where she stood among the roses and wall-flowers. 

"I _am_ so tired of washing up, " it said, "it wasn't fair of Dot. Shehad four plates for her breakfast--_I_ only had one. She might rememberI've to go to school as well as her. "

Then Mrs. Bruce advanced one foot towards the house, and in thoughtwielded the tea-towel and attacked the trayful of cups and saucers thatshe knew would be awaiting the tea-towel. 

It was Cyril's voice that arrested her. It came from the kitchen too. 

"What's washing up!" said Cyril contemptuously. "Washing up a few cupsand spoons--pooh! How'd you like to be me and have to clean all theknives, I wonder. "

Whereat Mrs. Bruce relinquished thoughts of the tea-towel. It wouldnever do, she told herself, to assist Betty and leave poor Cyrilunaided. "And I _couldn't_ clean knives, " she said. 

But she ran indoors to her bedroom, whence came an angry crying voice. Six-year-old Nancy was, in the frequent intervals that occurred in thedoing of her hair, frolicking about the small hot bedroom and tryingfrantically to catch the interest of the thumb-and-cot-disgusted baby. 

"Do your hair nicely, " said Mrs. Bruce to her second youngest daughter. "I will take baby into the garden. Button your shoes and ask Betty tosee that your ears are clean. And your nails. A little lady always hasnice nails. "

She carried her baby away, kissing her neck and cheeks and hands, andtelling her, as she had told them all, from Dorothy downwards, thatthere never had been such a baby in the world before. 

And she slipped her into the much used hammock under the old apple tree, and left her to play with her toes and fingers, whilst she went back toher violets and roses singing--

 "Rock-a-bye, Baby on a tree top, There you are put, there you must stop. "

and trying to be rid of that uncomfortable feeling, of having done whatshe wanted and not what she ought. 

In the study Mr. Bruce sat before a paper-strewn table. Most of thepapers related to his beloved book--which was almost half-completed. Ithad reached that stage several times before, and what had been writtenthereafter had been consigned to the kitchen fire. 

Now it was necessary that he should put it away, even out of thought, and turn his attention towards something that would bring in a quickreturn. For Dot's school fees would be due very shortly, and heremembered, with a smile-lit sigh, that this quarter she had taken uptwo extras, singing and dancing. 

His income would not admit of extras--and yet, as Mrs. Bruce frequentlyput it, Dot was the eldest and was very pretty. She certainly must beable to dance and sing!

He gathered up a few stray leaves of his manuscript, rolled them up withthe bulk, and heroically put them away. 

But, as he returned to his seat, he caught a glimpse of his wife, kneeling on the path, and making a little trench with a trowel in thebed outside his window. 

"Well, little mother!" he called, and felt blithe as he said it, andyoung and fresh hearted, just because of the bright face in thepoppy-trimmed hat. 

"I ought to be in the kitchen making a pudding, " she said, screwing upher face into a grimace. 

"You are far better where you are, " he said fondly. 

"Yes. But, oh, dear! I wish I had a cook, and laundress, and ahousemaid. Oh, and a nursemaid, too! It is dreadful to be poor, isn'tit, daddie?"

She went on with her gardening, just as happy as before, but the facethat the little author took to his work-table had grown grave in aminute. 

"She was born to have servants, " he said, "servants and ease. I mustwork harder. "

Cyril's voice broke into his reverie. He had come beneath the studywindows to interview his mother. 

"Can't I be raised to twopence a week now I'm going on for thirteen, "he said. "Bert Davis gets threepence, and he's only nine. "

Mr. Brace did not catch the reply. But he told himself that most menwould have been more liberal in the matter of _£. S. D. _ to their onlyson. 

He began to pace round and round his study. 

"I must work harder--harder--harder!" he said. "I must put my book away, and grind out those articles for Montgomery!"

Nancy, in a big white sun-bonnet, clean for the new week, passed underhis window and turned her face to the wicket gate. He could hear thatshe was crying in a miserable forsaken way, crying and talking toherself away within that capacious bonnet of hers. 

He called "Baby!" and leaned over his window sill to her. But she didnot hear him. She just went murmuring on to the gate. 

Then two other hurrying little figures came along. Cyril, with abattered hat crushed down on his head, and his school-bag over hisshoulders, and Betty with her boots unlaced, a white bonnet under herarm, and a newspaper parcel, which she was trying to coax into neatness, in one hand. 

"It's all through you and your ghosts, " Cyril was saying grumblingly. "Iknow I'd have done my lessons only for you, Betty Bruce. "

"What is the matter with Nancy?" asked their father, leaning over thewindow sill once more. "Why was she crying?"

"'Cause she thinks she'll be late, " said Betty easily. "She always criesif she thinks she's late. "

Down the road they went, Nancy hurrying and crying, Cyril grumbling, Betty silent. 

To none of them had Monday morning come exactly right--fresh anduncrumpled. 

Betty sat down, just outside her grandfather's gate, to lace her boots, and Cyril went grumbling on about a hundred yards behind Nancy. 

Then did a fresh crease get into the new week's first day for Betty. Looking under her arm as she bent over her boot, she beheld threefigures walking down the road, and at the first glimpse of them her facegrew hot. 

"Geraldine and Fay!" she exclaimed. 

The centre figure was dressed in a lilac print, and wore a spotlessapron and a straw hat. Upon either side of her walked a littlegolden-haired girl, one apparently about Betty's age, and one Nancy's. Their dresses were white and spotless, and reached almost to theirknees; their hats were flat shady things trimmed with muslin and lace. Their hair was beautifully dressed and curled, their boots shining--andbuttoned, and their faces smiling and happy-looking. 

They were Betty's ideals! Little rich girls, who rode ponies, anddrove--sometimes in a village cart with a nurse, and sometimes in acarriage with a lady who invariably wore beautiful hats and dresses. Sometimes, again, they were to be seen in a dog-cart with a dark man whoseemed a splendid creature indeed to Betty. 

The little girl by the roadside grasped her unbuttoned boot in one hand, her bonnet and newspaper parcel in the other, and in a trice hadsqueezed herself under her grandfather's fence, just at a point wheretwo or three panels were broken down. 

Then she peeped out to see if they were looking. But no--they had notseen her. Betty gave a great sigh of relief as she watched them. Howbeautiful they were. How dainty! Betty looked down at her own old boots, old stockings, old dress. She turned her bonnet over disdainfully andthought of their lace-trimmed hats--their golden hair!

"Oh, I am glad they didn't see me!" she said aloud fervently. 

Just then a voice shouted, a rough word to her from the path, and Bettyawoke to two alarming facts. The one, that she was in the emu'senclosure and that one great bird was bearing curiously towards heralready; the other, that her grandfather was the one who had called toher, and that John Brown, who was careering down the path on hisbicycle, had stopped and was evidently giving information about her. 

Her grandfather waved an angry hand. 

"Out you go!" he shouted. "If you come here again, I'll set the dogsloose!"

Betty squeezed herself under the fence just before the emu reached her, and once more faced a very crumpled Monday morning. 

CHAPTER VII

"CAREW-BROWN"

It must be confessed that John Brown--or to be polite andup-to-date--John Carew-Brown surveyed the pupils of Wygate School with afighting eye, which is to say, he considered them carefully withregarded to their pugilistic abilities, and he decided very soon that he"could make them all sing small. "

Even upon that first day when he, a new boy, had been standing in viewof the whole school, his mind had chiefly been occupied in running overthe boys' obvious fighting qualities--tall, short, fat, thin, all sortsand conditions of them were there. 

The girls he had passed by with but slight notice; to him they wereabsolutely valueless and uninteresting. Betty Bruce had certainly caughthis attention by her public punishment, and he had been taken aback bythat sharp little pinch of hers. Hitherto he had had nothing to do withgirls but he supposed immediately that that was their manner offighting, and he did not admire it. 

Not many days later an opportunity occurred for him to defend his newlyadopted name. Truth to tell, he had been longing for such an occasionfrom the day on which old Captain Carew had asked him to fight for hisname too. 

He was in the playground, round by the school house, just where thebabies' end of the school room joined the cloak room, and school wasover for the day. Having a piece of chalk in one hand, and nothingparticular to do, he occupied a few minutes by writing upon the weatherboards of the cloak-room--"J. C. Brown, J. C. Brown, John C. Brown, JohnC. Brown, " and the hinting C. Raised a small dispute in a circle ofonlooking boys and girls. 

It was Peter Bailey who said, "John Clara Brown, " and it was sillylittle Jack Smith who said "John Codfish Brown. "

A burst of laughter followed, and Peter Bailey and Jack Smith chasedeach other down the playground, and in and out among the sapling clumpaway at the end of it, where some shabby scrub and three gum trees grew. 

When they came back, John Brown was still silently writing apparentlydeaf to all the surmising going on around him. 

Nellie Underwood said it was--"Crabby John Brown, " and Arthur Smedley, the school bully, said--"John Brown the clown. "

Whereupon Brown sought out a clean weather-board a shade or so above hishead and wrote in bold letters. 

"John Carew-Brown, Dene Hall, Willoughby, " which made Bailey say--

"Hullo, he's got hold of Bruce's grandfather. "

Cyril, who was one of the little circle of jesters, grew pink to thetips of his pretty pink ears, but feeling the majority and the bullywere against Brown, ventured to say--

"He's only running you!"

Nellie Underwood pushed herself into a prominent position in the groupand cried--

"I seen him coming out of Dene Hall gates, and old Mr. Carew was withhim. So there!"

John Brown chose another weather-board and the group closed round him toread--

"John Carew-Brown, only grandson of Captain Carew, of Dene Hall, Willoughby, Sydney, N. S. Wales, Australia, Southern Hemisphere, " whichcertainly looked imposing and had the effect of silencing every one foralmost half a minute. 

Then the bully's eyes glared into Cyril's pretty blue ones, and he saidangrily--

"You said you were the only grandson. "

Cyril did not speak. 

"You said, " repeated the bully, "you said the Captain was going toadopt you, and give you his collection of guinea pigs. "

Cyril hung his crimson face and kicked the ground with the toe of hisboot. 

John Brown chose another weather-board and wrote--

"Captain Carew has no guinea pigs, " which sent most of the blood awayfrom Cyril's face. The bully was eyeing him angrily, and even went asfar as doubling up one fist. 

"You said he was going to give you five shillings a week pocket-money, and let you buy my white mice, " he muttered, and Cyril found himselfface to face with the occasion, and with no clever intervening Betty tothrow the right word into the right place, and so save his skin and hishonour. 

"So he is, " he said, moving away from Brown as far as he dared--"and soI am the only grandson. " He looked over his shoulder and beheld Brown'sback, whereupon he felt if Brown could not see he could not hear. "_He's_ only the gardener's boy, " he said; "ask"--his mind made a swiftexcursion for an authority--"ask my grandfather, " he said, "any of youwho like, ask my grandfather. "

Brown and his chalk advanced to Cyril. 

"Who told you I was the gardener's boy?" he asked. Cyril looked from foeto foe, and the wild thought of denying he had said such words enteredhis mind, only to be followed by a swift remembrance of various daringdeeds of the bully's. 

So he went over recklessly to Arthur Smedley's side. 

"My grandfather!" he said. 

"Are you going to be adopted?" asked the bully. 

"Yes, " said Cyril in desperation. 

"Are you going to have five shillings a week?" demanded the bully. 

"No--I'm going to have ten, " roared Cyril. 

A window belonging to Mr. Sharman's private house, which adjoined theschool, flew open, and John Brown's name was sharply called. It enteredinto Arthur Smedley's mind to see what writing remained upon the wall, and he went across to the cloak-room for that purpose. 

Whereupon Cyril looked to the right of him, to the left of him, to theback of him, and beheld neither friend nor foe in his vicinity; and heheaved a sigh of great satisfaction, ran to the fence, squeezed himselfthrough a hole in it, and was upon the road towards home in a trice. 

But before he had gone more than a hundred yards he heard quickfootsteps behind him, and looking over his shoulder he saw John C. Brown. Then did a sickening sense of terror sweep over him, and hisheart leapt into his mouth, for had he not said John Carew-Brown was"only the gardener's boy"?

CHAPTER VIII

THE FIGHT

Betty was in the belt of bush that lay between the wicket-gate of herhome and the road. Her idea was to be sufficiently near to home togather from the sound of the voices that might call her if she were_really_ needed and yet to be so far from sight that the continual"Betty, come here, " and "Betty, go there, " could not be. 

She had come home as soon as school was out, come home leaving Cyril andNancy behind her, flung herself beneath the shade of one of herfavourite old gum trees, and begun to write. 

When Mr. Bruce was busy over a story, or an article, or a book, everyone in the house knew. Then the study door would be closed and thewindow only opened at the top; then the children would be banished fromthe side garden into which the study looked, and from the passageoutside the study door; then Mrs. Bruce would carry his meals to himupon a tray, and he would have strong black coffee in the early evening. And then at last a neatly folded missive, gummed and tied with thinstring, with a mysterious "_MS. Only_" inscribed in one corner, would becarried to the post by either Cyril or Betty. 

When Dot wrote a story, as she very frequently did now-a-days, portionsof it would be carried into the study for her father to see, and hermother would proudly read page after page of the neat round hand, andwonder where on earth the child got her ideas from. 

But when Betty wrote her stories, no one in the house--excepting Cyril, of course--knew anything about it! no one kept the house quiet forBetty, and no one wondered wherever she got her ideas from. And yet shehad quite a collection of fairy stories and poems of her owncomposition. She and an exercise book, or a few scraps of paper and astumpy bit of pencil were to be seen sometimes in very closecompanionship. 

But for all that no one did see; or seeing, they did not understand. 

Still Betty wrote her stories--not necessarily for publication like herfather--nor as a guarantee that the scribbling genius was within her, like Dot--but for the love of story writing alone. 

Her fairy story to-day had to do with the bold and handsome Waratahwhich ran mad in the bush behind her home, towards Middle Harbour. Herfertile fancy had suggested many roles for these flowers to take. 

It occurred to her as she wrote that she had intended to write a poemwhich should stir Cyril--not one of _her_ sort of poems, about streamsand flowers and dells and birds, but a dashing sort of poem, one thatwould make Cyril say "By _Jup-i-ter_, Betty, " and learn it off by heartwithout any asking. 

For a space she laid down her story, which began, "Once upon a time, "and asked herself what there was that she could make a poem of forCyril. 

"It must be something brave, " she said. "A horse, a dog, a fire, aman--a St. Bernard dog saving a boy--a soldier--I think a soldier wouldsuit Cyril!"

She stared through the bush to the red road consideringly, holding herpencil ready to write. As she looked she became aware of a small figurerunning along the road, and entering the bush track. It was Cyril, andCyril in woe. She could see that at a glance, and of course the firstthing she did was to throw down her paper and pencil and run to meethim. 

As she got nearer to him she saw tears were running down his face andshe heard, ever and anon as he ran, a great sob, half of anger and halfof fear, come bursting from his lips. 

"Oh, my poor boy, whatever _is_ the matter?" she cried in her mostmotherly way. 

"The g-g-great big bully!" sobbed Cyril. 

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Betty in distress. 

"Oh the b-b-big bully. Let's get home. "

"Big John Brown?" asked Betty, for only yesterday this same John Brownhad sent her small brother home weeping over a sore head. 

"Yes, of course. He--he said he'd knock me into next year. Come on, can't you?"

Betty was running by his side at quite a brisk trot to keep up with him. 

"I--I hope you knocked him down, " she said. 

"He said grandfather isn't our grandfather at all. "

"Oh!--and you _did_ give him a black eye Cywil dear?" asked Bettyeagerly. Her "r's" had a way of rolling themselves into "w's" whenevershe was excited. 

They were at the wicket-gate now, and Cyril slackened his speed, andlooked over his shoulder. No one was in sight. 

"Oh, I will do!" he said boldly. "I told him no Bruce was afraid!"

"That's right, " said Betty eagerly. "That's right Cywil. No Bruce isafraid. But you did knock him down, didn't you. "

Cyril hesitated--then his trouble broke from him in a burst. "We fightto-night down at our coral islands at seven, " he said. 

"Oh my bwave Cywil!" exclaimed Betty admiringly. "Oh, I am so glad--oh, I am so very glad!"

But Cyril looked doleful, and was lagging behind his small eagersister. 

"I'm not so sure that he meant us to fight, " he said. "He--he neverasked me to. "

"What did he say?"

"He only said something about a challenge and things. "

"Oh, " said Betty, eager again in a minute; "_if_ he said 'challenge' you_must_ fight. There's no get out. "

"But I've hurt my leg. "

"Oh never mind your leg--think of the honour of the Bruces!" said thefervent Betty, who regarded the family cognomen as something sacred andagainst which no breath of evil must be allowed to come. 

"Honour of the Bruces be hanged, if I'm lame, " said Cyril savagely. 

A sense of foreboding swept over Betty as she followed Cyril into thehouse. Her imagination showed her willows and the "coral islands, " andonly John Brown--big square John Brown--there. She knew the story thatwould soon be all over the school--all over the neighbourhood--thatCyril had been _afraid_ to fight. Of course she, Betty, his own twinsister, knew there would not be a grain of truth in it. She knew he wasshy and delicate, and had hurt his leg. But for all that, she wishedeagerly that he were not shy and delicate, and did not always have somebodily ill when fighting time came. And more than one sob shook her, forshe beheld the honour of the Bruces being trampled under John Brown'sbig boots. 

She set the table and went about her usual household tasks in a veryhalf-hearted way. Cyril would not look at her, and crept off to bed atsix o'clock, complaining of the pain in his leg. Tea was over by then, and Betty, with her woeful look still on her face was helping "wash up"in the kitchen. 

Cyril in his bedroom turned down his stocking and examined the littleblue bruise near his knee. That there was some outward and visible signof his hurt he was very thankful. It raised his self-respect and broughttears of self-pity to his eyes, that Betty should have expected him tofight under such circumstances! So much did the sight of his woundupset him that he only went on one leg while undressing, though it mustbe confessed it was not always the same leg that did the hopping. 

Presently, after he had been lying in bed for some little time andcommiserating with himself over his sad fate, the door opened and Betty, with the wistfulness quite gone from her face, came in. And _such_ aBetty! Her brown hair was bundled away under one of Cyril's batteredstraw hats, and thankful indeed had she been that she had so little hairto bundle. She wore one of Cyril's sailor jackets, and a pair of hisserge knickers, and few looking at her casually, would have insulted herwith the supposition that she was a mere girl. 

Her face was alight with eagerness as she besought her brother to "just_see_ if he'd know her!"

"It'll be almost dark when I get there, " she said, "and he'll never_dweam_ I'm not you. "

"But what'll you do when you get there?" asked Cyril, sitting up in bed;"perhaps a challenge _does_ mean a fight!"

"Fight him!" said Betty stoutly; "I've been wanting to ever since hewent above me. "

"You can't fight, " said Cyril disgustedly. "You're only a girl. "

Betty's face positively flamed with eagerness. 

"Can't fight!" she said. "Why Fred Jones taught me. He says I've got theknack, but not _very_ much strength. Anyway, I fought that Barry kid theother day, _I_ can promise you!"

"But John Brown is three times as big as Ces Barry. "

"I know!" she sighed dismally. "Anyway, it's better to be beaten thannot to fight at all. And if you don't fight, they--they _might_ say youwere afraid. " Her face grew scarlet as she put the horrid thought intowords. 

When the door was shut, Cyril jumped out of bed to watch her go, and sooccupied was he over _her_ danger, that he forget his own hurt and didnot limp at all. 

Up and down the garden paths his mother and father were walking, hismother's arm through his father's, and a happy peaceful look on herface. The thought ran through the boy's mind, how little grown up onesknow of the troubles of childhood. Nancy was rolling with baby on thelittle lawn, singing--

 "John, John, John, the grey goose is gone, The fox is away o'er the hill, Oh!"

and he thought how good it was to be a girl--a goose--a fox--anythingbut a boy!

Then he crept back to bed, covered up his head and began to cry. For hewas afraid that Betty would be hurt--and once again had he hung backwhen he should have gone forward. And his heart told him that again hehad been a coward. 

Down by the willows John Brown was waiting. He had very much enjoyedissuing his "challenge" but he felt morally certain that it would not beaccepted. He was therefore surprised when he saw his small adversaryapproaching him in the dusk. 

Who shall say what fancies were running riot in his head! He was asquire going to punish a rash youth for trying to thrust himself intotheir family. He, his grandfather's grandson, was going to thrash afoolish boy for taking his grandfather's name in vain!

Meanwhile his little foe came on, over the rough sun-burnt grass, over afallen tree through a small stretch of denser scrub, to the very shoresof the "coral island sea. " And the baby-moon chose the moment of theirmeeting to slip behind a cloud and leave the world in semi-darkness. 

"Well done, Bruce!" said Brown coming forward and speaking in a heartytone; "I didn't believe you'd come--I didn't think you had a fight inyou. "

"We Bruces fight till we die!" piped Betty, and bit her lip to still itsquivering. 

Brown laughed. He detected the nervousness in his opponent's voice, andhad fully expected it. If he had found "Bruce" over-bold, he would havebeen surprised indeed. As it was, the reply in some way pleased him. 

"Well, " he said, "you're not going to fight me. _I'm_ not in a fightingmood; I'm going to _thrash_ you. "

Betty caught her breath. It certainly entered into her mind to cry outand run away, but she did nothing of the sort, she only clenched herhands, and stood her ground--having as usual a sufficiency of couragefor the occasion. 

The next minute Brown's great hand had grasped her coat collar, and shefelt herself swung round, stood down and swung round again. Then a sharpswish lashed her once, twice, thrice. 

Whereupon Betty began to fight on her own account, forgetting all theadvice Fred Jones had given her about "hitting out from the shoulder, "etc. Etc. She kicked Brown's legs with all the strength she could putinto her own. She pinched his wrists and his cheek, and lastly and tohis disgust she set her sharp little teeth into his hand. 

He dropped her quickly, her hat rolled off, and down tumbled her shortcurly hair. And the moon chose that moment to sail from under the cloudand put Betty's face in a soft silver light. 

Brown whistled. "By Jove!" he said, the "sister. "

Betty crammed her hat down upon her head again. 

"I'm not, " she said. "It's not! It's me, Cyril. Come on, _coward_, _bully_!"

She made a little rush at him, but Brown threw down his switch. 

"Thanks, " he said. "I'm not taking any this trip. "

"Come on, " urged Betty. 

"I don't fight girls, thanks. "

Betty began to cry in a heart-broken desperate way. 

"It's not me, " she said. "It's Cyril. It's Cyril. Oh, it's Cyril!"

But Brown, smiling darkly, turned from her, jumped over the fence, andtook his way through the banana grove to his home. 

And what pen could tell of his heaviness of heart, and great shame inthat he had _thrashed_ a girl. He could feel her light weight yet as heswung her round, hear her girlish voice crying, "We Bruces fight tillwe die!" see her thin white face in the moonlight as her hat fell off, and she looked at him and said--

"Come on, coward, bully!"

How he tingled with shame. Coward, bully! Yes, he had hit a girl. 

Betty started for home at a brisk run, for during her adventure thenight had advanced, and her imagination peopled the surrounding bushwith bogeys, and imps and elves. 

And as she ran, sobs broke from her, solely on account of her physicalwoes. 

Within the wicket gate she walked slowly. How could fear of outerdarkness remain, when the dinning-room window sent such a bar of lightbeyond. 

She crept softly along the verandah to the window and peeped in. Herfather was lying on the old cane lounge, his eyes upon her mother whosat at the piano, in a pretty fresh dress, flower-like as ever. For aspace, while little boy-Betty looked, she just touched the keys tenderlyas if she loved them like her flowers, then she struck a few chords, andbegan to sing "Home, Sweet Home, " in her sweet girlish voice. 

And Betty turned away, the tears running down her cheeks, and her smallheart aching. 

"I've been bad again, " she said, "and I meant to be good always. I don'tbelieve you _can_ be good till you are grown up. " She ran along thepassage into the little bedroom which she and Dot and Nancy shared, andshe fell down by Dot's quiet white bed and buried her face in the quilt. 

"Bad again, " she sobbed. "I've been bad again. Oh, I'm _glad_ I gotthrashed, it ought to do me good. " But it is to be feared her gladnesswas not very deep, because a sense of great satisfaction swept over heras she remembered, she had kicked, really kicked, big John Brown. 

CHAPTER IX

DOROTHEA'S FRIENDS

Alma Montague, a wealthy doctor's daughter; Elsie and Minnie Stevenson, daughters of a Queensland squatter; and Nellie Harden, only child of aSupreme Court Judge, were Dorothea Bruce's "intimate" friends. MonaParbury was her only "bosom" friend. Thus she defined them herself whenspeaking of them to members of her family and to the girls themselves, who were one and all eager to stand a "bosom" friend to pretty TheaBruce as they called her. 

The difference between an "intimate" friend and a "bosom" friend is toosubtle to be described, but school-girls all the world over, and thosewho have left school days just behind them, will know and understand. 

Mona Parbury was one week older than Dorothea and one inch (theymeasured upon the verandah wall) taller. Her waist was two sizes larger;her boots and gloves were three. In every way she was cast in adifferent mould from Dorothea. She was a heavily built girl, who lookedat sixteen as though her teens were a year or two behind her. Herfeatures were pronounced--high cheek-bones, square chin, high forehead;her hair was black and straight and plentiful, and she wore it in aheavy plait down her back. Her eyes were brown, clear, faithful, goodeyes, and her mouth was distinctly large and ill-shaped. 

Such was Mona in the days when Dorothea loved her--in the days whenDorothea told her all her hopes, and dreams, and often very foolishthoughts; when she made her the heroine of her stories; and wrote littlepoems to her as--"her love"--and little loving letters if the cruel fatewhich sometimes hovers over such friendships separated them for half aday. 

We have seen Dorothea before. She was small and fairy-like;slender-waisted and light in movement. Her hair was golden and curly, and was usually worn quite loose about her shoulders; her eyes were blueand sunshiny and lashed by dark curling lashes; her mouth was small andred, and her complexion delicate pink and white. All of her "intimate"friends gave her the frankest admiration--they all loved her, and theywere all eager to stand first with her. 

But it was Mona who loved her the most. Mona who kept and treasuredevery one of the little "private" notes sent to her by Dot. She workedout all her most troublesome sums, brushed and curled her hair; boremany of her punishments; brought her numberless fal-lals (keepsakes shecalled them); wore a lock of her golden hair in a locket around herneck, and told her all of her secrets--she had as many as ten a weeksometimes. 

Miss Weir, the "principal" of the school, had, many years ago, given toDorothea's mother much the same sort of love as Mona Parbury now gave toDorothea. And it was owing to this old love that Dorothea was nowadmitted on very low terms to the most fashionable school in Sydney. 

No one among all the pupils (there were fifteen) knew anything aboutpoverty--no one but Dorothea. As she once said in a burst of anguish toher mother--

"They are all rich, every _one_ of them. They live in beautiful housesand have parlourmaids and housemaids and nursemaids, and kitchenmaidsand cooks and carriages, and as much money to spend as we have to liveon, I believe. "

It was very rarely, though, that any of her troubles ruffled her calmserenity. Dorothea was usually as placid as the placidest baby. Shelonged to be rich, and to have pretty things to wear and a handsomehouse to live in, but she never talked of her poverty. Instead shedraped its cloven foot gracefully, and turned her back on it--and_imagined_ she was rich--from Monday till Friday. 

She discussed "fashion" and "society" with Alma Montague and NellieHarden, and grew quite familiar with the names and doings of the greatsociety dames. She even learned--at considerable pains--a "society"tone of voice with a drawl in it and a little lisp. 

School life was a great happiness to her--the regular hours, thebeautifully ordered house, the neat table, the daily constitutional, themorning and evening prayer-time, and the hour in the drawing-room atnight, everything that made life from Monday till Friday. 

It was Friday till Monday that was the cross, Friday till Monday, thedays when the cloven foot would not be draped, when the elegancies oflife were left behind in the city, when the twins and the babies wereeverywhere, when the meals were often but suddenly thought of snatchesof food. 

Sometimes the thought of the looming future--the time when all the dayswould be as Friday till Monday, when there would no longer be any schooldays to be lived by her--would quite break down her placidity, and makeher feel she could put down her head anywhere and cry. 

Yet away they were marching, one by one, all the beautiful school-days, all the days of discipline and pleasant duty, and the ugly slack days, when there would be nothing but home with house-work to do, were drawingnear. 

And at last she could bear the thought of it by herself no longer. 

It was early evening, and she was on the schoolroom verandah, watchingthe young moon rise over a distant chimney. Every moment she expectedthe prayer-bell to ring, and meanwhile, as it was not ringing, shefilled up the time by counting how many more evening prayer-bells wouldring before the end of term. 

She counted on her fingers, out aloud, and found there were justtwenty-nine--twenty-nine without Fridays, Saturdays, or Sundays. Twenty-nine days, and then came the end of term, and the end of herschool-days. 

It would then be Betty's turn--larrikin Betty's! The moon sailed overthe chimney, and Dot put her head down on the verandah railing and beganto cry. She did not cry in the vigorous whole-hearted way in which Bettycried, but she sighed heavily, and sobbed gently, and allowed two orthree tears to run down her cheek before she brought out her daintyhandkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. 

And at that precise moment Mona was crossing the schoolroom floor, andshe saw her darling Thea in tears! She was not given to light impulsivemovements at all, but this time she really did _spring_ forward andkneel at Dot's side. 

"Dear, darling Thea!" she whispered, "what is the matter? Miss Cowdellhas been bullying you for the silly old French? That's it, isn't itdear?"

"Oh, no!" said Dot hopelessly, "nothing _half_ as small as that. "

"You've lost the new sleeve-links Alma gave you? Never mind--there areplenty more. Not that? What then? Tell your own Mona--tell your own oldMona. "

Two more tears ran down Dot's cheeks. 

"It's--it's nearly the end of term, " she said. 

Mona nodded. 

"And I'm going to leave school, " she said. 

Again Mona nodded and waited. 

"I've to go home, " said Dot, and she put her head down on Mona'sshoulder heavily. 

"I've to go home too, " said Mona, and she sighed, "right away to theRichmond river, where you girls never come. "

"My home, " said Dot, "is like a little plain, hedged round with pricklypear, and put on the top of a mountain. No one ever comes in, and wenever go out. "

"Poor little Thea, " said Mona. 

"And we're very poor, " went on Dorothea with strange recklessness; "weought to be rich, but we're not, and the house is full of children, andthere's never any peace from morning till night. "

Mona grew crimson. She wanted to say something very much, and she lackedthe courage. Instead she asked how old were the children, as if she didnot know!

"There's Betty, " said Dot, "she's to come here when I leave, and shewon't enjoy it a bit--she's such a romp--and there's Cyril, they're bothabout twelve. And there's Nancy, she's six, and the baby. "

"I wish, " said Mona, "I _wish_ they belonged to me. "

"How can I practise with them everywhere about. How can I read, how canI paint even, write my book, do anything, with them everywhere?" askedDot dismally. "They just fill the house. "

Again Mona stumbled to what she wanted to say, and stopped. Dot wouldsay she was "lecturing. " It would never do. 

"You're rich, " said pretty Dot pouting; "you can have everything youwant, do anything, go anywhere. "

A few puckers got into Mona's high forehead. 

"Once, " she said, "I had four sisters, all younger than myself, and theyall died. I told you, didn't I?"

"But it's long ago, " said Dot. "Three years ago since the baby died. Youmust have forgotten. "

"I'd promised my mother, when she was dying, to be a mother to them. Father and aunt _made_ me go to school, and all the time I was countingon when I should leave, and be an elder sister. "

Dot opened her eyes very wide. 

"Why did you want to be an elder sister?" she asked. 

Mona still looked red and ashamed. 

"You should read _The Flower of the Family_, " she said, and "_The Eldestof Seven, Holding in Trust_. You'd know then. "

Dorothea had read the last, and she began to see and understand. 

"You've got your mother and sisters, " said Mona shyly. 

And then for the first time it occurred to Dorothea that she herself wasan elder sister, that she was the eldest of five, and that infinitepossibilities lay before her. 

"There's only my father and my aunt and brother when _I_ go home, " saidMona. "And I've only twenty-nine days, too, and then, oh! Thea darling, I have to lose you. "

"We'll write twice a week always, " whispered Dot, twining her arms roundher friend's waist. 

"And always be each other's bosom friend, " said Mona. 

Then the prayer-bell rang, and the four intimate friends scanned Theaclosely, seeing that she had been crying, and feeling angry with "that"Mona Parbury for letting her. 

CHAPTER X

RICHES OR RAGS

Captain Carew and John Brown--big John Brown in Betty's parlance--sat atdinner together. 

Although not an elegant dinner table it was very far removed from beinga poor one. The linen, silver and glass were all of the best, the verybest; the man-servant was decorous and swift of eye, foot and hand, andthe menu was beyond any that had entered into John Brown's knowledge, before he came to Dene Hall. Yet he was out of love with it all. 

Captain Carew had his glass of clear saffron-coloured wine at his righthand. His silver fork was making easy journeyings from a slice of coldturkey on his plate, to his mouth, and his eyes were now and againrunning over a long type-written letter that lay before him. 

He was well pleased, well fed, and interested, and he had no reason tosuppose John Brown was in any other humour than himself. 

He had heard that the thoughts of youth were of vast length, and perhapshe believed it. But he did not think John's had reached quite as far aswishing to be a cobbler in a country village. 

And it must be confessed that few, seeing the appetite the boy broughtto his plate of cold turkey and "snowed" potato, would have suspectedhim of longing for a "crust of bread and a drink of cold water. "

The truth was, he had been of late ransacking his grandfather's libraryand had found besides sea-stories and stories of wrecks, and foreignlands and pirates and deep sea treasure--what interested him more thanall, a volume of biographies of self-made men. 

He had lingered longingly over their boyhoods; their brief school times(when such times were lacking altogether he liked both man and storybetter); their privations, struggles, self-reliance and success. Thesuccess interested him the least. That came, of course, he decided, toall who tried hard enough. But the privations! The struggle! Theself-reliance! How his eyes shone and his heart beat at it!

There was the story of Richard Arkwright, the great mechanician. _He_was never at school in his life--never forced to do ridiculous sums, tospell correctly, to parse, to drill, to sing! His biographer said thatthe only education he ever received he gave himself--that he was fiftyyears of age when he set to work to learn grammar and to improve hishand-writing. He did not waste the precious hours of his youth over suchthings. When he was a boy he was apprenticed to a barber, and when heset up in business for himself he occupied an underground cellar and putup his sign--"Come to the subterraneous barber; he shaves for a penny. "This caused brisk competition, and a general reduction in barber'sprices. Yet not to be beaten, Arkwright altered his sign to "A cleanshave for a halfpenny. " Then he turned his attention to wig-making, andfrom that to machine-making. And years and years passed. Years filledwith patient labour, privations, obstacles, and at last _Success_!"Eighteen years after he had constructed his first machine he rose tosuch estimation in Derbyshire that he was appointed High Sheriff of thecounty, and shortly afterwards George III conferred upon him the honourof knighthood. " So said the book. 

Shakespeare, he read, was the son of a butcher and grazier; SirCloudesley Shovel, the great admiral, a cobbler's son; Stephenson was anengine-fireman; Turner, the great painter, came from a barber's shop. 

Life after life he had turned over of men who had risen from the ranksand gotten for themselves fame and riches. So that at last he came toregard humble birth and poverty as the necessary foundations of ultimatesuccess. He noticed that his heroes all worked hard and patiently; wereall brave and sternly self-disciplined, plodding onwards past everyobstacle and hardship. But he forgot to notice that they all made the_best of that sphere of life into which they were born_. 

He had quite decided to be a self-made man. That was simple enough. Thequestion that troubled him was what sort of a self-made man to be! ANewton? A Shakespeare? A Stephenson? A Turner? An Arkwright?

The wide choice worried and perplexed him. It was pitiful to histhinking that he could, try and strive as he might, only be _one_. 

He had put himself through several examinations. He had lain under apear tree and watched the leaves fall; he felt another man had themonopoly of apple trees. And he had decided that the leaves fell becausethey had become unfastened from the branches, and that they did not fallstraight because the wind blew them sideways. And there was an end ofthe leaves. 

He had studied kitchen furnishings and their ways, avoiding only thekettle, since some one else had risen on its steam. 

He had tried himself with a pencil and paper, but he had composednothing even reminiscent of Shakespeare. In fact, he had composednothing at all. 

And at last he became convinced it was the circumstances of his lifethat were at fault, not he himself. _If_ he had only been a cobbler'sson, a tailor's, a barber's!

But alas! he was well-dressed, well-fed, well-housed; sent to a goodschool. He had a pony of his own and a man to groom him; a bicycle; awatch; every equipment for cricket and football; a dog; pigeons and mostof the possessions dear to the heart of a boy. 

He had almost finished his dinner to-day when he put a question to theCaptain sitting there smiling over his letter. 

"Grandfather, " he asked, "are you rich?"

His grandfather sat straight immediately, which is to speak of hisfeatures as well as his figure. 

"Well, what do you think, lad?" he asked. 

John shook his head dolefully. 

"_I_ think you are, " he said, "but _are_ you?"

"That depends on how riches are counted, " said the old man cautiously, "and who does the counting. King Solomon, now, might consider me but anold pauper. "

John went on with his dinner thoughtfully. 

"Are you wondering what I am going to do with my money?" asked the oldman, watching him closely. 

John looked him straight in the face. 

"I expect you're going to leave it to me, " he said. 

"Ah!" said his grandfather. "And who has been talking to you now? Whotold you that?"

"Oh, Johnson and Roberts and Mrs. Wilkins. Mrs. Wilkins says you'll giveit me in a will, " said John carelessly. 

"Who the dickens is Mrs. Wilkins?"

John opened his eyes widely. Not to know Mrs. Wilkins was indeed toargue oneself unknown. 

"Why the lady at the store next our school, " he said. "She sellspea-nuts and chewing gum and everything. "

"And she says I'll leave all my money to you, eh? Hum. Well, how'd youlike it if I do?"

"I don't want it, " said John with blunt force. He went on sturdily withhis blanc-mange, arranging his strawberry jam carefully, that he shouldhave an excess of that for the last spoonful. 

Captain Carew stared surprisedly at him. 

"Eh? What's that?" he asked. 

"When you were as old as me, " said John, lifting his carefully trimmedspoon to his mouth, "were you as rich as now?"

The question stirred the old man immediately. His eyes brightened, heput down his letter, pushed his glasses up high on his forehead andstruck the table with one hand. 

"I should think not, " he said excitedly, "I should rather think not. Asrich as now--God bless my life!"

"I thought you weren't, " said John calmly. 

"I can't remember my father and mother, " said Captain Carew, speaking alittle more quietly as his thoughts began to run backwards. "I livedwith my uncle in London; he kept a ham and beef shop, and had thirteenor fourteen youngsters of his own to bring up. He was going to put me tothe butchering, but I settled all that myself. I ran away. "

"You ran away?" asked John breathlessly, and regarding the old man withmore interest than he had ever given him yet. 

"Ay! When I was no older than you. Half a crown I had in my pocket, Iremember. It was all the start in life _I_ ever got. "

John put down his spoon and stared at his grandfather earnestly, eagerly, admiringly. 

"You're a self-made man!" he said. And old as the Captain was, and youngas was his admirer, he warmed pleasantly at the words. 

"Ay!" he said exultingly, "I'm a self-made man right enough. Every bitof me! I started life as an errand boy in the London slums, and itseemed for a time as if I was going to die an errand boy in the Londonslums. At least, it might have seemed so to most people. _I'd_ made upmy mind how it was to be, how it had got to be. "

"What did you do?" asked John eagerly. 

"Do--well, I had about a year at errand running and then I got a chanceto go to sea, and I took it. I went first to China. By gad, how well Iremember that trip!"

And forthwith he launched into a sea-story more enthralling by far tothe boy than any in that library so stocked with sea-stories. 

At dinner again, at night, the talk was the same. The usually silentruminative old man was positively loquacious, and John gave him a raptattention. 

When nine o'clock struck a dim remembrance come to the boy that he wasstill a pupil of Wygate School and had home tasks to prepare for themorrow. 

But he had slipped too far out of his groove to go back again thatnight. 

He began to wander in and out of the lower floor rooms; out of the frontdoor, round the verandah, and in by the French windows to thedining-room. 

"I'll chuck school, " he said. "Catch any of those self-made men going toschool when they were thirteen. I'll have to struggle and screw and putmyself to a night-school. That's what they did. A self-made man is goodenough for me. "

CHAPTER XI

THE ARTIST BY THE WAYSIDE

Elizabeth Bruce was "detained for inattention. "

No one else out of all the four and thirty scholars of Wygate School waskept in to-day. One after the other, hands folded behind them, they hadmarched to the door. Then delightful sounds--the scuffling of feet, stifled screams, gigglings and low buzzings of talk--had stolen over thepartition that separated the cloak-room from the class-room, andElizabeth, sitting on the high-backed form, with all the other emptyforms in front of her, nibbled her pencil in melancholy loneliness. 

She wondered if Nellie Underwood and Cyril would wait for her. Onlyyesterday she had waited a dreary hour for them and had carried Cyril'sbag home for him to ease his wounded spirit. 

Then she began her task. She seized a slate, arranged two slate-pencilsto work together and expedite her task and wrote: "Elizabeth Brucedetained for inattention. "

When she had written the statement ten times the silence in thecloak-room struck chill upon her. All the rest had found their hats andbonnets then and gone outside. 

She sat on the floor under her desk and tried to see the playgroundthrough the open door. Two small pinkly-clad figures dashed past thedoor, chased by a maiden in blue--all screaming and laughing. 

"Nell Underwood!" ejaculated Betty gladly, and went back to her slatewarmed and cheered. 

She made her pencils work harder than before, kneeling upon the form inan excess of industry. 

Even as she wrote the statement for the fortieth time, voices andlaughter came from the playground--but a cold silence had come by thefiftieth. 

At the sixtieth her little moist hand was cramped, and she had to stayto work her fingers rapidly. At the seventieth the tears were tricklingdown her cheeks, for she was only Elizabeth Bruce "detained forinattention, " the schoolroom was only a schoolroom, and the forms wereonly forms--and empty. And that was the master down at the desk there, exercise books and slates around him and a pen behind his ear. For aspace the tears splashed down hard and fast upon her slate and the sightof the big drops aroused her self-pity. The larger the splashes thelarger her self-sorrow. 

A sharp "Go on with your work, Elizabeth Bruce" waked her to thenecessity of drying her eyes and slate and adjusting her pencils foragain writing, "Elizabeth Bruce detained for inattention. "

But at the eightieth time of writing it, she was no longer ElizabethBruce, the daughter of a moneyless author. Her name was now GeraldineMontgomery, and she was the adopted daughter of a millionaire. Hermother, she had decided, was a gipsy, and was even now hovering near athand to steal back her beautifully dressed child. 

By the time she had written the melancholy statement of ElizabethBruce's detention, her face had all its old smiling serenity again. 

She rose, sighing thankfully, and collecting her slates, walked downsoberly to the busy master at his desk. 

"Let this be a lesson to you, Elizabeth, " he said, running his eye downslate after slate. "Ten times each side, twenty times each slate, fiveslates--one hundred. More punishments are meted out to you than to anyother child in the school. I shall find it necessary, if this state ofthings continues, to write to your father. Clean the slates and returnthem to their places--then go. "

Elizabeth found the cloak-room empty. She assured herself that every onehad gone home--of course; but her eyes flashed round the press room, andto that corner between the press and the door, for a blue-frocked littlegirl with red hair. And, of course, as she was now Geraldine Montgomery, the disappointment of finding the corner empty was not so keen as itwould have been merely to Elizabeth Bruce. 

"I think, " said this foolish little girl aloud, "I'll wear my leghornhat with the ostrich feathers in it to-day. Papa always likes that. " Andshe took her old pink bonnet down from her peg and slipped it upon herhead. Then she stuffed her books into her black school-bag and turned tothe door. 

Elizabeth Bruce fancied Cyril would be away there under the saplingsplaying knucklebones impatiently, and her eyes eagerly scanned thedeserted playground. No kneeling figures, no Nellie Underwood, no Cyril, no knucklebones. For a second the tears trembled in her eyes at thethought that no one had waited for her, but in a minute Elizabeth Bruceslipped away, and Geraldine Montgomery in her leghorn hat was treadingthe homeward way. 

Behind her, she told herself, an old gipsy woman was skulking--she hadseen the ostrich feathers, the "rare lace upon the simple rich dress. "

It was just behind the store that the gipsy and Geraldine bothdisappeared. 

The store turned one blank wall upon Carlyle Road--which was the homeroad--and Elizabeth came round the corner sharply and then stood still. There, kneeling upon the red clayey earth, his face to the wall, was bigJohn Brown. 

Elizabeth made out that he was writing or figuring with blue chalk uponthe wall's blankness, and although her heart feared the big rough boyshe had "fought, " she drew nearer. 

"Hulloa!" said John Brown, flushing when he saw the small pinaforedmaiden he had an unpleasant recollection of beating so short a time ago, and whom he had carefully avoided ever since. 

"Hulloa!" said Betty, surprised into speaking to him. 

Brown made a seat of his boot-heels and surveyed her, being much toobashful to open up a conversation. 

But Betty was not bashful. 

"What are you doing?" she asked, and a very inquisitive face stared athim from the depths of the pink sun-bonnet. 

[Illustration: "'Is it a horse?' queried Betty. "]

"H'm!" said John, and made a few more strokes with his pencil. 

"Is it a horse?" queried Betty. "Yes it is--there are no horns, and it'stoo big for a dog or cat. Yes, it's a horse. "

"H'm!" said John again. Then he looked at his handiwork, drawing furtheroff to see it from Betty's point of view. 

"Yes, " he said, with badly concealed pride; "it's a horse right enough. It's a race-horse. I drew him from memory. "

"Why didn't you draw him on paper?" asked the small girl. 

"Won't be let. And no sooner do I see a bit of blank wall than I begindrawing something on it, " said the reader of _Self-made Men_. 

Betty only heeded the first part of his sentence. 

"Who won't let you?" she asked, standing on one leg as she put thequestion. 

"My people, " said John. "They don't want me to be an artist. "

Betty's eyes rounded themselves. 

"_Are_ you going to be an artist?" she asked. She was intenselyinterested. The boys who played in her kingdom had not arrived at thestage of thinking what they were going to be. What they were wasall-sufficient unto them. Cyril had once declared his intention ofkeeping a sweets' shop, but that was quite a year ago now. 

Betty had read many stories about artists, and they were always set inromantic or tragic circumstances. The look she gave to the one beforeher warmed him into becoming confidential on the spot. He did not tellher all at once, not all even that first afternoon, although they tookthe homeward way together. 

But he gave her a rough outline of the lives of several artists who hadsprung from the ranks, and of one in particular who lived in a cellar, and tasted of starvation as a boy; one who, denied paper, could not yetdeny the genius within him, but drew in coloured chalks upon any vacantwall that came in his way. And he always drew animals--and usuallyhorses and dogs. 

The little brown face under the sun-bonnet glowed with delight. Neverin all her life had the imaginative small maiden come across a boy likethis. Big John Brown, indeed! Bully, indeed! Gardener's boy, indeed! Howcould she and Cyril ever have said, ever have thought, such things?

Presently, for the boy had never had such a listener in his life before, he told her of other men--Stephenson, Newton, Shakespeare--and Bettytook off her bonnet as her earnestness increased, and tucked it underher arm after a way she had when agitated. 

"Oh, I wish I was a boy, " she said. "What's the good of a girl? What cana girl do? Don't you know anything about self-made women?"

John knew very little. In fact he too very much doubted the "good of agirl. " He told her so quite bluntly, but added that she'd better makethe best of it. 

"There _must_ be some self-made women, " insisted Betty. "I'll ask fatherto-night. "

John thought deeply for a few minutes, seeing her distress. He reallyransacked his mind, for besides sorrow for her sorrowing he couldplainly see the admiration with which she regarded him, and he wanted toshow her that he knew something about women too. 

"There's Joan of Arc, " he said, "and--there's Grace Darling!"

But Betty was indignant. "They're in the history book!" she said. 

John thought again, but could only shake his head. 

"All women can do, " he said, "is wash up, and cook dinners, and mendclothes!"

Betty's lips quivered. 

"I won't be a woman, " she said, "I _won't_!"

John owned to sharing her craving to be rich, but he wanted to _make_his wealth himself--which set Betty's imagination galloping down a newroad. _She_ had only thought hitherto of her grandfather's riches, whichhad seemed to her and Cyril to be all the money there was in the world. 

But now John had slid back a door and let her peep into all the gloriesof a new world, and she had seen there wealth and fame to be had for theearning--by men and boys!

"Try and find out about self-made women, " she said, when he left her atthe turn through the bush. "See if there were any women artists, orwomen inventors, or women pirates, or _anything_. Good-bye. "

CHAPTER XII

BETTY IN THE LION'S DEN

So that it was John who showed Betty the thing in all its beauty. It washe, who, so to speak, called her to the mountain top, and pointed out toher the cities of the world to be climbed above. And it seemed to littleindependent-hearted Betty to be the most glorious thing in the world toclimb upon one's own feet, pulling oneself upwards with one's own hands. 

She wondered how she could have ever wanted such a very ordinaryhappening as for her grandfather to _adopt_ them and give them _his_money. Here was this wonderful John Brown actually longing to give upher grandfather--his grandfather. For he had soon convinced her thatCaptain Carew was his grandfather too, and while allowing that he mightbe hers, he showed her how very little in the eyes of the world _her_relationship counted for. He, he said, was the son of his grandfather'seldest son--that their names were different was solely owing to the factthat his father had changed his name for private reasons. She and Cyriland all the rest of them were merely the children of his grandfather's_daughter_. And, as he impressed upon Betty, women didn't count for muchin the world's eyes. 

Yet Betty was very earnest in her intention to be somethinggreat--something self-made, and John was willing enough not to stand inher way. He himself was going to start at once; _he_ was not going towaste any more time over going to school and doing lessons. He pointedto his grandfather as a fine example of a man who had risen _because_ hehad not wasted time in learning. He told Betty they could not begintheir "career" too early. 

It was Betty who suggested waiting till the Christmas holidays, and itwas John who said--

"Perhaps you'd better wait till the next Christmas. I will have got abit of a start by then and will be able to help you. "

But Betty was indignant at that. 

"I won't be helped!" she said. "I won't be helped by you, John Brown. Stay at home till Christmas yourself--I'm going _now_!"

Her career had to be decided upon, and very little time remained inwhich to decide. John intended beginning life as an errand boy. In hisspare time, he said, he would go on with his drawing, and if anopportunity occurred, he would work his passage out somewhere in someship. He was rather vague about all but the errand running; that he sawto be the first step towards greatness. 

Betty was not long before she decided he was keeping some part of hisdesign from her. And every afternoon when they had left school and eachother, she was nervous lest he should have gone by morning--gone andleft her to find her way into the world alone!

And here was she unable to decide upon her career! She even askedquestions about Joan of Arc and Grace Darling, and set herself to findout if there were any other women in the history book. 

"It isn't fair!" she said at last to the thoughtful John Brown. "You'dnever have known about being an errand boy and an artist only for yourbooks. You've got a lot of books to help you. "

But John told her how he had been decided upon his "career" all hislife, ever since his father had left him alone on the station in thecountry which time was, as the reader will be aware, situated somewhereabout his first birthday. But he magnanimously proposed to place hisgrandfather's library at her feet, or rather to place her feet withinhis grandfather's library. 

"You can come and take your pick, " he said. 

At this period of her life Betty was not troubled with pride--the prideof the slighted and poor relation. 

She accepted his offer rapturously, only adding, "You'd better keep mygrandfather out of the way when I come. "

"Come when he's having his afternoon sleep, " said John. 

So Betty was smuggled into her grandfather's library. 

It was Saturday afternoon when she went to the great house. She had toslip away from Dot, who was making elaborate alterations to a prettyblue muslin frock (she was invited to spend the next Saturday and Sundaywith Alma Montague, the doctor's daughter); her mother was calling"Betty, come here, " in the front garden as she reached the track throughthe bush, and Cyril and Nancy had implored her to "come and playsomething. "

But Betty had a "career" to think of. She ran through the bush andarrived breathless at that part of her grandfather's fence which ranpast their coral islands. At a certain hour every afternoon, John said, his grandfather went to sleep. It was during this sleep time that Bettywas to search the shelves of his library for a book that shouldenlighten her as to the best way to become a "self-made woman. "

She slipped under the fence, and into the little belt of bush thatbounded the emu run, and where she, as a ghost, had waited. 

John's signal came very soon, and Betty immediately took off her bonnetand rolled it up under her arm--the better to hear--and marched boldlyacross the gravel paths to the library window where John stood. 

"Where is he?" asked Betty. 

"Asleep on the little verandah, " said John; "he always sleeps a longtime after dinner. "

Betty stepped into the room and looked around her curiously. 

It was such a room as she had never seen yet, and it pleased hergreatly. Two enormous bookcases full of books stood side by side againstone wall. Another wall was book-lined for about eight feet of its heightand ten of its length. The centre-table had a dark blue cloth upon itand bore magazines, books and newspapers and writing materials. 

Betty's feet rested pleasurably on the thick rich carpet and her eyeswent from easy chair to easy chair. 

"My father ought to have this room, " she said, "he writes the mostbeautiful books, and I know he'd write ever so many more if he livedhere. "

"Here's the book I got myself from, " said John, advancing to abookcase. 

But Betty was oblivious of her errand. She lingered by the table, turning over the covers of the magazines, and picture after picturecaught her eye. 

One in particular she lingered over. It represented a bric-a-brac strewnroom. 

"The boudoir of Madam S----, " it said. 

"Oh!" exclaimed Betty, and dropped her sun-bonnet into her grandfather'schair. "Oh, John, when I've made myself, I'll have a room like _this_!"

She began to read and her eyes smiled. Then she sank down on the floor, carrying the book with her, and leaning her back against a table-leg shelost herself in an interview with Madam S----. 

Madam replied to several searching questions blithely. She told a littlestory about her large family of brothers and sisters, their extremepoverty and her own inordinate love of music. Then there was a pathetictouch when sickness, poverty and hunger darkened the poor little home, and she, a mite of eight, had stood at a street corner in a foreigncity and sung a simple song. A crowd had soon collected, and akeen-eyed, bent-shouldered man had been passing by hurriedly, and hadstopped, caught by a "something" in the little singer's voice, and face, and attitude. He had finally pushed his way through the crowd and stoodbeside the little girl in the tattered frock. 

_That_ song and _that_ interview had been the beginning of a greatcareer. Hard work and small pay had intervened, but success had followedsuccess, and now not one of her concerts to-day meant less to her thanhundreds of pounds. Dukes threw flowers at her feet, Princes loaded herwith diamond brooches, tiaras, necklaces, bangles; kings and queens andemperors "commanded her to sing before them, " and gave her beautifulmementos. 

Betty was breathing quickly as she came to this stage of Madam S----'scareer. She turned a leaf, and a face smiling under a coronet looked ather. 

"Madame S----, present day, " the words below said. 

A neighbouring photograph showed a mite with a pinched face and atattered frock. 

"Madame S----, at eight years old!" was the inscription. 

"And I'm twelve, " said Betty. "Twelve and a bit. "

She turned her head, then raised it sharply. There standing beside herwas her grandfather. 

The two looked at each other. 

What Betty saw at first--it must be confessed--was the keen-eyed, bent-shouldered individual who had appeared to the little street singer, and the silly little imaginative maiden waited for him to speak. 

What the grandfather saw was a small girl of "twelve and a bit, " in apink print frock; a small girl with a brown shining face, golden-brownhair and brown eyes, and parted red lips, a little person in every waydifferent from the pale-faced ghost who had visited him awhile back--sodifferent that he did not know her. 

He simply took her for a little school-girl and no more. 

Then Betty remembered who he was--who she was--where she was--and a fewother matters of similar importance, and a red, red flush spread overher face and to the tips of her small pink ears. 

The sea-captain opened his mouth in a jocular roar. 

"Who's been sitting in my room?" he demanded. "Why, here she is!"

Betty's lip quivered. She _was_ beginning to be afraid--or rather shewas afraid. 

"I--I just wanted to see a book, " she said. 

"And what book did you _just_ want to see?"

He took the magazine from her and noticed two things--how her hand shookand how bravely her eyes met his. 

His glance wandered over the open page, and a wonderment came to himwhat there was here to interest such a child. 

The next second the fatal question was on his lips. 

"And what is your name?" he asked. 

Betty's lips moved, but no sound left them. She just sat dumbly theregazing into her grandsire's face. 

The old man sat down on the pink bonnet. He was not in the leastanxious over her name. She was a schoolmate of John's, of course; he hadoften stumbled over these active eager little creatures in the backyard, in the near paddock, by the emus' run, near the pigeon-boxes, onthe staircase. _Only_ hitherto they had been of John's own sex. Thispretty little nervous girl interested him. 

He drew her magazine towards him. 

"We're waiting for the name--aren't we, Jack?" he said. 

Then Betty realized that her hour was indeed come. She rose to her feetand stood in front of him gulping down a few hard breaths. 

"I--I didn't come to get us adopted this time, " she quavered. 

"Eh?" said Captain Carew. He spoke dully, yet the faintest glimmeringsof light were beginning to break on him. Her attitude, somethingfamiliar in her voice, her height and shining curly head brought thatevening to his mind, when she had owned to an intention of wishing tofrighten him. A slow anger stirred him, anger against this child, herparents, and himself. 

"Your name!" he said harshly. 

And at the sound of his own voice his anger grew. His lip thrust itselfout when he had spoken, and his whole face wore its hardest, mostunlovely look. 

"Your name, girl?"

And Betty hesitated no longer. Her only point of pride at this age layin assuming bravery whether she had it or not. "We Bruces are afraid ofno one, " being her favourite speech, and as inspiriting to her as thesound of the war-drum to a warrior bold. 

She stood straight and her brown eyes looked straight into his browneyes. 

"Elizabeth Bruce, " she said. 

The old man's anger blazed fiercely. 

"Look here my girl, " he said, "you can tell your father it's a bit latein the day for these games. Tell him I've got the only grandchild herethat ever I want. Now--go. "

But Betty stood her ground. 

"My father didn't send me, " she said, and her face went from red towhite. "He didn't know I was coming at all--and--sure's death! he neverknew anything about the ghosts. I came to get Cyril adopted because he'sgetting tired of cutting wood an' only getting a penny a week. "

The old man broke into a hoarse laugh. 

"And this time to get yourself adopted, " he said. 

But Betty shook her head vigorously. 

"No, I only wanted to see what sort of woman to be, " she said. Shewalked to the open window. 

"I'm not going to adopt you, " said the old man, "so go--GO! Never let mesee you inside my gates again--by day or by night. Go!"

And once more Betty took a swift departure by way of the balcony door. And again she left a bonnet behind her. 

CHAPTER XIII

"IF I WERE ONLY YOU!"

The third Saturday and Sunday before the ending of term, Dorothea spentwith her "intimate" friend, Alma Montague. 

Alma's home was a very beautiful one at Elizabeth Bay, and, as Dot toldher mother, there were parlour-maid, housemaid, kitchen-maid and everyother sort of maid there. 

Dot slept in one of the visitor's rooms, and had a bathroom and asitting-room opening off her bedroom for her exclusive use. Thesitting-room and bedroom were "treated" with the same colouring--atender wonderful shade of blue. The wall paper was just suggestive ofblue; the ceiling was delicately veined with blue; the curtains were, Dot felt certain, blue. The easy chairs and the lounge, the footstoolsand the cushions were dull blue. 

Such a beautiful room. 

Again, in the bedroom, there were delicate suggestions of blue among thewhiteness. 

And the bathroom! How different in every way from the little woodenunlined room at home. There the ceiling-joists were gracefully festoonedwith cobwebs, the floor had many a great hole in it, caused by white antand damp. No water was laid on--only a tap came from a tank outside, which in its turn was fed from an underground well. And whenever Dotwanted a bath she had to coax or bribe Cyril or Betty to work the pump. Dot herself hated working the pump--it blistered her little hands. 

Here the floor was leaded the walls tiled, the bath itself painted adelicate sea blue. There was a square of carpet just beyond the edge ofthe lead; a cushioned chair, two hospitable taps, one offering cold, onehot water. All sorts of toilet luxuries were at hand, pretty colouredsoaps, loofahs, lavender-water, ammonia, violet powder, violet scent. 

No wonder poor Dot was in an ecstasy with her surroundings, and that sheroamed round her rooms and sighed with happiness because she was here, and with sorrow because she was going away in two days. 

On Saturday morning she and Alma went shopping. They breakfasted aloneat nine o'clock, Alma's father being in his consulting-room and hermother in bed (she had been at the theatre on Friday evening and Dot hadnot even seen her). 

So the two girls lingered over a very dainty breakfast table till nearlyten o'clock, when Alma suggested "shopping. "

Dot had only two frocks, besides her morning pink print with her. Onewas a blue muslin that had to last her for next week at school; theother was a white muslin and her best. She had taken them out of herdress-basket and hung them carefully in her pretty wardrobe, and nowthat Alma spoke of shopping she was in miserable doubt which to wear. 

"I'm going to wear a blue, " said Alma, "you wear yours, too, Thea dear, and then people will think we are sisters. Sisters! Oh, don't I wish Ihad a sister!"

Dot, who possessed three, shook her head as she handled her muslindress. 

"I think it's very nice to be the only one, " she said. "The only child!It's lovely!"

"But I'm so lonely except when I'm at school, " said Alma sadly. 

Dot opened her eyes. She was just slipping her blue frock carefully overher shining curly head, but she stopped with her head half through towonder at Alma. 

"Lonely!" she said. "Here! In this house! And you've got your father andmother!"

Alma shook her head dolefully. 

"Father is always busy, " she said, "and mother is always out--orentertaining. Oh, Thea, I would love to have you for my very own sister. I would give everything I have if I could have you. "

Dorothea smiled kindly. Mona Parbury had told her the same--and MinnieStevenson, and Nellie Harden. They all wanted her for their _very_ ownsister. It was only such little madcaps as her own sisters, Betty andNancy, who were indifferent. 

Alma was small and undeveloped. She was seventeen and looked hardlyfifteen. Her large dark eyes looked pathetic in her thin sallow face. Her lips were thin and colourless, her hair straight and dull brown. Noprettiness at all belonged to her. Only wistfulness and gentleness. 

So they went shopping together, the two little girls in blue. And theyhad no chaperon at all with them, no schoolmistress, or governess, ormother, or aunt--no one to direct their eyes where they should look, andtheir smiles when they should be given out and when withheld. No one tocarry the purse. 

Dot had two shillings and sixpence halfpenny in her small worn purse. Her mother had slipped the money in. "I can't bear for you to be withoutmoney, Dot dear, " she had said, "but try your best not to spend it. "

Alma's purse seemed full of half-crowns and shillings and sixpences!

Dot bought herself a new hat-band and a pretty lace-trimmedhandkerchief; and she tried to hide from Alma how very little both hadcost. 

Alma made several peculiar mistakes in her purchases. For instance, shebought just twice as much gold liberty silk as she would need for asash, and she had to beg Dot to accept the part that was too much, asshe would be so tired of the thing if she had two _just_ alike. And shebought a pair of size two evening shoes, and remembered when they weregoing home that size two was a size too big for her. She wished she knewof any one who wore two's. Dot wore three's, didn't she? No?--two's! Howlovely! Then Dot would take the shoes, wouldn't she, and save them frombecoming mouldy! And she bought two pretty lace-trimmed collars, justalike--and she hated two of her things to be alike. So Dot would takeone off her hands, wouldn't she?

Only each time she said "Thea, " or "Thea darling!" And she bought her asilver "wish" bangle as a keepsake, and a little scent bottle and fanfor "remembrance. "

Before they went home they went into an arcade shop and had strawberriesand cream, and a big ice cream and sponge cake each. And they metseveral straw-hatted youths to whom Alma bowed. 

She told Dot to count how many hats were taken off to her, and Dotcounted, and behold, the number was ten. 

Dot herself felt rather envious. She only knew one grammar-school boy, who smiled from ear to ear and blushed with delight on seeing her. 

Then they went home. 

When they opened the dining-room door the table was set for luncheon, and a bald-headed gentleman was waiting at the head of it, a bookpropped up before him. 

When the girls came in he went on reading just as before, deaf to theirchatter, blind to the pretty blue of their dresses. 

Alma ran down the room to him, and kissed the top of his head. 

"Home again, father!" she said. 

And then he looked up smiling, and stroked her little sallow face withone finger. 

"This is my _very_ dearest friend--Dorothea Bruce!" said Almadelightedly, and drawing Dot forward. 

The great doctor, who was small in stature, stood up then and tooklittle Dot's hand in his, and a very kindly smile came to his eyes as helooked into her lovely childish face. 

"I'm very glad to see my daughter's dearest friend, " he said, and hepatted her soft pink cheeks also. 

The door opened again just as this introduction was over, and a newnervousness attacked Alma. Another tinge of yellowness crept into herskin, her eyes grew wistful, and she began to stammer. 

"My f-friend, mother--Thea--Dorothea Bruce, " and Dot turned curiouslyand shyly round to the door. Entering there was a very beautiful womanin a tea gown. Her eyes were like Alma's, only far lovelier, hercomplexion was only a few years less fresh and perfect than Dorothea'sown--and her hair was red-gold and beautiful. 

When her glance rested on Dorothea's face, a look of pleasure creptinto them--just pleasure at seeing any one so flower-like and sweet asthis little maid from school. 

"I am very pleased to see you, dear, " she said graciously, and shestooped forward and kissed the girl's cheek. 

Then she looked at Alma--poor undersized Alma, with her yellow skin andbloodless lips--and she sighed. But she kissed her also, and asked howshe had spent her morning and whether she had come from school thismorning or yesterday afternoon. 

When luncheon became the order of the day conversation died out. Dr. Montague, indeed made two or three attempts at light talk--but Dot wasshy and Alma was nervous and Mrs. Montague was apparently elsewhere inthought, so that presently silence fell. 

Dinner was at seven that night. It was a meal of many courses, severalwines two servants, and finger glasses. And again Dot was perfectly ifsilently happy--although the finger glasses (of which she had seen nonebefore) threw, her off her balance until she had stolen a glance atAlma to "see how she did, " whereupon Dot performed the operation withinfinitely more grace than Alma. 

Alma wore a white silk dress and gold sash, and Dorothea white muslinand gold sash, and the doctor's eyes went from one little whitely cladmaid to the other, smilingly. 

The happy look on his small daughter's face pleased him greatly. 

His wife often said he neither saw nor heard what was going on aroundhim, but he had very soon discovered his little girl's supremecontentment. 

He asked Dorothea if she were going away for Christmas and the holidays, and Dorothea shook her golden head and said, "No; she was going to stayat home. "

Whereupon he asked Alma if she wouldn't like to carry her "dearestfriend" up the mountains with her, and Alma went quite pink with delightand said--

"Oh, Father! Oh, Thea _dear_!"

And Dot raised her pretty shy eyes and said--

"Oh, Alma!" and then looked at Mrs. Montague as if to ask if suchhappiness was possible. 

Mrs. Montague laughed. 

"I will write and ask your mother, " she said, "but we really can't take'no. '" And she said it so graciously that the tears came into Alma'seyes. 

"It would be _too_ lovely!" said Dot breathlessly. 

On Sunday afternoon, just as the evening shadows were stealing out andthe daylight was growing grey, Alma ran into the little bluesitting-room, her great eyes luminous. 

"Oh, Thea _darling!_" she said, and then she stopped in surprise. Only alittle while ago Dot had tripped upstairs, her hair in a golden plaitdown her back, her dress not so low as her boot-tops by quite threeinches. 

And now! She was sitting in an easy chair, her dress skirt lowered tillit reached the floor, her hair loosely done up on the top of her head, her blue, blue eyes staring through the windows to the darkeningharbour waters, afar off. 

She blushed rosily red when Alma ran in. 

"I--I was just thinking, " she said. 

"What were you thinking of, Thea?" asked Alma, "and what have you doneyour hair like this for? You _do_ look so pretty--I wish the girls couldsee you. "

Dot pulled her friend towards her and patted the arm of her chair forher to sit there. Then she leaned her head upon Alma's shoulder and heldone of her hands between her own two. 

"I was _wishing_ I were grown-up, really grown-up, " she said; "I did myhair up to see how I looked. I tried to do it like your mother doeshers. "

Alma stroked her head gently. 

"My mother is in love with you, " she said. "She has just been saying allsorts of _beautiful_ things about you. She says she wishes you were herdaughter. "

"Oh!" said Dot. "Her daughter! How I _wish_ I were!"--and no disloyaltyto her own mother was meant. "To live here always! To be rich! To----"

She paused. "Oh, Alma, " she added, "you _are_ a lucky girl. "

But Alma only sighed. 

Dot began to think again, comparing in her own mind this home of Alma'swith her own little bush home. 

"Oh!" she said at last; "How happy you ought to be. How would you liketo change places with me!"

And to her surprise Alma burst into tears, covering her face with herlittle trembling hands. 

Gentle ways belonged to Dorothea. 

She stood up and put her friend into her chair and then she knelt besideher, and slipped her arm round her waist. 

"_Dearest_ Alma!" she whispered. 

"Oh, " sobbed Alma, "if only you were my _very_ own sister Thea--I_couldn't_ love you more. I'm _so_ lonely. Father is always busy, andmother--mother is disappointed in me. "

Dot opened her eyes in surprise. She had never dreamed of a mother being_disappointed_ in her child. 

"I'm not pretty--or clever--or _any_thing, " sobbed Alma. "She's alwaysbeen disappointed in me--ever since I was a tiny baby--and I've alwaysknown it--and--and--she doesn't know I know. Oh dear!"

Dot was shocked. "Darling Alma!" she said again. 

"It's dreadful to be the only child--and to be a disappointment, " saidAlma. "I think father is sorry for us both. "

Dot stroked the girl's straight hair. 

"You've got lovely eyes, " she said, "and you're very clever at crotchetwork. "

"What's that!" said Alma drearily. "Mother wouldn't mind if I nevertouched a needle. She says if a girl hasn't beauty she has only oneother chance in the world--and that is to be brilliant. I _do_ try to beclever--but it's no good. "

Dot kissed her. 

"When you are grown up you'll look different, " she said. "You'll wearlong trailing dresses--and--do your hair like this--and----"

But Alma sprang to her feet. 

"What a croaker I am, " she said. "I _never_ told this to any onebefore. Thea--it is my very _biggest_ secret. You'll never tell any one, will you? Never! never! Father says if I'm good I'll be beautiful enoughfor _him_. But oh, I wish I were you!"

"And _I've_ been wishing I were you, " said Dot. 

"I suppose, " said Alma, with one of her most wistful looks, "I supposewe're _meant_ to be ourselves for some reason. And we must make the bestof ourselves just as we are!"

And the two girls kissed each other tenderly. 

"I've to be an elder sister, " said Dot, with a sudden thought towardsMona Parbury. 

"And I've to be an only child, " said Alma, "and we've both to make thebest of our state of life--eh?"

CHAPTER XIV

JOHN'S PLANS

On Monday morning Betty took the road to school with running feet. Afear was at her heart that John Brown had set out upon his expeditioninto the world this day. Had gone--and left her behind! Had begun "life"and left her at school!

And it must be confessed that she liked the thought of two waifs facingthe world together, very much better than one. 

She was not at all disturbed (when it was over) about the interview withher grandfather. It had not, like its predecessor, sent her to bedweeping and ashamed and resolved upon the expediency of "turning over anew leaf. "

She had been vexed that her grandfather had had so short a sleep--andthat John had not given her warning of his approach--as he had promisedto do. 

And she was very much distressed to find she had left her pink bonnetbehind her. Her mother had discovered its loss when giving out theweek's clean one, and had insisted upon her searching every corner inthe house for it. 

"It's was Dot's, " said Mrs. Bruce. "Dot never lost a bonnet in her life. You will have done with bonnets soon, but yours will do for Nancy. Iexpect you left it at school, you tiresome child. "

It certainly would have electrified Mrs. Bruce if her small daughter hadconfessed to her bonnet's whereabouts. But Betty's scrapes were many andvarious at this period of her life, and it never entered into her headto tell them to her mother, who was absorbed in her garden and herbooks, nor to her father, who was supposed to be always "thinkingstories. "

So Betty ran to school with her clean bonnet tucked under her arm, afterpromising that she would "try to bring the other one home with her. "

Her mind was now at rest upon her future "career. " She had quitedetermined to be a second Madam S---- with this sole difference in theirlives--Madam S---- faced the world at _her_ street corner at the age ofeight, and Betty was not beginning till she was "twelve and a bit. "

Still, she had a few worries. 

She was worried over John--lest he should have gone and left her; andshe was worried over the great question, "What song to sing?" as manysingers have been before. 

She had thought of "God save the Queen, " but the words did not fulfilall requirements, while "Please give me a penny, sir"--that song she hadfound among a heap of yellow old ones with her mother's name--maidenname, Dorothea Carew--upon them, seemed to have been written just forthe occasion. The only pity was, that whereas Betty knew "God Save theQueen" perfectly, "Please give me a penny, sir" was almost a stranger toher. 

She had learnt a verse of it on Saturday night when she ought to havebeen doing her arithmetic; and on Sunday evening she had coaxed hermother to the piano, and begged her to sing "_just_ this one song, _please_. " Her mother sang very prettily--like Dot--and she had thrown agood deal of pathos into the old song, so that Betty's ambition wasfired, and she had _almost_ decided upon the song straightaway. 

This morning she arrived at school flushed and hot, before either Cyrilor Nancy, and she began at once to explore the playground for John Brownthe artist. Two little lines of boys and girls were playing a sober gameof French and English away under the gum trees, and Betty ran her eyesalong the lines--but no John Brown was there. 

Two boys were skirmishing just behind the cloak-room, but neither ofthem was John Brown. Five were playing "leap frog, " but John Brown wasnot there. One sat on the doorstep learning a lesson, but that was onlyArtie Jones. 

Then a motley crowd of boys and girls came trailing in at the gate, andthe bell began to ring. 

Betty drew into the shadow of the new wing, the "Babies' Wing, " andscanned the new arrivals eagerly. 

Fat Nellie Underwood gave her a bunch of jonquils and fell into line tomarch into the schoolroom. Minute Hetty Ferguson begged to be allowed todo her hair in the dinner-hour. "_Please_, Betty dear, " she urged. ButBetty was looking for John and did not heed. 

Cyril was there and grumbling. He was pushing a boy who had pushed him, and pressing his lips together as he pushed, when, all at once, he sawBetty, and left the field to the other boy. 

"You're going to catch it, Betty Bruce!" he whispered. "You'll just see!I'm going to tell of you when I go home. Teach you to sneak off toschool by yourself. "

But Betty's eyes were looking past Cyril, looking for a squarely builtfigure in grey. 

Cyril drew nearer. "You never washed up the porridge plates, " he said. "I found them in the dresser cupboard. An' the knives an' forks. An'baby's basin. I'll tell of you. "

Then he fell into line and carried his fair pretty face into theschoolroom, where Miss Sharman patted his cheeks when he went to presenta little bunch of Czar violets to her. 

Miss Sharman presided over Class A for grammar upon Mondays andThursdays, and Cyril, who was but very weak on adverbs and prepositions, always gave her a sweet-smelling nosegay to begin the day with. 

And Miss Sharman had a very tender spot in her heart for pretty Cyril, where she had none for scapegrace Betty. She had doctored Cyril forbruises, had washed his face in her own room and brushed his wavy hair;had kissed him, and given him cakes, and acid drops, and bananas. Andalthough these small sweet matters were just between Miss Sharman andCyril--their influence might be felt upon grammar days. 

Nancy came into school crying--crying noisily. She was rubbing her eyeswith one hand, a moist dirty hand, and leaving her face the worse forthe contact. 

The master inquired sternly what was the matter, and called her to hisside. And Nancy told him sobbingly that she "fort she was late, an' nowshe wasn't. " And he patted her head so kindly that the little maidlowered her sobs at once and finally let them die away in an occasionalhiccough of sorrow. 

Betty came in at last. She had run as far as the store and back again insearch of John Brown--and had found him not. She felt quite certain nowthat he was away practising his genius upon some wall in the greatworld. 

When she came into the schoolroom her face was red with running andexcitement, her hair was rough, and her bonnet under her arm still, sooblivious was she to the things of this very every-day and commonplaceworld. 

"Elizabeth Bruce, what is that you have under your arm, " Miss Sharmaninquired, as Betty walked to her place, which was somewhere in thesecond form. 

Betty looked in surprise--and there was her bonnet. She had to walk outand hang it up, while the class, and even the babies tittered at herblunder. 

But there in the cloak-room she found John Brown. He was in the act ofhanging his hat upon his own particular peg--the highest one in theroom. 

"Oh!" said Betty, "_here_ you are!"

"You're a nice one, " said John Brown. 

"What have I done?" asked the little girl eagerly. 

But John Brown simply looked his scorn, and it made his face very uglyindeed. 

"Oh, what _have_ I done?" begged Betty. "Do tell me. "

"Trust a girl to mull things up, " said John. 

"Elizabeth Bruce, return to your class, " said a stern voice from theschoolroom, and Betty shot herself back through the door in thetwinkling of an eye. 

A lengthy space of valuable time was given over to moods and tenses, perfects, pluperfects, pasts, futures; and Betty, whose fortitude wasmuch shaken by John Brown's remarks, sat listlessly five places abovehim, caring not the least about such mighty words as "cans" and"coulds" and "shalls" and "shoulds, " although the air was full of them. 

She went down a place, through not being able to find a passiveparticiple for the verb "to bid, " Miss Sharman shaking an angry head ather eager "bidded. " And she went down two for knowing nothing of thepresent tense of "slain. "

That brought her one place removed from John Brown, and all hereagerness now was to go one lower and learn at once wherein lay heroffence. 

So, although she knew perfectly that the verb "to fall" had "fell" forits past participle, she uttered an eager "failed" and sat next to JohnBrown. 

"Disgraceful!" said Miss Sharman. "You could not have opened your book, Elizabeth (which was only too true). Your little sister Nancy, in thebabies' class, could have told you that. "

But Elizabeth saved herself with the verb, "to sing, " and sat uneasilyin case John should blunder over "to fight. " But he was quite correctand did not need his small neighbour's eager whisper. 

And then Miss Sharman passed on to other verbs and other pupils, andJohn and Betty were left in peace, side by side, outwardly twoindifferently intelligent pupils, inwardly perplexed, distressed andelated by their new ambition. 

"What have I done?" whispered Betty. 

"Silly!" whispered John. 

"But--what _have_ I done?"

"Girl!" whispered John in scorn. 

The trouble at Betty's heart stirred and hurt her. Was it not enough _tobe_ a girl, without being _called_ one--and in such a whisper. She satstill, and, to save herself from tears, bit her lips and pressed themtogether, and pinched her left arm with her right hand, as she sat therewith her arms folded behind her. 

And John thought she didn't care!

He looked at her out of an eye-corner and added, "I'm done with you, " asa final stab. 

Betty said, "Oh no, John, " imploringly, and Miss Sharman caught herwhisper and saw her lips move, and said--

"Elizabeth Bruce--don't let me have to look at you again this morning. You are very troublesome. Why can you not take a leaf out of yourbrother's book, I wonder?"

The morning wore on, and tenses and moods gave place to drill. Then theyall went into the playground, and armed themselves with poles, andformed into lines. 

John, as the tallest and straightest-backed and sturdiest-limbed pupilin the school, was always at the head of one line. While NellieUnderwood and Betty Bruce, being of a height and age, headed a linealternately. 

It fell to Betty's lot to be head of a line to-day, and though she hadto "right wheel and march, " with John for a partner, down the middle andup again, and "left wheel and march" from John to meet again, and "rightwheel and march, " and all of it over and over and over again, John'seyes only ignored the little distressed face in the cotton bonnet, ortold her contemptuously that she was a "girl. "

At eleven o'clock recess he was skirmishing with four smaller boys(using only one hand to their eight) and Betty walked up and down underthe gum trees arm in arm with two other girls in sun-bonnets. 

At dinner-time John scampered home to roast fowl and bread sauce, andBetty and Cyril and Nancy carried their lunch bag to a shady corner andate bread and jam sandwiches with relish, finishing up with a bananaeach. 

It was not until afternoon school was well over that Betty found John inany way approachable. He was skimming stones along the dusty road withpractised skill, and Betty, alone and hurrying, caught him up. 

She artfully admired a stone that sped for a couple of hundred yards aninch or so above the earth, without, to all seeming, ever touching it. And John condescended to be pleased at her praise. 

When she had at his command tried her hand at throwing and beencondemned by him, she put her question again. 

"Why aren't you speaking to me, John? What have I done?"

"I'm speaking!" quoth John. "But I'm done with you. "

"But what have I done?"

"Done! Only got me into a row with my grandfather. Only got me to bed atsix o'clock without any tea for speaking to you. That's all. "

"And shan't you speak to me any more?" asked Betty. 

"Only just speak, " said John. 

"And--and----" Betty's voice quavered with anxiety--"shan't you run awaywith me?"

"Mightn't" said John. He sent another stone speeding down the road, andBetty watched it with misty eyes, as she trudged along behind him. Shedid not speak. 

"You should have cleared when I coughed, " said John. "I told you I'dcough, but you sat there reading and wouldn't look up. "

Still Betty was silent. 

"You'd give the whole blessed show away, " said John. "What's the goodof running away and being brought back to school. That comes of being agirl. "

And then he looked at her and saw the tears were running down her cheeksand her lips quivering. 

"You're crying!" he said, turning round to her sharply. 

"Oh, I'm not, " said Betty, and dragged her bonnet further over her face. "That horrid stone of yours made a d-dust, and its--it's got in myeyes. "

John laughed. "If you do run away, " he said, "what shall you do?"

Betty's ambition leapt to life, and her tears dried themselves on hercheeks and in her eyes. 

"I'm going to sing, " she said. "I'm going to stand at a street cornerand sing, and I'm going to wear a tattered old dress and no boots andstockings. And then an old gentleman will pass by and he'll hear me andstand still, and he'll take me away to make a singer of me; and evenlords will come to hear me sing, and kings and queens. "

John was stirred. 

"I'm going without boots, too, " he said, "and I shall be in tatteredthings. I shall get a place as errand boy first, and----"

"When are you going?" asked Betty artfully. 

"To-morrow, " said John. 

"Why, so am I, " said Betty. "How funny. "

"If you like, " said John, "I'll see you to some street corner. I'm goingat five o'clock in the morning. "

"Why, so am I, " said Betty. "Oh, yes; let's go together. "

"You can be down at the store by half-past five, " said John. "That'llgive us time to get a bit of breakfast. And we'll be in Sydney early, before they find out we've gone. "

[Illustration: "She went back to her bedroom, to place by Nancy's sideher only remaining doll. "]

CHAPTER XV

ON THE ROAD

Needless to say Betty did not "waste" any time that night overhome-lessons. How can the beginner of a great singer be expected to carewhether the pronoun "that" in "I dare do all 'that' may become a man, "is relative or possessive? or whether Smyrna is the capital of Turkey orJapan? or even whether the Red Sea has to do with Africa or China. 

Betty did not even open her school satchel, or peep at the cover of herbooks. Instead, she copied out the words of her song and learnt themsitting there at the table with Cyril. 

Neither was Cyril doing home-lessons. He certainly had his books spreadout before him, but the contents of his pockets were strewn upon hisopen books, and he was examining them and grumbling now and again atthe rapacity of certain school-mates who had caused him to lose certaintreasures, or accept less valuable ones, on the school system of "I'llgive you this for that. "

He turned over three coloured marbles in disgust. For them he hadbartered away a catapult, and now his heart was heavy over the exchange. 

"Artie Jones is a sneak, " he grumbled. "He ought to have given me sixmarbles for that catapult. Eh? What do you say?"

The question was directed to Betty, whose lips were moving. 

She shook her head, and sighed drearily, for she had entered into thevery being of the little beggar girl who sang for a penny. 

"Nothing, " she said. "Nothing you'd understand. Don't chatter. "

"Don't be so silly, " said Cyril. "I'm as old as you, any way. "

"Mother says I'm an hour older than you, " said Betty. 

"That's nothing, " said Cyril. 

"You can learn a lot in an hour, " quoth Betty, and bent her attentionto her strip of paper. 

"I told mother about the dirty plates, so there, " said the boy. "And----"

"Bah!" said Betty, and pushed her fingers into her ears. 

Betty had several plans for waking early, amongst which may benamed--putting marbles in her bed that in rolling unconsciously aboutfor comfort she might be awakened by the discomfort. That had answeredvery well once or twice. Another was to place her pillow half-way downthe bed, that she might be within reach of the foot of it--and then torest her own foot on a lower rail and tie it there. Another was to propherself into a sitting position and fold her hands across her chest, that by sleeping badly she might not sleep long. 

Many a night had her father and mother laughed at the attitude chosen bytheir second daughter, and arranged her that her sleep might be easier. 

"Betty wants to get up early, " they would say and smile. But upon thisnight--the night before the battle--they did not go to her room at all. 

Mrs. Bruce was reading a new magazine, and saying now and again, as sheturned a leaf or smiled at her husband, that she _had_ intended doing abit of mending; and Mr. Bruce was polishing up a chapter in his book, and saying now and again as he paused for a choicer word, or smiled athis wife, that he _had_ intended doing that blessed article on Cats, forFlavelle. So they both went on being uncomfortably comfortable. 

Betty tried all her expedients for early rising, and yet peaceful washer sleep throughout the night. Her lashes lay still on her roundedcheeks, her rosy lips smiled and her brown curls strewed the pillow, just as effectively as though she were on a velvet couch, and a livingillustration of a small princess, sleeping to be awakened by a kiss. 

She awoke just as the day was pinkly breaking and the night stealinggreyly away, awoke under the impression that John Brown was cutting offher foot. It was a great comfort to find it there and merely cold andcramped from lack of covering and an unnatural position. 

She remembered everything immediately without even waiting to rub hereyes, and she sprang out of bed at once, even though her right footrefused to do its duty, and she had to stand for a valuable minute onher left. 

The clock hands (she had carried the kitchen clock into her bedroom toMary's chagrin), pointed to a quarter to five, and Betty realized shehad only an hour in which to dress eat her breakfast, bid good-bye toany home objects she held dear, and travel down the road to the store. 

She was vexed, for she had meant to get up at four. 

She got into her tattered Saturday's frock (her Cinderella costume) andshe brushed and plaited her short curly hair, as well as it would allowitself to be plaited. Then she made a bundle of her boots and stockingsand school-day frock and hid them away under the skirt of her drapeddressing-table, and opened her money-box and extracted the contents(thirteen half-pennies). This was the fortune with which she purposed toface the world. 

And so real had this thing become to her now, that she crept to the farside of the double bed to kiss the sleeping Nancy, and down the passageto Cyril's room, to look at his face upon the pillows; and the tearswere heavy in her eyes because she was quitting her "early" home. 

When she had reached the pantry she remembered something, and went backto her bed room, to place by Nancy's side her only remaining doll, afaded hairless beauty, Belinda, by name. 

And she pinned a note upon the pincushion (all her heroines who fledfrom their early homes, left notes upon the pincushion) addressed to"Father and Mother, " and as she passed their door she stroked itlovingly. In the pantry she was guilty of several sobs, while she cutthe bread, it seemed so pitiful to her to be going away from her home inthe grey dawn to seek a livelihood for her family. In truth her smallheart ached creditably as she ate her solitary breakfast, and it mighthave gone on aching only that she suddenly bethought herself of time. Half-past five, John had said, and she remembered all that she had donesince half-past four. 

"It _must_ be half-past five now, " she said. "I'll eat this as I go, "and she folded two pieces of bread and butter together. 

Then she found her bonnet and the strip of paper with the song upon it, and grasping her half-pennies set forth. 

She ran most of the way to the store, which, it may be remembered, occupied the corner, just before you come to Wygate School. 

As Betty came in sight of it she saw John standing still there, and shethought gratefully how good it was of him to wait for her. 

He wore a very old and very baggy suit, a dirty torn straw hat (of whichit must be owned he had plenty), and neither boots nor stockings. 

The children eyed each other carefully, noting every detail, and both intheir own heart admiring the other exceedingly. 

Betty's face had lost its traces of tears, but had not got back itshappy look. Her mouth drooped sadly. 

"What's up?" asked John as they turned their faces towards the silentsouth. 

"It hurts me, leaving the little ones, " said Betty, who was now inimagination Madam S----. "You have no brothers and sisters to providefor. "

John sighed. "No, " he said, "I've no one but an old grandfather, and hegrudges me every crust I eat. He's cut me off with a shilling. "

For a space Betty was envious. For a space she liked John's imaginationbetter than her own. That "cutting off with a shilling" seemed to hervery fine. 

He showed her his shilling. "I've _that_, " he said, "to begin life on. Many a fellow would starve on it. _I'm_ going to make my fortune withit. "

They were the words one of his heroes had spoken, and sounded splendidto both. 

"I've sixpence-halfpenny, " said Betty, and unclosed her little brownhand for a second. "That's all!"

They walked on. In front of them and behind ran the dusty road, like ared line dividing a still bush world. Overhead was a tender sky, greystealing shyly away to give place to a soft still blue. Already thedaylight was wakening others than these foolish barefooted waifs. Hereand there a frog uttered its protest against, mayhap, the water it haddiscovered, or been born to; the locusts lustily prophesied a hot day. Occasionally an industrious rabbit travelled at express speed from theworld on one side of the red road to the world on the other. And aboveall this bustle and business and frivolity rang the brazen laugh of acompany of kookaburras, who were answering each other from every cornerof the bush. 

After some little travelling the fortune seekers came upon a cottagestanding alone in a small bush-clearing on their right. Three cows stoodchewing their cud, and waiting to be milked, a scattering of fowls wasshaking off dull sleep, and making no little ado about it, and near thedoor a shock-headed youth was rubbing both eyes with both hands. 

Betty and John walked on. These signs of awakening life roused them to alivelier sense of being alive. 

Yet a little further and they came to what Betty always called a"calico" cottage, which is to say, a cottage made of scrim, andwhite-washed. Windows belonged to it, and a door, and a garden enclosedby a brushwood fence. 

"Let's peep in the gate, " said Betty, "it's such a _sweet_ littlehouse. "

"Wait till you see the house _I_ mean to have, " quoth John. 

But Betty preferred to peep in then. She went close to the half-opengate and popped in her head. 

Inside the gate was a garden, and all its beds were defined by upendedstout bottles--weedless, sweet-scented beds wherein grew such blooms asdaisies, and violets, stocks, sweetpeas, sweet williams, lad's love andmignonette. 

"Oh!" said Betty. "Oh--just smell! just put your head in for a minute, John. "

But John was for "pushing on, " and getting to Sydney to make hisshilling two. 

While they were parleying, a man came round the corner of the "sweetlittle house, " and his eyes fell on the bonneted maiden. 

"Hullo!" he exclaimed, "and who's this? Polly?"

"No, " said Betty. 

"Na-o. Then p'raps it's Lucy. Eh?"

John tugged at Betty's dress and said "Come on, " urgingly; but the manwas already letting down two slip-rails a little way from the crazygate, and his eyes rested on the second barefooted imp. 

"Hullo!" he exclaimed, "An' how's this any'ow?"

John, who had a greater dread of capture than Betty, inquired innocentlyif there were any wild flowers up this way. 

The man drew his hand across his eyes to banish sleep inclinations. "Notmany now, I reckon, " he said. "There might be a few sprigs of 'eath an'the flannel flowers ain't all done yet. Goin' to town?"

Betty nodded, and John said, --

"Yes--we'll be gettin' back 'ome" in a fair imitation of hisquestioner's voice. 

"I'll be goin' as far as the markets, " said the man "an' I don't mindgivin' you a lift ef you like. "

John's eyes brightened, for he was longing for the centre of the city, and he had felt they were covering ground very slowly. And Betty'sbrightened because she thought she would soon coax the man into lettingher drive. 

So the fortune seekers made their entry into town in a fruit cart. 

CHAPTER XVI

THE NOTE ON THE PINCUSHION

Every morning there was a skirmish between Betty and Cyril as to whoshould have the first bath, and Betty generally won, because as shepointed out, she had Nancy to bath, too, and to make her bed, and setthe table, and cut the lunches, whereas Cyril only had to bring up twoloads of wood. 

But this morning, to Cyril's delight, he was first and he got right intothe room and fastened the door with the prop (a short thick stick whichwas wedged between the centre of the door and the bath, and was Mr. Bruce's patent to replace the handle that "lost itself"), and stillBetty came not. And he loitered in the bathroom and played, andhalf-dressed, and then undressed, and got back into the bath, and outagain, and dressed, and still no Betty banged at the door. 

"Can't make out where Miss Betty's got to, " said Mary sulkily, "I'lltell your mother on her. She's not set the table, and she's not cut thelunches, and she's not done nothing. "

Cyril, who had brought up his wood and otherwise and in every wayperformed his morning's duties, waxed indignant at Betty and hernegligence, and went down the passage to her room, muttering--

"I'll tell mother of you, Betty Bruce, so there!"

But no Betty Bruce was there. Only Nancy in her nightgown still, andplaying with poor faded Belinda. 

Mary had to set the table, and Mary had to cut the lunches, and Nancyhad to miss her bath, and go to Mary for the buttoning of her clothes. And all because Betty had gone out to make her fortune!

Mrs. Bruce came out of her room late--which was a very usual thing forher to do--and she called:--

"Nancy, come and take baby. Betty, find me a safety pin _quickly_. Ithink I saw one on the floor near the piano. "

And Mr. Bruce followed her in his slippers, and called--

"Nancy--Betty--one of you go down to the gate and bring up the paper. "

Cyril ran to them breathless with his news--

"Betty's never got up yet. Mary's had to do all her work an' she's notgot breakfast ready yet. And Nancy's had to dress herself an' all. "

Mrs. Bruce opened her eyes--just like Dot did when she was verysurprised, and said, --

"Then go and _make_ Betty get up at once. " But Cyril interrupted with--

"She's not in bed at all. She's out playing somewhere; I daresay she'sgone to school so's to be before me and Nancy. She's always doing thatnow. "

Mrs. Bruce had to hurry to make up for lost time--as she had perpetuallyto do--and she could not stay to lend an ear to Cyril's tale. So he wasleft grumbling on about Betty, and school, and a hundred and one thingsthat were "not fair. "

Nancy had a bowl of porridge and milk in the kitchen, superintended inthe eating of it by Mary, who was giving baby her morning portion ofbread and milk. 

Cyril carried his porridge plate to the verandah that he might watch ifBetty was lurking around in the hopes of breakfast. 

And Mr. Bruce read the paper and sipped a cup of abominably made coffeeserenely. 

They were such a scattered family at breakfast time usually, that oneaway made little difference. No one but Cyril missed Betty at the table. Her services in the house were missed--so many duties had almostunnoticeably slipped upon her small shoulders, and now it was foundthere was no one to do them but slip-shod overworked Mary. 

Just as Cyril was setting off to school Mary ran after him with anewspaper parcel of clumsy bread and jam sandwiches. 

"I'm not sending Miss Betty's, " she said--"it'll teach her not to clearout of the way again. "

Mrs. Bruce put her head out of the kitchen window--she had not had"time" for any breakfast yet beyond a cup of tea. 

"Send Betty home again, " she said; "she _shan't_ go to school till herwork's done. "

But even at eleven o'clock no Betty had arrived. Mary, who had done allthe washing-up--and done some of it very badly--was sent by her mistressto strip Betty's bed and leave it to air. And she found the note on thepincushion, and after reading it through twice, carried it in open-eyedamazement to her mistress, who was eating a peach as she sat on theverandah edge, and merely said, "Very well, give it to your master. "

So Mr. Bruce took it, and opened it very leisurely, and then started andsaid: "Ye gods!" and read it through to himself first and then outaloud. 

 "DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER" (it said)--

 "I am going away from my childhood's home to make a fortune for all of you. My voice is my fortune. When I've made it I shall come back to you. So good-bye to you all, and may you be very happy always. 

 "Your loving daughter, "BETTY. "

Mrs. Bruce put down her peach and said: "Read it again, will you, dear, " in a quiet steady way as though she were trying to understand. 

And Mr. Bruce read it again, and then passed it over to her to read forherself. 

"She's somewhere close at hand, of course!" he said. "Silly child!"

"She _couldn't_ go very far, could she?" asked Mrs. Bruce, seekingcomfort. 

Mr. Bruce shook his head. 

"One never quite knows _what_ Betty could do, " he said. "She's gone tofind her fortune, she says. I wonder now if that is her old crazy ideaof hunting for a gold mine. No! 'My voice is my fortune, ' she says. Goodlord! Whom has she been talking to? What books has she been reading?"

Mrs. Bruce sighed and smiled. As no immediate danger seemed to threatenBetty, there appeared no reason for instant action. They could stilltake life leisurely, as they had done all their married days. It wasonly madcap Betty who ever tried to hurry their pace or upset the calmof their domestic sky--Betty with her ways and plans and pranks. 

So Mrs. Bruce leaned back on the verandah post. 

"Where one has only _one_ child, " she said, "life must be a simplematter. It is when there are several of several ages that the difficultycomes in. Now we, for instance, need to be--just a year old--and sixyears old--and twelve and seventeen--all in addition to our own weightof years. "

Her husband smiled. "You do very well, " he said. "I saw you playing withBaby this morning, and I've heard you and Dot talk, and could haveimagined she had a school-friend here. "

"Dot--yes! But Betty--no!"

"Betty is at an awkward age, " said Mr. Bruce. "I confess _I_ know verylittle of her. What is her _singing_ voice like? I think, dear, you'dbetter give me a list of the clothing she has on, and I'll go down theroad and make a few inquiries. "

The only dress they could discover "missing, " to Mrs. Bruce's horror, was the tattered Saturday frock. And Mary found the boots and stockingsunder the dressing-table, so the conviction that she had gone barefootwas forced upon them. 

At twelve o'clock Cyril was startled to see his father enter theschoolroom, and he observed that Mr. Sharman shook hands with him in avery affable manner, which was, of course, very condescending of Mr. Sharman. In fact, it led Cyril to hope for leniency from him in thelooming arithmetic lesson. 

A low voiced conversation took place, and then Cyril was called down tothe desk and questioned closely about his truant sister. 

But of course Cyril knew nothing. 

Then another very strange thing happened. 

While Mr. Bruce and Mr. Sharman and Cyril were standing in the middle ofthe floor--Cyril feeling covered with glory from his father's and Mr. Sharman's intimacy in the eyes of the whole school--another shadowdarkened the doorway. And the other shadow belonged to no smaller aperson than Captain Carew, of Dene Hall, Willoughby, N. S. Wales. 

Miss Sharman went out to meet him before the little trio knew he wasthere, and his hearty "Good morning, ma'am! I've come for news of thatyoung scapegrace, my grandson, John Brown, " filled the room. 

Whereat Mr. Bruce turned round, and he and the captain faced each other, and Cyril, in great fear, looked up to see if Arthur Smedley, the dreadbully, had heard how the great captain of Dene Hall had absolutely, andin the hearing of the whole school acknowledged John Brown to be hisgrandson, and had not so much as glanced at Cyril, who stood there quiteclose to him. 

It was the first time for more than seventeen years that Captain Carewand Mr. Bruce had been so close together, despite the fact that thefences of their respective properties were within sight of each other. 

To-day Captain Carew grew a deep dark-red from his neck to the top ofhis forehead, and Mr. Bruce went quite white and held his head veryhigh. 

And Mr. Sharman drew back nervously, for he, like most other people, knew all about the relationship of these two men to each other, andabout their deadly feud. 

But the captain strode down the room, just as though he owned Mr. AndMiss Sharman and every boy in the school, and he raised his voicesomewhat as he repeated his statement about his grandson, "John Brown. "

"And if you'll kindly excuse Cyril, I'll take him with me, " said Mr. Bruce quietly, continuing his sentence, just as if no interruption hadoccurred at all. 

In the playground Cyril received his commands, glad indeed to have themto execute instead of the arithmetic lesson and play-hour which theordinary happenings of life would have brought about. 

"Go into the bush, " said his father, "and search there for her. Lookeverywhere where you are accustomed to play. She may have fallen downsomewhere and hurt herself. "

"Yes, father, " said the boy obediently. "How'd it be to see if she'sfallen in the creek?"

His father gave him an angry look. 

"Afterwards go home, " he said. "Let the creek alone, and don't talk suchfolly--Betty is more than five. Tell your mother I'm going to give itinto the hands of the police. "

Cyril went into the bush--not very far--because the growth was thick, and he had a great dread of snakes. 

"S'pose I were bitten, " he said, "and I just had to stay here by myselfand die! Wonder where Betty is; it's very silly of her to go and loseherself like this. _I_ never lose myself at all. "

He came to a two-rail fence, and climbed up and sat on one of its posts, and then he looked around as far as the bush would let him see. 

"It's better to keep near a fence, " he said. "Then if a bull comes, you're safe. If he jumped over I could roll under, and we could keepdoing it, an' he couldn't catch me. . . . 'Tis silly of Betty to get lost. _I_ wouldn't get lost. You never know how many bulls and things thereare about. "

He looked round again, and then he climbed down and ran back to theroad. 

"I'll go home now, " he said, "I can't find Betty anywhere. I've lookedand looked. And school will be out soon, and how do I know ArthurSmedley took his lunch to-day; he might be coming home. "

Whereat this valiant youth looked over his shoulder, and saw the boysrunning out of the school gate. So he took to his heels and ran home asfast as ever he could. 

CHAPTER XVII

IN THE CITY

The fortune seekers were set down at a street corner near the Quay athalf-past six. 

When it had come to the matter of crossing the harbour, from theNorthern Shore to the Quay, in the punt (they two sitting in the cartthe while), they had found themselves called upon to pay a penny eachfor the passage over, which they had enjoyed amazingly. Betty paid bothpennies, having the coppers, but she urged John to be quick and get hisshilling changed to pay her back. 

At the street corner John suggested leaving her for awhile. "This wouldbe as good a corner as any other for you, Betty, " he said, and slappedthe shutters of a chemist's shop as he spoke, "You stand here, andyou'll catch everybody who goes by. "

"There's no one going by yet, " said Betty. "What are you going to do?You're not going to leave me all alone?"

"Well, " said John, "we might stick together a bit longer, anyway. I'llcome back for you. You sing your song, and I'll just go and see if anyshops want a boy. I don't suppose the offices are opened yet. What I'dlike is a good warehouse, and then I'd rise to be manager, and partner. That's the sort of thing. I don't think there's much in a shop afterall, but I'll have to find out where the warehouses are. A tea warehouseis good, _I_ can tell you. You get sent out to India for the firm, andthen come back and are made a partner. "

He started off, only to be stopped after he had gone a few steps, byBetty's voice calling, "Get your shilling changed, I want my penny"; towhich he nodded. 

Betty had the corner all to herself then. Down the street, and up thestreet, and down the side street, whichever way she craned her neck shecould see no one. 

It seemed to her a very good opportunity to try her powers. So shecommenced. At first it must be confessed she made no more sound thanshe had done in talking to John. And the street was so used to voicesthat it did not open an eye. 

Therefore Betty grew bolder, and forgot in singing that she wasnot at the bend in the old home-road, where she had practisedonce or twice since she had decided upon her career. Her voicerose clearly--shrilly--and sometimes she remembered the tunequite fairly. When she forgot it, she filled in what would haveotherwise been a pause with a little bit out of any other tunethat came into her head. 

For those who would like to know the words of the song she was singing, and who may not have it among their mother's girlhood songs, as Bettyhad, it may be as well to copy them from the paper she held in her handto refresh her memory from--

 "Please give me a penny, sir; my mother dear is dead, And, oh! I am so hungry, sir--a penny please for bread; All day I have been asking, but no one heeds my cry, Will you not give me something, or surely I must die?

 "Please give me a penny, sir; you won't say 'no' to me, Because I'm poor and ragged, sir, and oh! so cold you see; We were not always begging--we once were rich like you, But father died a drunkard, and mother she died too. "

 _Chorus_--

 "Please give me a penny, sir; my mother dear is dead, And, oh! I am so hungry, sir--a penny please for bread. "

At the end of the first verse she found it necessary to run her eye overthe paper before beginning the second. 

Perhaps it was just as well for her serenity that she did not look up asshe sang. For just as soon as her voice rose into anything approaching atune--it was near the end of the first verse--a face looked down uponher from the corner window of the second story of the chemist's house. 

It was a young face, early old--white and drawn and marked by theunmistakable lines of suffering. 

Betty knew nothing about the trouble of the world in those days; nothingof suffering, nothing of sorrow. And the woman above her knew of all. She leaned over the window-sill and her eyes smiled pityingly as theyrested on the small bared head. 

She had been praying her morning prayer near the open window, beggingfor strength to bear her sorrows, and for as many as might be to betaken from her, when Betty's voice quavered right up to her window. 

She looked down, and there was the small singer's curly brown head. Shelooked longer, and saw Betty clasp a bare foot in one hand and stand onone foot, drop the foot from her hand and reverse the action. 

It was merely a habit of Betty's, but the woman found in it a sign thatthe child was worn and weary--worn and weary before seven o'clock in themorning. 

She drew her dressing-gown around her, searched her dress pocket for herpurse, and leaning out dropped sixpence upon the pavement close to thelittle singer. 

Betty stopped at once and looked around her, down the street and aroundthe corner; at the shop shutters and door, but never once so high as thewindows. 

The woman smiled to herself. 

"Poor little mite, " she said. "I must remember even the little childrenhave their griefs! It should make me grumble less. "

Betty ran along the street in the direction John had taken. She felt she_must_ tell some one. Then, as a thought struck her, she ran back to thehouse, looked up to the second story and saw a smiling face, and thenset off again, running down the street for John. 

Not seeing him, she stopped at the next corner and examined her coinlovingly. Then she looked up at _that_ corner window and began to singagain. 

But this time her reward came from the street. Three bluejackets werewalking down the street to the Quay, lurching over the pavement as theywalked. The child's song touched and stirred that latent sentimentalityof theirs. 

Her "or _surely_ I shall die, " brought a silver threepence from one ofthem, and a copper from each of the others. 

Betty felt wealthy now, beyond the dreams of avarice. She had made ashilling in an hour!

She looked at the post office clock high up in the air there above herhead, and it informed her that it was only a quarter past seven. Noteight o'clock yet! And she had made a shilling! Twelve pennies! As muchas she received in six months by staying at home!

She sat down on the kerbstone to count her money, putting her feet inthe dry gutter _a la manière_ born. She made first of all a stack of herhalf-pennies, and then of her pennies. There were nine half-pennies, three pennies, a threepenny bit and a sixpence. The grand total shefound was one and fourpence halfpenny. More than even John had startedout with. 

While she was thus like a small miser counting her money, a hand swoopedsuddenly down upon the heap of coppers and swept them away. Betty lookedup to scream, but it was only John. And he warned her solemnly howeasily such a dreadful theft could be committed. 

"I wish to goodness the shops would open, " he said discontentedly. "I'mbeginning to want some breakfast, I can tell you. "

Betty unfolded her hands and displayed her wealth of coin. "A shillingin an hour, " she said, and John's look of surprised unbelief delightedher. 

"You picked it up!" he said. 

"Oh, I didn't!" cried Betty. "People gave it to me just for singing! Ashilling an hour! I forget how much Madam S---- makes in an hour. Ithink its more than a pound!"

"Don't you want your breakfast?" asked John. 

"Let's count how many hours in a day, " said Betty, twisting about to seea clock, the high post office clock they were walking under now, andfound it. "I want to make my fortune quickly and go home and surprisethem. How much money is in a fortune, John?"

John considered deeply for a minute and then gave it as his idea thatfive hundred pounds was usually called a fortune. 

[Illustration: "The child's song touched and stirred that latentsentimentality of theirs. "]

"That'll take a good bit of making, " said Betty. 

"Well, you didn't expect to make it in a day did you?" asked Johnroughly. 

"Oh, no, " said Betty cheerfully, "I was only wondering how many hoursthere are in a day--at a shilling an hour. "

She began to count slowly on the fingers of one hand all the hours untilseven o'clock at night, the first hour to be from eight till nineo'clock in the morning. 

"Eleven hours!" she said. "That's eleven shillings! Eleven shillings, John. Oh, and one hour gone, that's twelve! Twelve _shillings_ a day, just fancy, John! Oh, I'll soon be rich. "

"But you couldn't sing every hour in the day, " said sensible John, although his eyes plainly expressed admiration for her brilliant career. "Why, you'd get hoarse!"

"I only sang twice in this hour, " said Betty; "the rest of the time I'vejust been counting my money and looking round me. "

"But you mightn't make a shilling every hour, " said John. 

"_But_--some hours I may make more, so it's about equal. "

"I wish we could have some breakfast, " said John, reverting to histrouble. "I'm jolly hungry, I can tell you. "

"So am I, " said Betty. "Twelve shillings a day--six days in a week. Oh, can I sing on Sundays, John?"

"Hymns, " quoth the boy. 

"Um! I could sing 'Scatter seeds of kindness' and 'Yield not totemptation. ' Um! I never thought of hymns. I think I'll sing hymnsto-day as well, 'cause I'm not very sure of my song yet, and every nowand then I have to stop to look at the words. Can I sing hymns on otherdays than Sundays, John?"

"Better not, " said the cautious John; "better keep the proper things forthe proper days. Well, Betty Bruce, if you're going to stay here allday, I'm not. I'm getting awfully hungry. "

At last Betty's motherliness awoke. 

"My poor John!" she said, "of course you're hungry. We'll go to a shopand get a really good breakfast. I wasn't thinking. When a person beginsto make a lot of money, they generally forget other things, don't they?"

"Um!" said John, who had made nothing at all. "We'll go and get a goodbreakfast and then we'll be fit for anything, won't we. Come on. "

They turned round the corner into King Street, and there to theirdelight found the shops one by one opening their eyes--drapers, chemist, fruiterers, and then at last a shop with cakes in the window. 

The children stood at the door and peeped in. They saw myriads of whitetables and a couple of sleepy looking girls. One girl held a broom andwas leaning on its handle and surveying the stretch of floor to beswept. Her eyes at last went to the door, and Betty, seeing they hadbeen observed walked slowly in, leaving John outside. 

"No, " said the girl, shaking her head. 

"We want some breakfast, " said Betty, and added "please, " as her eyesfell on a trayful of pastry on the counter. 

Again the girl shook her head. 

"Can't give you any here, " she said; "now run away. "

Then Betty's face flushed; for though one may sing to earn an honestlivelihood and competency, it is quite another thing to be taken for abeggar. 

"We'll pay for it, " she said, and then forgot her pride and urged, "Goon, we're so hungry! We've been walking about since five o'clock. "

Something in the child's face touched the girl's heart. She herself hadbeen up at half-past five and knew a great deal about poverty andprivation. 

"Well, come on then, " she said. "Go and sit down at one of them tablesand I'll fetch you something. "

Betty ran to the door and called "John, " in an ecstatic tone, "come on. "

Then the two of them chose a table and sat down. 

"Not porridge, please, " called Betty to the girl. "Just cakes andthings, and lemonade instead of tea. _I'll_ pay the bill. "

But John brought out his shilling. 

"I'll pay for myself, " he said grimly, "and I'll pay you back the pennyI owe you, too. "

CHAPTER XVIII

ALMA'S SHILLING

By ten o'clock Betty had made another shilling, having caught theworkers of the city as they were going to their day's toil. 

And it must be owned it was a mysterious "something" about the childherself that arrested what attention she drew. Perhaps it lay in thefresh rosiness of her face, in the clearness of her sweet eyes, in thebrightness of her young hair; for her courage ebbed away so soon as twoor three were gathered around her; her voice sank to a whisper, shedrooped her head, trifled with one wristband or the other, stood firston one foot and then on the other, and displayed the various signs ofnervousness Mr. Sharman's stern eye provoked her to. 

At eleven o'clock, John, who had made threepence by carrying a bag fora lady, looked Betty up at the appointed corner and proposed lemonadeand currant buns, for which she was quite ready. 

Afterwards they stood for a valuable half-hour outside the waxworks andexplored the markets, where Betty sang "Scatter seeds of kindness, " inspite of John's solemnly given advice to keep it for Sunday. Here sheonly made a penny halfpenny by her song, but as she said to John--

"Every one must expect some bad hours. "

Then, too, there was in her heart a feeling of certainty that a keeneyed, bent shouldered old gentleman would be passing soon, and carry heraway straight to the very threshold of fame, as Madam S----'s oldgentleman carried _her_. 

When they had become thoroughly acquainted with the markets, Johnsuggested she should again "count up, " with a view of deciding what sortof lodgings she could afford for the night. 

Betty had not thought of such a trivial thing, leaving it possibly forher old gentleman to settle. But she was more than willing to "countup" again. 

So they went into a corner behind a deserted fruit stall, sat down uponan empty case, and made little stacks of pennies and half-pennies andsmall silver coins. 

She had two shillings and a penny, she found in all, and John told hershe could afford to go to one of the places he had seen this morning, where a bed and breakfast were to be had for sixpence. 

"I have seen some places where they charge a shilling, " said John. "Itseems an awful lot to pay for a bed and a bit of breakfast. But asixpenny place will do for you, and as you're only twelve they mighttake you for threepence. "

"And where will you go?" asked Betty anxiously. 

"Oh, I'd be sixpence, you see, because I'm thirteen and a half, " saidJohn. "I can't afford to pay sixpence. It's always harder for a fellowto get on than for a girl. That's why you hear more about self-made menthan self-made women--they're thought more of. No bed for me, I expect, for some time to come. I'll have to sleep in the Domain. I heard afellow talking this morning, and he said he's been sleeping there for aweek now. And, you know, Peterborough, the artist I told youabout--well, he slept for a week in a _barrel_!"

"How much money have you got?" asked Betty. 

"Eightpence!" said John. "No one seems to want an errand boy to-day. "

Betty began to feel very doleful at being one step above John in thisthe beginning of their career. But she dared not offer to lend to him, he had been so very insistent upon paying her back her penny, and payingfor his own breakfast and lemonade and buns. 

He took her and showed her two houses which bore the words, "Bed andbreakfast, 6_d. _!" and then he led the way to the Domain, having beenthrough it many times with his grandfather, while to stay-at-home Bettyit was no more than a name. Macquarie Street lay asleep as theytravelled through it and past Parliament House and the Hospital and thePublic Library. 

It never for a moment occurred to Betty that Dot was domiciled in thatstreet of big high houses and hushed sounds. She knew Dot's schooladdress was "Westmead House, Macquarie Street, " but she had not theremotest idea that she and John were travelling down Macquarie Streetpast Westmead House. 

Just inside the Domain gates they paused to admire Governor Burke'sstatue, and to count their money again in its shade. 

Then John pointed out to her the tree-shaded path that runs toWoollomooloo Bay and the great sweeping grass stretch that lay on oneside of it. 

Many men were there already, full length upon the grass, their hats overtheir eyes, asleep or callous to waking. 

Betty at once signified her intention of spending her first night outhere, also, and pointed to a seat under a Norfolk Island pine tree. 

"We could be quite cosy there, " she said, "and you could lend me yourcoat. "

"But I'd want it myself, " said John. 

"John in _Girls and Boys Abroad_ used always to give Virginia his coat, "said Betty. 

It was slightly to the right of Governor Burke's statue that Betty wasinspired to sing "Yield not to temptation, " standing with her back tothe iron railing. 

And it was just as she was being carried out of herself and singing hershrillest in the second verse that Miss Arnott, the English governess inWestmead House, brought her line of pupils for their dailyconstitutional down the Domain. 

Pretty Dot, and the judge's daughter, Nellie Harden, were at the head ofthe line, and were conversing in an affable manner and low voices uponthe newest trimmings for summer hats, when the little couple near thestatue came into view. 

Betty's eyes were downcast that she might not be distracted by heraudience, but John, who was clinging to the railing near her, saw themarching school, saw Dot, and knew that she had seen. 

 "Each victory will help you Some other to win, "

sang Betty shrilly. 

Dot's face went white, sheet white. She heard the judge's daughter speakof eau de nil chiffon, and a hat turned up at the side. She was at thehead of thirty fashionable "young ladies, " and a fashionable younggoverness was close by. She wore her best shoes (the ones with thetoe-caps of Russian leather) and her best dress (white with the goldsilk sash given by Alma Montague). 

And there was Betty--dreadful scapegrace Betty, barefooted, dirty faced, bare-headed (her bonnet was of course under her arm), singing songs forcoppers!

Dot coughed, went white, choked, and walked on. She simply had not thecourage to step out from that line of fashionable demoiselles and claimher little sister. 

But Alma Montague, who carried her purse for the purchase of chocolatenougats should a favourable opportunity occur, had her tender littleheart touched by Betty's face and song. 

 "Each victory will help you Some other to win. "

spoke directly to her, and her longing for chocolate nougats. She onlyhad a shilling in her purse, wonderful to relate, and she and herconscience had a sharp short battle. Chocolate nougats or--pitifulhunger! Her face flushed as conscience won the battle. 

The next second she had slipped out of line and run across to Betty. 

"Here; little girl!" she said, and thrust a shilling into Betty's hand. 

The little singer looked up, shy and startled, and her song died on herlips while her eyes plainly rejoiced over the shilling. 

Then the English governess awoke from a happy day-dream and sharplyordered Alma back to her place. 

"You should have asked permission, " she said stiffly. "I cannot havesuch disorders. I will punish you when we return to school!"

Just as if the lost chocolates were not punishment enough. 

The deed and the reprimand travelled along the line, whispered frommouth to mouth, till it came to Dot. 

"That silly Alma Montague, " the whisper ran, "has just broken line togive her money to that little beggar girl. She gave a shilling. She wasgoing to buy chocolate nougats. Miss Arnott's going to punish her. "

Dot's sensitive soul shuddered over the terrible Betty. If she had beenlooking up instead of down! If she had rushed forward and claimed herbefore the eyes of the wondering school! If Miss Arnott had known! IfAlma Montague had known! If any one of all those thirty girls had evenguessed!

The very possibility was so dreadful that Dot found herself unable todiscuss fashion for all the rest of that constitutional. 

But later on in the day, in the evening, when the lamps were alight, shehad crept away by herself to wonder where madcap Betty was. She feltquite sure she would go home again quite safely, she was always doingterrible things without any harm coming to her. 

The tears that fell from Dot's eyes were not for Betty, but altogetherfor herself. She had disowned, by not owning, her sister! She had beenafraid to step forward before those thirty pairs of eyes and say, "Thisis my sister!" And she felt as one guilty of a mean and dishonourabledeed. 

"I will tell every girl in the school in the morning, " she said; andthen, as her repentance increased: "I will tell them to-night. "

And to her credit be it spoken, she descended to the schoolroom andweepingly told her story. 

Some of the girls laughed, most of them "longed to know Betty, " and allof the "intimate" friends tried to comfort Dot. 

"You're _such_ a darling, " said Mona. "You've made us all love you morethan ever. "

She was very enthusiastic for she _felt_ that Dot had been afraid andhad conquered fear. 

CHAPTER XIX

THE BENT-SHOULDERED OLD GENTLEMAN

"Let's go somewhere and count my money, " said Betty, when she hadwatched the last pupil of Westmead House disappear down the long avenue. "You see I _easily_ make a shilling an hour, don't I?"

John admitted she had chosen a good paying profession; and that if"things" didn't improve with him very soon he should try singing in thefrequent spare moments of his errands running. 

The day wore on, and although it must be recorded that Betty did notalways make a shilling an hour, her "takings" were very fair, considering many things, notably her lack of voice and great shyness sosoon as anything approaching an audience gathered around her. 

[Illustration: "Only a little barefooted girl asleep--fast asleep uponhis lounge. "]

By six o'clock a great weariness had crept over her. Unused to citypavements, her limbs ached wofully, her feet were blistered and swollen, her head ached from the noises of the busy city, and her heart ached forher little white bed at home. For the day was growing old and it wasalmost bed-time. 

Presently the stars stole out and began to play at hide and seek, andBetty who had finished counting her money again, was still standingtiredly on one foot at the corner of Market and George Streets, waitingfor John--John who had promised to be with her at six; and now it wasafter seven and he had not come. 

The tears were too near for her to attempt to wile away the minutes withanother song--tears of weariness and disappointment. The disappointmentwas caused by the non-arrival of the keen-eyed, bent-shouldered oldgentleman who was to raise her eventually to the pinnacle of fame--andby John's absence. 

It was just as this great matter was straining her heart almost tobreaking point that a heavy hand fell upon her shoulders, and she lookedup into the face of a roughly clad, ill-kempt looking man--a face thatin some way seemed familiar to her. 

"I b'lieve you're the very little girl as I've been on the look-out forall day, " he said. "Le's look at you! Yes, s'elp my Jimmy Johnson, youare! If you'll just come along with me, we'll talk about your name an' afew other things. "

He held out his hand and took hers. 

"Your name, " he said, "as it ain't John Brown, may be Elizabeth Bruce. Ain't I right now?"

Betty tremblingly admitted that he was, and listened as she walked thelength of a street by his side to his jocularly spoken lecture and toall the dire happenings--gaols, reformatories, ships, etc. --that befellshe or he who left the home nest before such glorious time as they weretwenty-one. 

Finally Betty and her earnings were placed in a cab, and the man, holding her arm firmly, stepped in after her. He seemed to be afraid, all the time, that if he moved his hand from her she would be off andaway. They rattled down the Sydney streets in the lamplight, whichBetty had never seen before this night, to the harbour waters and acrossthem in a punt, and the little girl thought tiredly of her journey inthe greengrocer's cart not so very many hours ago. 

The remembrance brought with it a flash of light. This man by her sidewas the greengrocer!--their morning friend. She decided that she wouldsoon ask him about John, ask him whether he had found John also. 

But before she could satisfactorily arrange her question a greatheaviness settled down upon her, and her head nodded and her eyesblinked and blinked and fell too. And all thought of money-making andstreet-singing, and John Brown slipped away and left her in a merry landof dreams playing with Cyril and Nancy in the old home garden. 

"Poor little mite, " said the man, and he slipped his roughly clad armaround her and drew her towards him so that her head might rest on hiscoat. "Poor little mite! She'd find the world but a rough place, I'mthinking!"

And they sped onwards into the hill country where Betty's home was, andJohn's, and the little school-house and the white church and thewonderful corner shop. Only they stopped before they came to Betty'shome, stopped at the great iron gates of her grandfather's dwelling, drove through them and up the dark gum tree shaded path. 

The man, carrying the sleeping child in his arms, walked straight intothe hall, to the huge astonishment of the sober man-servant who hadopened the door. 

"I'll wait here for yer master, " he said. 

The hall was wide and square, and contained besides three deck-chairs, acane lounge covered with cushions. 

Perhaps the man had some eye for dramatic effect, perhaps it was onlyaccident, but he placed Betty carefully upon the cushions, and put acrimson-covered one under her dark curly head. Then he withdrew to thedoor. 

It was not likely that, having worked hard for his reward, he was aboutto forego it. But he told himself that "his room would be better thanhis company" while the rejoicings over her recovery were going on. 

The captain came through the door slowly. One hour ago a policeman hadarrived in a cab with John--and had departed with a substantial rewardin his pocket. During the last hour the captain had heard John'sstory--thrashed him with his own hands, and sent him to bed. 

Now he was "wanted in the hall by a man with a little girl. "

But there was no man visible in the hall, only a little barefooted girlasleep--fast asleep upon his lounge. He could hear her breathing, seeher face, and he knew in a moment who she was. 

He looked sharply at her, back to the door which was closed, forward tothe front door which was drawn to, and around the empty hall. 

Then slowly and as if fearful of being caught he went nearer to thesofa, and looked down at this little creature--blood of his blood--whohad appeared before him again. Her lashes lay still on her rosysun-tanned cheeks, her curly hair was in confusion upon the red cushion, her bare feet were upon another. Such a pretty tired child she lookedalthough she was but a tattered and soiled representative of the smallpink-bonneted maiden he had seen only the other day. 

He knew the story of her "career" now, and of her desire to be aself-made woman. John had told him about her in speaking of his ownambition. The captain's slow mind went back to the time when his own"career" had been forced upon him, when he had only too often "sleptout. " And as remembrance after remembrance awoke, his heart warmedstrangely to this brown-haired girl who seemed to be always stumblinginto his pathway. 

Dirty, ragged imp as she was, that strange inexplicable sense of kinshipstirred within him. Stirred as it had never stirred towards alien John, who was after all only the son of his first love's son, with no blood ofhis at all in him; stirred as it had stirred towards no one living sincehis daughter had left him more than seventeen years ago. 

He put out one hand and touched her hair (she could not know, no onecould know, of course)--his only daughter's little child!

And Betty slept on. Had she but known it, a bent-shouldered oldgentleman, who might have exerted a wonderful influence over her wholelife, was at that moment looking at her with softened eyes. But greatpossibilities are frequently blighted by small importunities. 

The greengrocer chose this moment to open the front door and look intothe hall, and the captain saw him, started, and lost his feeling ofkinship for the sleeper. 

"Good evenin', " said the greengrocer blandly, "I found her about an hourago, an' came straight 'ome with her. "

Captain Carew explained briefly that his boy had been returned to himabout an hour ago, and that the promised reward had been given on hisbehalf to the policeman. 

The man looked crestfallen. 

"My wife told me, " he said, "when I come back from the markets. She saidsomebody had lost a boy, and you had lost a girl. And your reward wasthe biggest, so I went for the girl. "

Captain Carew put his hand in his pocket, and shook his head. To payfor Betty seemed to him to be publicly claiming her. Yet he could nothelp being glad that she was found. 

"And she ain't nothin' to you?" said the man, most evidentlydisappointed. 

"Nothing!" said Captain Carew firmly; "but I hear that she ran away withmy boy--to make her fortune. She lives, I believe, in a smallweather-board cottage a few yards further on. "

He felt much stronger after he had spoken that sentence. Of course shewas nothing to him. He walked to his library, and then looked over hisshoulder, and saw the man just stooping over the little girl again. Andthen, for no reason at all, of course, he put his hand into his pocketagain, drew out a sovereign and gave it to the man. 

"To make up for your mistake, " he said. 

Then he went away and shut the library door, while the two went away. 

"Little baggage!" he said, "she's nothing to me. John's the onlygrandchild I ever want. "

But he had an uncomfortable feeling that he had owned her. 

An hour later, on his way through the hall to his bedroom; he found asoiled crumpled piece of paper on the cane lounge, and opening it, read--"Please give me a penny, sir!"

"The little vagabond!" he muttered. But he put the paper into hispocket. 

CHAPTER XX

THE DAY AFTER SCHOOL

A great day had dawned for Dorothea Bruce, a day long dreamed of andalas, long dreaded!

The first day after school life!

She would joyfully have taken another two years of school-days, withtheir sober joys and sweet intimate friendships; their griefs and smallquarrellings; their lessons and their play hours; their meetings andtheir breakings up. 

But yesterday she had "broken up" for ever. Yesterday she had mournfullygiven eight locks of her beautiful hair away as "keepsakes, " although itmust be owned to-day she had examined her hair carefully, looking overher shoulder to see how it bore the loss of its tendrils. 

Yesterday she had wept separately with each of her "intimate" friends, excepting only Alma Montague, at this dreadful parting that had comeabout. 

Alma was not to lose Dorothea at all, instead she was to have her all toherself at Katoomba for the holidays, and her queer little yellow facewore a superior smile as she saw the other girls' sorrow at parting fromtheir "darling Thea. "

Many things were promised and vowed in this touching season. The littleband of intimates were to write to each other every week; still to telleach other _every single_ secret; to think of each other every night; tobe each other's bridesmaids as long as there were maids to go round, andto visit each other in their married homes. 

For of course they were all going to be married--every one of them. 

It was Nellie Harden who had first alluded to the time "When I ammarried, " "When you are married, " etc. She said she was rather curiousto see who would be married first, and even plain little Alma feltcheerful in looking forward to the time when she would be engaged. Theysimply took it for granted that in the great beautiful world into whichthey were going there were lovers--lovers in plenty; lovers who vowedbeautiful vows, and performed gallant deeds, and wore immaculateclothing, and still more immaculate moustaches. 

Dorothea had decided to be "elder sister" to the best of her ability. She intensely admired the beautiful elder sister in _The Mother ofEight_, a book Mona had just lent to her. 

The mother of eight was a girl of eighteen, who had promised her motheron her death-bed to be a mother to all the little ones. Lovers had cometo her, imploring her to "make their lives, " friends had put in theirclaims, pleasures had beckoned; but the mother of eight had shaken herbeautiful head and stood there at her post until the eight were marriedand settled in homes of their own, when the "mother" had suddenly diedof a broken heart. 

This book formed the basis of Dorothea's day-dreams. She, too, was goingto be an "elder sister" and reform the home. In the flights of herimagination she saw herself making Betty and Nancy new frocks, mendingCyril's trousers, trimming her mother's hats, correcting her father'smanuscripts. 

Wherever she looked she seemed to be wanted. A great place gaped in thehousehold, and it was for the elder sister to step in and fill it. AndBetty, wild madcap Betty, would want talking to, and training andputting into the way in which she should go. And, of course, loverswould come for Dot, but until Baby was well started in life she wouldhave none of them. And when she married, "a few silver threads would bediscernible in her golden hair, and there would be patient tired linesat the corners of her mouth. "

But it was only the first day after school now, and she had much tothink of. She was not going to commence the new order of things by beingan elder sister, although the home needed her sorely. 

As things had fallen out, it was necessary, she found, to set duty asidefor a while. 

She was invited to spend the end of December and the whole of Januarywith Alma Montague at Katoomba. They were to stay at the best hotelthere--Mrs. Montague, her sister Mrs. Stacey, Alma and Dot. Rooms hadalready been engaged for the party (Alma's and Dot's adjoining eachother's), and all sorts of intoxicating details been settled. 

Dot, indeed, spoke to her mother once about coming home to help, instead of going away, but even if she had meant it--which mustbe questioned--Mrs. Bruce was quite decided that she should go. 

"It will do you good, " she said, "and we don't need you at home at all. Betty will be here--it will be holiday-time and she must help. "

For February Dot had an invitation to Tasmania. In her wildestimaginings she did not dream of accepting it, but Minnie Stevenson, whose school-days lay behind her too, was going down before Christmasand declared she could not be without Dot longer than the middle ofFebruary. 

And Mona--Mona, her nearest and dearest friend, said it was _very_ hoton the Richmond River till the end of March, but April was a perfectmonth there, and in April she would take _no_ refusal. She must haveThea in her own home all to herself then. 

Nellie Harden had her mother's consent to ask Dot to "come out" withher. The début was to take place in June, at a big ball, and Nellie had"set her heart" on Thea and herself coming out at the _very_ same ball, on the _very_ same night as each other, "All in white, you know, Theadarling, and we _will_ look so nice. "

So it will be seen Dot's idea of being elder sister and home daughterhad every chance of remaining an idea for the present. With suchalluring pleasures, where was there room for duty?

"I'll do my best _every_ time I am at home, " said Dot to herself, weighing pleasure and duty in the balance and finding duty sadlywanting, "and I'll _write_ Betty good letters of advice, and take somemending away with me to do. "

But all that belonged to yesterday. 

To-day Dot was at home, and in the important position of being about toset out upon a journey. She was to start early in the morning and to godirect to the Redfern railway station. 

Mr. Bruce had gone to town to draw a five guinea cheque for his eldestdaughter. He also had to do a little shopping on her account. All hisinstructions were written down in Dot's fair round hand-writing upon apiece of foreign notepaper and slipped into his waistcoat pocket. 

For those who are at all curious to know what the items were we willsteal a look at the paper--

 1. Pair of white canvas shoes, size 2. 

 2. One cake of blanco (for cleaning them with). 

 3. Two pairs of black silk _shoe_ laces--not boot laces--(all of those things at the same shop). 

 4. 1-1/4 yds. Of _white_ chiffon (_very_ thin--for a veil). 

 5. 1 bunch of scarlet poppies--just common ones (both of these at same shop--draper's). 

 6. _At a chemist's_: sponge (6_d. _), tooth-brush (9_d. _), Packet of violet powder (6_d. _). 

Mrs. Bruce was letting down Dot's dresses, and altering a pretty bluesilk evening blouse (bought ready made). Cyril had cleaned her shoes andthe family portmanteau, an ugly black thing, and run half a dozenerrands grumblingly--all for Dot!

Betty was locked in her room in disgrace, for running away to seek herfortune. No one was allowed to speak to her, even Baby's "Bet, Bet, " wassternly hushed; two slices of bread and a glass of water were placedoutside her door three times a day; three times a day she was permittedto walk for five minutes, each time alone in the garden, then back againto her room. 

This state of things, which had commenced on Wednesday morning, was, ifBetty showed proper penitence and meekness, to terminate on Saturdaymorning. 

Yet even prisoner Betty was employed on Dot's behalf. She had Dot'sstockings to mend, and to add insignificant things like buttons andtapes and hooks and eyes to those of her garments which had aninsufficiency of such trifles. And she was sewing away industriouslyas she brooded over her woes. 

Dot herself was unpacking and packing up. Unpacking all her exercisebooks, and notebooks, and stacks of neat examination papers; her lessonbooks and Czerney's 101 _Exercises for the Pianoforte_; her sewingsamples and wool-work; her study of a head in crayon, and waratahs andflannel flowers in oils, and peep of Sydney Harbour in water colours. 

"When I come home again, " she told herself gravely, "I will arrangelife: I'll practise _at least_ two hours every morning; I'll do somesolid good reading _every_ day--some one like Shakespeare or Milton orBacon! I'll paint every afternoon. I really have a talent forlandscapes. And I'll finish writing my novel. For some things I'm reallyglad I've finished learning. "

A keen observer, regarding Dot's new scheme for life, would detect verylittle time or thought for reforming the household, and training Bettyand teaching the younger ones. But then, Dot's schemes varied, and aday seemed to her a very big piece of time to have to play with as sheliked, all in her own hands. Hitherto it had been given out to her inhours by Miss Weir--this hour for French, that for English, this for aconstitutional, that for sewing, this for the Scriptures, that forpractice, and so on. 

What wonder that the felt she could crowd all the arts and sciences intoa day when all the hours belonged to her for her very own. 

When she went to bed at night, by way of beginning the home reforms shelooked at Betty very earnestly and shook her head, words beingforbidden. 

And she removed her own particular text from above her bed to aboveBetty's, feeling very old and sedate the while, for it must be ownedconscious virtue has a sobering effect. 

But the action threw Betty into a towering rage. 

"If you don't take down your old text I won't get into bed at all. I'veonly been trying to make you all rich. "

And Dot, who was always alarmed into placidity when she had provokedwrath, returned "Blessed are the pure in heart" to its own position onthe wall. 

CHAPTER XXI

"GOOD-BYE, GOOD-BYE"

All was ready very early in the morning, for Dot was to start upon herjourney at ten o'clock. 

The little school trunk and the family portmanteau stood side by side inthe hall, labelled and ready to go forth--neat clean labels, bearing theinscription 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 beenupon a railway journey. 

The household generally, from her father down to little Nancy, treatedher with gentle politeness as a newly arrived and just departing guest. 

At breakfast the bread was handed to her without her once asking forit; 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 girlshould roam about alone. "

"Oh, don't be too venturesome, darling!" said Mrs. Bruce. "Just think ifyou 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 crustybit; we can, and I'll give you some fresh. "

"More butter?" piped Nancy; then taking a leaf from Cyril's book--"Don'tbover 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 andeating dry bread, without any one asking solicitously "if she wouldhave a little more, or leave that if she did not like it, and havesomething nicer. "

"Yet I was trying to earn money for them all, " she said aloud. "I won'ttry 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 thepassage and opened the door suddenly. Such a dainty pretty Dot, in hernew blue muslin dress that _almost_ reached to the ground, and fittedclosely to her slender little figure, and a new white straw hat with anew white gossamer floating out behind waiting to be tied when thekisses were all given and taken. 

The girl's face was like a tender blush rose; her eyes were shining withactual excitement (rare thing in placid Dot), and her hair hung down herback 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 thesilence 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 shesays _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 breakthe 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 tokeep 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 dojust as we like even with our own hair. "

"_I_ shall, " said Betty, and gave her morsel of a plait a convincingpull. "Wasn't my hair as long as yours once; and didn't I cut it offbecause I wanted to?"

Then Dot bethought her of the wisdom of sixteen, and the foolishness oftwelve and a bit, and she slipped her arm as lovingly around her littlesister as she was wont to do around any of her friends at WestmeadHouse. 

"Dear little Betty, " she said, "promise me, you poor little thing, to begood 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 wonderhow good you'd be if suddenly you had to stay at home and wash up anddust. "

The picture was quite unenticing to Dot. _Wash up and dust and stay athome!_ 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 schooltime. Afterwards I shall have to stay at home and be eldest daughterwhile you have _your_ time. Mother says you may come to the gate and seeme off if you like. "

But she was genuinely sorry for Betty all the way down the hall to thefront door, and her heart gave her an unpleasant pang when Betty sprangafter her and thrust a shilling into her hand. 

"It's my own, " whispered Betty; "take it; it will buy something; Iearned it. Don't be afraid; I'll earn plenty more some day, " and she ranaway 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 toaccompany his eldest daughter as far as Redfern station. As the otherswere 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, andthe three half-sovereigns he had decided to slip into her purse beforethey reached the station. 

Mrs. Bruce, slight and small almost as Dot herself, put Baby down on thebrown-green grass at the gate, while she put a few quite unnecessaryfinishing touches to her eldest daughter. 

"I went away from my home for a visit when I was sixteen, " she said--"toKatoomba, too!" Then she took Dot into her arms and held her closely fora 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" piledup with Dot's luggage. He had to push it to the corner of the road andhelp it on the coach. 

He was very anxious to get home again, for he had heard a few wordswhispered pleadingly by Dot, then a whispered consultation between Mr. And Mrs. Bruce. He knew what it was about. Even before his father pattedBetty's head and told her to start afresh from that minute, and hismother kissed her and said, "Be a good madcap Betty, and we'll commencenow instead of to-morrow morning. "

Whereat Cyril became anxious to get home again to discover his sister'splans 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 thathat!"

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, almostupsetting Cyril's equilibrium as he laboured along the road. 

In the dog-cart were Captain Carew and big John Brown. John lookedsteadily at the horse's head, fearing an explosion of wrath from hisgrandsire if he smiled at his fellow fortune-seeker. He, too, was goingto the mountains for his holidays, preparation to commencing life at aSydney Grammar School. 

But the Captain himself looked at Betty, and his grim face smiled. Andthere are not many who can translate a smile, so that we may take itthat he was not altogether displeased with the little singer. 

Down the road went Dot, after her father and Cyril--a little maid freshfrom school--dainty and fresh and crying gentle tears that would nothurt 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 tryto be an elder sister. Perhaps we shall see Betty, too, in her newposition as one of the "young ladies" of Westmead House. 

But just now she has climbed an old tree-stump, and is standing therebare-headed and waving her handkerchief to cry--"Good-bye, good-bye. "

_Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner, _Frome and London_