He looked round again, and then he climbed down and ran back to the road.

"I'll go home now," he said, "I can't find Betty anywhere. I've looked and looked. And school will be out soon, and how do I know Arthur Smedley took his lunch to-day; he might be coming home."

Whereat this valiant youth looked over his shoulder, and saw the boys running out of the school gate. So he took to his heels and ran home as fast as ever he could.



CHAPTER XVII

IN THE CITY

The fortune seekers were set down at a street corner near the Quay at half-past six.

When it had come to the matter of crossing the harbour, from the Northern Shore to the Quay, in the punt (they two sitting in the cart the while), they had found themselves called upon to pay a penny each for the passage over, which they had enjoyed amazingly. Betty paid both pennies, having the coppers, but she urged John to be quick and get his shilling changed to pay her back.

At the street corner John suggested leaving her for awhile. "This would be as good a corner as any other for you, Betty," he said, and slapped the shutters of a chemist's shop as he spoke, "You stand here, and you'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'll come back for you. You sing your song, and I'll just go and see if any shops want a boy. I don't suppose the offices are opened yet. What I'd like 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 after all, but I'll have to find out where the warehouses are. A tea warehouse is good, I can tell you. You get sent out to India for the firm, and then come back and are made a partner."

He started off, only to be stopped after he had gone a few steps, by Betty's voice calling, "Get your shilling changed, I want my penny"; to which he nodded.

Betty had the corner all to herself then. Down the street, and up the street, and down the side street, whichever way she craned her neck she could see no one.

It seemed to her a very good opportunity to try her powers. So she commenced. At first it must be confessed she made no more sound than she had done in talking to John. And the street was so used to voices that it did not open an eye.

Therefore Betty grew bolder, and forgot in singing that she was not at the bend in the old home-road, where she had practised once or twice since she had decided upon her career. Her voice rose clearly—shrilly—and sometimes she remembered the tune quite fairly. When she forgot it, she filled in what would have otherwise been a pause with a little bit out of any other tune that 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 Betty had, it may be as well to copy them from the paper she held in her hand to 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 over the paper before beginning the second.

Perhaps it was just as well for her serenity that she did not look up as she sang. For just as soon as her voice rose into anything approaching a tune—it was near the end of the first verse—a face looked down upon her 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 the unmistakable lines of suffering.

Betty knew nothing about the trouble of the world in those days; nothing of suffering, nothing of sorrow. And the woman above her knew of all. She leaned over the window-sill and her eyes smiled pityingly as they rested on the small bared head.

She had been praying her morning prayer near the open window, begging for strength to bear her sorrows, and for as many as might be to be taken 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. She looked longer, and saw Betty clasp a bare foot in one hand and stand on one 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 that the child was worn and weary—worn and weary before seven o'clock in the morning.

She drew her dressing-gown around her, searched her dress pocket for her purse, and leaning out dropped sixpence upon the pavement close to the little singer.

Betty stopped at once and looked around her, down the street and around the corner; at the shop shutters and door, but never once so high as the windows.

The woman smiled to herself.

"Poor little mite," she said. "I must remember even the little children have 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 the house, looked up to the second story and saw a smiling face, and then set off again, running down the street for John.

Not seeing him, she stopped at the next corner and examined her coin lovingly. Then she looked up at that corner window and began to sing again.

But this time her reward came from the street. Three bluejackets were walking down the street to the Quay, lurching over the pavement as they walked. The child's song touched and stirred that latent sentimentality of theirs.

Her "or surely I shall die," brought a silver threepence from one of them, and a copper from each of the others.

Betty felt wealthy now, beyond the dreams of avarice. She had made a shilling in an hour!

She looked at the post office clock high up in the air there above her head, and it informed her that it was only a quarter past seven. Not eight o'clock yet! And she had made a shilling! Twelve pennies! As much as she received in six months by staying at home!

She sat down on the kerbstone to count her money, putting her feet in the dry gutter a la maniere born. She made first of all a stack of her half-pennies, and then of her pennies. There were nine half-pennies, three pennies, a threepenny bit and a sixpence. The grand total she found was one and fourpence halfpenny. More than even John had started out with.

While she was thus like a small miser counting her money, a hand swooped suddenly down upon the heap of coppers and swept them away. Betty looked up to scream, but it was only John. And he warned her solemnly how easily such a dreadful theft could be committed.

"I wish to goodness the shops would open," he said discontentedly. "I'm beginning to want some breakfast, I can tell you."

Betty unfolded her hands and displayed her wealth of coin. "A shilling in an hour," she said, and John's look of surprised unbelief delighted her.

"You picked it up!" he said.

"Oh, I didn't!" cried Betty. "People gave it to me just for singing! A shilling an hour! I forget how much Madam S—— makes in an hour. I think 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 see a clock, the high post office clock they were walking under now, and found it. "I want to make my fortune quickly and go home and surprise them. How much money is in a fortune, John?"

John considered deeply for a minute and then gave it as his idea that five hundred pounds was usually called a fortune.



"That'll take a good bit of making," said Betty.

"Well, you didn't expect to make it in a day did you?" asked John roughly.

"Oh, no," said Betty cheerfully, "I was only wondering how many hours there are in a day—at a shilling an hour."

She began to count slowly on the fingers of one hand all the hours until seven o'clock at night, the first hour to be from eight till nine o'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've just 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 his trouble. "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 to temptation.' Um! I never thought of hymns. I think I'll sing hymns to-day as well, 'cause I'm not very sure of my song yet, and every now and then I have to stop to look at the words. Can I sing hymns on other days than Sundays, John?"

"Better not," said the cautious John; "better keep the proper things for the proper days. Well, Betty Bruce, if you're going to stay here all day, 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 shop and get a really good breakfast. I wasn't thinking. When a person begins to 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 good breakfast and then we'll be fit for anything, won't we. Come on."

They turned round the corner into King Street, and there to their delight 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 white tables and a couple of sleepy looking girls. One girl held a broom and was leaning on its handle and surveying the stretch of floor to be swept. Her eyes at last went to the door, and Betty, seeing they had been 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 eyes fell 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 honest livelihood and competency, it is quite another thing to be taken for a beggar.

"We'll pay for it," she said, and then forgot her pride and urged, "Go on, 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 had been up at half-past five and knew a great deal about poverty and privation.

"Well, come on then," she said. "Go and sit down at one of them tables and 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 and things, 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 penny I owe you, too."



CHAPTER XVIII

ALMA'S SHILLING

By ten o'clock Betty had made another shilling, having caught the workers of the city as they were going to their day's toil.

And it must be owned it was a mysterious "something" about the child herself that arrested what attention she drew. Perhaps it lay in the fresh rosiness of her face, in the clearness of her sweet eyes, in the brightness of her young hair; for her courage ebbed away so soon as two or three were gathered around her; her voice sank to a whisper, she drooped her head, trifled with one wristband or the other, stood first on one foot and then on the other, and displayed the various signs of nervousness Mr. Sharman's stern eye provoked her to.

At eleven o'clock, John, who had made threepence by carrying a bag for a lady, looked Betty up at the appointed corner and proposed lemonade and currant buns, for which she was quite ready.

Afterwards they stood for a valuable half-hour outside the waxworks and explored the markets, where Betty sang "Scatter seeds of kindness," in spite of John's solemnly given advice to keep it for Sunday. Here she only 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 keen eyed, bent shouldered old gentleman would be passing soon, and carry her away straight to the very threshold of fame, as Madam S——'s old gentleman carried her.

When they had become thoroughly acquainted with the markets, John suggested she should again "count up," with a view of deciding what sort of lodgings she could afford for the night.

Betty had not thought of such a trivial thing, leaving it possibly for her old gentleman to settle. But she was more than willing to "count up" again.

So they went into a corner behind a deserted fruit stall, sat down upon an empty case, and made little stacks of pennies and half-pennies and small silver coins.

She had two shillings and a penny, she found in all, and John told her she 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. "It seems an awful lot to pay for a bed and a bit of breakfast. But a sixpenny place will do for you, and as you're only twelve they might take 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," said John. "I can't afford to pay sixpence. It's always harder for a fellow to get on than for a girl. That's why you hear more about self-made men than 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 a fellow talking this morning, and he said he's been sleeping there for a week now. And, you know, Peterborough, the artist I told you about—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 this the 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 paying for his own breakfast and lemonade and buns.

He took her and showed her two houses which bore the words, "Bed and breakfast, 6d.!" and then he led the way to the Domain, having been through it many times with his grandfather, while to stay-at-home Betty it was no more than a name. Macquarie Street lay asleep as they travelled through it and past Parliament House and the Hospital and the Public Library.

It never for a moment occurred to Betty that Dot was domiciled in that street of big high houses and hushed sounds. She knew Dot's school address was "Westmead House, Macquarie Street," but she had not the remotest idea that she and John were travelling down Macquarie Street past Westmead House.

Just inside the Domain gates they paused to admire Governor Burke's statue, and to count their money again in its shade.

Then John pointed out to her the tree-shaded path that runs to Woollomooloo Bay and the great sweeping grass stretch that lay on one side of it.

Many men were there already, full length upon the grass, their hats over their eyes, asleep or callous to waking.

Betty at once signified her intention of spending her first night out here, 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 your coat."

"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 was inspired to sing "Yield not to temptation," standing with her back to the iron railing.

And it was just as she was being carried out of herself and singing her shrillest in the second verse that Miss Arnott, the English governess in Westmead House, brought her line of pupils for their daily constitutional down the Domain.

Pretty Dot, and the judge's daughter, Nellie Harden, were at the head of the line, and were conversing in an affable manner and low voices upon the newest trimmings for summer hats, when the little couple near the statue came into view.

Betty's eyes were downcast that she might not be distracted by her audience, but John, who was clinging to the railing near her, saw the marching 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 speak of eau de nil chiffon, and a hat turned up at the side. She was at the head of thirty fashionable "young ladies," and a fashionable young governess was close by. She wore her best shoes (the ones with the toe-caps of Russian leather) and her best dress (white with the gold silk 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 for coppers!

Dot coughed, went white, choked, and walked on. She simply had not the courage to step out from that line of fashionable demoiselles and claim her little sister.

But Alma Montague, who carried her purse for the purchase of chocolate nougats should a favourable opportunity occur, had her tender little heart 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 only had a shilling in her purse, wonderful to relate, and she and her conscience had a sharp short battle. Chocolate nougats or—pitiful hunger! 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 her lips while her eyes plainly rejoiced over the shilling.

Then the English governess awoke from a happy day-dream and sharply ordered Alma back to her place.

"You should have asked permission," she said stiffly. "I cannot have such 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 from mouth to mouth, till it came to Dot.

"That silly Alma Montague," the whisper ran, "has just broken line to give her money to that little beggar girl. She gave a shilling. She was going to buy chocolate nougats. Miss Arnott's going to punish her."

Dot's sensitive soul shuddered over the terrible Betty. If she had been looking up instead of down! If she had rushed forward and claimed her before the eyes of the wondering school! If Miss Arnott had known! If Alma Montague had known! If any one of all those thirty girls had even guessed!

The very possibility was so dreadful that Dot found herself unable to discuss fashion for all the rest of that constitutional.

But later on in the day, in the evening, when the lamps were alight, she had crept away by herself to wonder where madcap Betty was. She felt quite sure she would go home again quite safely, she was always doing terrible things without any harm coming to her.

The tears that fell from Dot's eyes were not for Betty, but altogether for herself. She had disowned, by not owning, her sister! She had been afraid to step forward before those thirty pairs of eyes and say, "This is my sister!" And she felt as one guilty of a mean and dishonourable deed.

"I will tell every girl in the school in the morning," she said; and then, as her repentance increased: "I will tell them to-night."

And to her credit be it spoken, she descended to the schoolroom and weepingly told her story.

Some of the girls laughed, most of them "longed to know Betty," and all of the "intimate" friends tried to comfort Dot.

"You're such a darling," said Mona. "You've made us all love you more than ever."

She was very enthusiastic for she felt that Dot had been afraid and had conquered fear.



CHAPTER XIX

THE BENT-SHOULDERED OLD GENTLEMAN

"Let's go somewhere and count my money," said Betty, when she had watched 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 the frequent spare moments of his errands running.

The day wore on, and although it must be recorded that Betty did not always make a shilling an hour, her "takings" were very fair, considering many things, notably her lack of voice and great shyness so soon as anything approaching an audience gathered around her.



By six o'clock a great weariness had crept over her. Unused to city pavements, her limbs ached wofully, her feet were blistered and swollen, her head ached from the noises of the busy city, and her heart ached for her little white bed at home. For the day was growing old and it was almost bed-time.

Presently the stars stole out and began to play at hide and seek, and Betty who had finished counting her money again, was still standing tiredly on one foot at the corner of Market and George Streets, waiting for John—John who had promised to be with her at six; and now it was after seven and he had not come.

The tears were too near for her to attempt to wile away the minutes with another song—tears of weariness and disappointment. The disappointment was caused by the non-arrival of the keen-eyed, bent-shouldered old gentleman who was to raise her eventually to the pinnacle of fame—and by John's absence.

It was just as this great matter was straining her heart almost to breaking point that a heavy hand fell upon her shoulders, and she looked up into the face of a roughly clad, ill-kempt looking man—a face that in some way seemed familiar to her.

"I b'lieve you're the very little girl as I've been on the look-out for all day," he said. "Le's look at you! Yes, s'elp my Jimmy Johnson, you are! If you'll just come along with me, we'll talk about your name an' a few 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 the length of a street by his side to his jocularly spoken lecture and to all the dire happenings—gaols, reformatories, ships, etc.—that befell she or he who left the home nest before such glorious time as they were twenty-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 and away. They rattled down the Sydney streets in the lamplight, which Betty had never seen before this night, to the harbour waters and across them in a punt, and the little girl thought tiredly of her journey in the greengrocer's cart not so very many hours ago.

The remembrance brought with it a flash of light. This man by her side was the greengrocer!—their morning friend. She decided that she would soon ask him about John, ask him whether he had found John also.

But before she could satisfactorily arrange her question a great heaviness settled down upon her, and her head nodded and her eyes blinked and blinked and fell too. And all thought of money-making and street-singing, and John Brown slipped away and left her in a merry land of dreams playing with Cyril and Nancy in the old home garden.

"Poor little mite," said the man, and he slipped his roughly clad arm around her and drew her towards him so that her head might rest on his coat. "Poor little mite! She'd find the world but a rough place, I'm thinking!"

And they sped onwards into the hill country where Betty's home was, and John's, and the little school-house and the white church and the wonderful corner shop. Only they stopped before they came to Betty's home, 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 into the hall, to the huge astonishment of the sober man-servant who had opened the door.

"I'll wait here for yer master," he said.

The hall was wide and square, and contained besides three deck-chairs, a cane lounge covered with cushions.

Perhaps the man had some eye for dramatic effect, perhaps it was only accident, but he placed Betty carefully upon the cushions, and put a crimson-covered one under her dark curly head. Then he withdrew to the door.

It was not likely that, having worked hard for his reward, he was about to forego it. But he told himself that "his room would be better than his company" while the rejoicings over her recovery were going on.

The captain came through the door slowly. One hour ago a policeman had arrived in a cab with John—and had departed with a substantial reward in his pocket. During the last hour the captain had heard John's story—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 girl asleep—fast asleep upon his lounge. He could hear her breathing, see her face, and he knew in a moment who she was.

He looked sharply at her, back to the door which was closed, forward to the front door which was drawn to, and around the empty hall.

Then slowly and as if fearful of being caught he went nearer to the sofa, and looked down at this little creature—blood of his blood—who had appeared before him again. Her lashes lay still on her rosy sun-tanned cheeks, her curly hair was in confusion upon the red cushion, her bare feet were upon another. Such a pretty tired child she looked although she was but a tattered and soiled representative of the small pink-bonneted maiden he had seen only the other day.

He knew the story of her "career" now, and of her desire to be a self-made woman. John had told him about her in speaking of his own ambition. 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 "slept out." And as remembrance after remembrance awoke, his heart warmed strangely to this brown-haired girl who seemed to be always stumbling into his pathway.

Dirty, ragged imp as she was, that strange inexplicable sense of kinship stirred 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 of his at all in him; stirred as it had stirred towards no one living since his daughter had left him more than seventeen years ago.

He put out one hand and touched her hair (she could not know, no one could know, of course)—his only daughter's little child!

And Betty slept on. Had she but known it, a bent-shouldered old gentleman, who might have exerted a wonderful influence over her whole life, was at that moment looking at her with softened eyes. But great possibilities are frequently blighted by small importunities.

The greengrocer chose this moment to open the front door and look into the hall, and the captain saw him, started, and lost his feeling of kinship for the sleeper.

"Good evenin'," said the greengrocer blandly, "I found her about an hour ago, an' came straight 'ome with her."

Captain Carew explained briefly that his boy had been returned to him about an hour ago, and that the promised reward had been given on his behalf to the policeman.

The man looked crestfallen.

"My wife told me," he said, "when I come back from the markets. She said somebody had lost a boy, and you had lost a girl. And your reward was the biggest, so I went for the girl."

Captain Carew put his hand in his pocket, and shook his head. To pay for Betty seemed to him to be publicly claiming her. Yet he could not help being glad that she was found.

"And she ain't nothin' to you?" said the man, most evidently disappointed.

"Nothing!" said Captain Carew firmly; "but I hear that she ran away with my boy—to make her fortune. She lives, I believe, in a small weather-board cottage a few yards further on."

He felt much stronger after he had spoken that sentence. Of course she was nothing to him. He walked to his library, and then looked over his shoulder, and saw the man just stooping over the little girl again. And then, for no reason at all, of course, he put his hand into his pocket again, 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 only grandchild 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 a soiled 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 his pocket.



CHAPTER XX

THE DAY AFTER SCHOOL

A great day had dawned for Dorothea Bruce, a day long dreamed of and alas, long dreaded!

The first day after school life!

She would joyfully have taken another two years of school-days, with their sober joys and sweet intimate friendships; their griefs and small quarrellings; their lessons and their play hours; their meetings and their breakings up.

But yesterday she had "broken up" for ever. Yesterday she had mournfully given eight locks of her beautiful hair away as "keepsakes," although it must be owned to-day she had examined her hair carefully, looking over her 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 come about.

Alma was not to lose Dorothea at all, instead she was to have her all to herself at Katoomba for the holidays, and her queer little yellow face wore a superior smile as she saw the other girls' sorrow at parting from their "darling Thea."

Many things were promised and vowed in this touching season. The little band of intimates were to write to each other every week; still to tell each other every single secret; to think of each other every night; to be each other's bridesmaids as long as there were maids to go round, and to 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 am married," "When you are married," etc. She said she was rather curious to see who would be married first, and even plain little Alma felt cheerful in looking forward to the time when she would be engaged. They simply took it for granted that in the great beautiful world into which they were going there were lovers—lovers in plenty; lovers who vowed beautiful vows, and performed gallant deeds, and wore immaculate clothing, 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 of Eight, a book Mona had just lent to her.

The mother of eight was a girl of eighteen, who had promised her mother on her death-bed to be a mother to all the little ones. Lovers had come to her, imploring her to "make their lives," friends had put in their claims, pleasures had beckoned; but the mother of eight had shaken her beautiful head and stood there at her post until the eight were married and settled in homes of their own, when the "mother" had suddenly died of a broken heart.

This book formed the basis of Dorothea's day-dreams. She, too, was going to be an "elder sister" and reform the home. In the flights of her imagination she saw herself making Betty and Nancy new frocks, mending Cyril's trousers, trimming her mother's hats, correcting her father's manuscripts.

Wherever she looked she seemed to be wanted. A great place gaped in the household, and it was for the elder sister to step in and fill it. And Betty, wild madcap Betty, would want talking to, and training and putting into the way in which she should go. And, of course, lovers would come for Dot, but until Baby was well started in life she would have none of them. And when she married, "a few silver threads would be discernible in her golden hair, and there would be patient tired lines at the corners of her mouth."

But it was only the first day after school now, and she had much to think of. She was not going to commence the new order of things by being an elder sister, although the home needed her sorely.

As things had fallen out, it was necessary, she found, to set duty aside for a while.

She was invited to spend the end of December and the whole of January with Alma Montague at Katoomba. They were to stay at the best hotel there—Mrs. Montague, her sister Mrs. Stacey, Alma and Dot. Rooms had already been engaged for the party (Alma's and Dot's adjoining each other'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 must be 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 wildest imaginings she did not dream of accepting it, but Minnie Stevenson, whose school-days lay behind her too, was going down before Christmas and declared she could not be without Dot longer than the middle of February.

And Mona—Mona, her nearest and dearest friend, said it was very hot on the Richmond River till the end of March, but April was a perfect month there, and in April she would take no refusal. She must have Thea in her own home all to herself then.

Nellie Harden had her mother's consent to ask Dot to "come out" with her. The debut 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, Thea darling, and we will look so nice."

So it will be seen Dot's idea of being elder sister and home daughter had every chance of remaining an idea for the present. With such alluring 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 sadly wanting, "and I'll write Betty good letters of advice, and take some mending 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 to set out upon a journey. She was to start early in the morning and to go direct to the Redfern railway station.

Mr. Bruce had gone to town to draw a five guinea cheque for his eldest daughter. He also had to do a little shopping on her account. All his instructions were written down in Dot's fair round hand-writing upon a piece of foreign notepaper and slipped into his waistcoat pocket.

For those who are at all curious to know what the items were we will steal 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 (6d.), tooth-brush (9d.), Packet of violet powder (6d.).

Mrs. Bruce was letting down Dot's dresses, and altering a pretty blue silk evening blouse (bought ready made). Cyril had cleaned her shoes and the family portmanteau, an ugly black thing, and run half a dozen errands grumblingly—all for Dot!

Betty was locked in her room in disgrace, for running away to seek her fortune. No one was allowed to speak to her, even Baby's "Bet, Bet," was sternly hushed; two slices of bread and a glass of water were placed outside her door three times a day; three times a day she was permitted to walk for five minutes, each time alone in the garden, then back again to her room.

This state of things, which had commenced on Wednesday morning, was, if Betty showed proper penitence and meekness, to terminate on Saturday morning.

Yet even prisoner Betty was employed on Dot's behalf. She had Dot's stockings to mend, and to add insignificant things like buttons and tapes and hooks and eyes to those of her garments which had an insufficiency of such trifles. And she was sewing away industriously as she brooded over her woes.

Dot herself was unpacking and packing up. Unpacking all her exercise books, and notebooks, and stacks of neat examination papers; her lesson books and Czerney's 101 Exercises for the Pianoforte; her sewing samples and wool-work; her study of a head in crayon, and waratahs and flannel flowers in oils, and peep of Sydney Harbour in water colours.

"When I come home again," she told herself gravely, "I will arrange life: I'll practise at least two hours every morning; I'll do some solid good reading every day—some one like Shakespeare or Milton or Bacon! I'll paint every afternoon. I really have a talent for landscapes. And I'll finish writing my novel. For some things I'm really glad I've finished learning."

A keen observer, regarding Dot's new scheme for life, would detect very little time or thought for reforming the household, and training Betty and teaching the younger ones. But then, Dot's schemes varied, and a day seemed to her a very big piece of time to have to play with as she liked, all in her own hands. Hitherto it had been given out to her in hours by Miss Weir—this hour for French, that for English, this for a constitutional, that for sewing, this for the Scriptures, that for practice, and so on.

What wonder that the felt she could crowd all the arts and sciences into a 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 she looked at Betty very earnestly and shook her head, words being forbidden.

And she removed her own particular text from above her bed to above Betty's, feeling very old and sedate the while, for it must be owned conscious 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've only been trying to make you all rich."

And Dot, who was always alarmed into placidity when she had provoked wrath, returned "Blessed are the pure in heart" to its own position on the wall.



CHAPTER XXI

"GOOD-BYE, GOOD-BYE"

All was ready very early in the morning, for Dot was to start upon her journey at ten o'clock.

The little school trunk and the family portmanteau stood side by side in the hall, labelled and ready to go forth—neat clean labels, bearing the inscription in Dot's best hand-writing—

"MISS BRUCE, Passenger to Katoomba, Blue Mountains."

A strange excitement was upon Dot. She had never before in her life been upon a railway journey.

The household generally, from her father down to little Nancy, treated her with gentle politeness as a newly arrived and just departing guest.

At breakfast the bread was handed to her without her once asking for it; Nancy watched her plate eagerly, that she did not run out of butter; Mary ran in with a nicely poached egg just at the right moment; Mrs. Bruce kept her cup replenished without once asking if it was empty.

"Don't do any view hunting or gully climbing alone," said Mr. Bruce. "It's the easiest thing in life to be lost in the bush. Besides, no girl should roam about alone."

"Oh, don't be too venturesome, darling!" said Mrs. Bruce. "Just think if you fell down one of those valleys or gaps or falls!"

Yet Dot had never been "too venturesome" in her life.

"A little more bread?" inquired Cyril; "don't bother to eat that crusty bit; we can, and I'll give you some fresh."

"More butter?" piped Nancy; then taking a leaf from Cyril's book—"Don't bover to eat it if it's nasty; we will. Have some jam astead."

And Betty, in the silence of her bedroom, was drinking cold water and eating dry bread, without any one asking solicitously "if she would have a little more, or leave that if she did not like it, and have something nicer."

"Yet I was trying to earn money for them all," she said aloud. "I won't try any more. Dot only spends it, but they love her more than me."

It was while these thoughts were busy in her mind that Dot ran down the passage and opened the door suddenly. Such a dainty pretty Dot, in her new blue muslin dress that almost reached to the ground, and fitted closely to her slender little figure, and a new white straw hat with a new white gossamer floating out behind waiting to be tied when the kisses were all given and taken.

The girl's face was like a tender blush rose; her eyes were shining with actual excitement (rare thing in placid Dot), and her hair hung down her back in a thick plait tied with blue ribbon.

It was the plait which caught Betty's attention.

"Oh!" she cried in disappointment, and then stopped, remembering the silence that had been imposed upon her.

Dot ran to her and kissed her.

"It's all right," she said. "You may talk to me. I asked mother, and she says yes until I go."

"I can't when you're gone," said Betty; but she brightened up very much.

And she thought it very kind of Dot to have asked her mother to break the rule of silence, if it were only for an hour.

"I thought you were going to wear your hair on the top of your head," she said, surveying Dot's plait somewhat contemptuously.

"Mother won't let me," said Dot; "she says sixteen's too young."

"Why sixteen is old," said Betty, "and you've left school."

"I know. And mother was married at sixteen. But she says she wants me to keep my girlhood a little longer than she kept hers."

"Hem," said Betty.

"I don't want to," said Dot, and added virtuously, "but we can't do just as we like even with our own hair."

"I shall," said Betty, and gave her morsel of a plait a convincing pull. "Wasn't my hair as long as yours once; and didn't I cut it off because I wanted to?"

Then Dot bethought her of the wisdom of sixteen, and the foolishness of twelve and a bit, and she slipped her arm as lovingly around her little sister as she was wont to do around any of her friends at Westmead House.

"Dear little Betty," she said, "promise me, you poor little thing, to be good all the time I am away."

But Betty, unused to caresses, slipped away.

"You always are away," she said. "I'll be as good as I want to. I wonder how good you'd be if suddenly you had to stay at home and wash up and dust."

The picture was quite unenticing to Dot. Wash up and dust and stay at home! She moved slowly to the door, feeling very sorry for Betty.

"I must go now," she said. "All this is just a finish up to my school time. Afterwards I shall have to stay at home and be eldest daughter while you have your time. Mother says you may come to the gate and see me off if you like."

But she was genuinely sorry for Betty all the way down the hall to the front door, and her heart gave her an unpleasant pang when Betty sprang after her and thrust a shilling into her hand.

"It's my own," whispered Betty; "take it; it will buy something; I earned it. Don't be afraid; I'll earn plenty more some day," and she ran away down the path to the gate.

"Dear little Betty," said Dot, and slipped the shilling into her purse. "I'll buy something for her with it."

They all came down to the gate to see the little traveller off.

Mr. Bruce wore his best suit—well brushed—because he was going to accompany his eldest daughter as far as Redfern station. As the others were saying good-bye to her, he occupied himself by counting his money, to make sure he had enough for a first-class return ticket for her, and the three half-sovereigns he had decided to slip into her purse before they reached the station.

Mrs. Bruce, slight and small almost as Dot herself, put Baby down on the brown-green grass at the gate, while she put a few quite unnecessary finishing touches to her eldest daughter.

"I went away from my home for a visit when I was sixteen," she said—"to Katoomba, too!" Then she took Dot into her arms and held her closely for a minute. "Come back to us the same little girl we are sending away," she said as she let her go.

Cyril was waiting on the bush track, with the home-made "go-cart" piled up with Dot's luggage. He had to push it to the corner of the road and help it on the coach.

He was very anxious to get home again, for he had heard a few words whispered pleadingly by Dot, then a whispered consultation between Mr. and Mrs. Bruce. He knew what it was about. Even before his father patted Betty's head and told her to start afresh from that minute, and his mother kissed her and said, "Be a good madcap Betty, and we'll commence now instead of to-morrow morning."

Whereat Cyril became anxious to get home again to discover his sister's plans for the day.

Nancy was crying and clinging to Dot's skirt.

"Be quick and come home again," she said. "You look so nice in that hat!"

Betty climbed over the gate instead of going through it.

"I'm going down to the road to wave my handkerchief to you," she said. "Oh, mother, will you lend me yours. Mine's gone."

When she reached the road corner, a dog-cart flashed by, almost upsetting Cyril's equilibrium as he laboured along the road.

In the dog-cart were Captain Carew and big John Brown. John looked steadily at the horse's head, fearing an explosion of wrath from his grandsire if he smiled at his fellow fortune-seeker. He, too, was going to the mountains for his holidays, preparation to commencing life at a Sydney Grammar School.

But the Captain himself looked at Betty, and his grim face smiled. And there are not many who can translate a smile, so that we may take it that he was not altogether displeased with the little singer.

Down the road went Dot, after her father and Cyril—a little maid fresh from school—dainty and fresh and crying gentle tears that would not hurt her eyes, and yet must come because of all these partings.

Perhaps we shall see her again some day when she comes back again to try to be an elder sister. Perhaps we shall see Betty, too, in her new position as one of the "young ladies" of Westmead House.

But just now she has climbed an old tree-stump, and is standing there bare-headed and waving her handkerchief to cry—"Good-bye, good-bye."

Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner, Frome and London

THE END