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Queensland Cousins
by Eleanor Luisa Haverfield
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Following the curve of the thicket a little way, behind a thick group of trees Eustace came to a sudden standstill with a cry of dismay; for there, standing almost upright in the thickest of the scrub, was the figure of a man, his bare head bowed down upon his breast so that his face was invisible, his arms hanging down at his sides.

It struck Eustace at once as strange that he should be standing making this terrible sound. It would not have surprised the boy nearly so much to have found him lying down—indeed, that he had expected. Bracing himself to the task, Eustace went closer.

"I say," he said in a loud voice, "what's up?"

The man made neither sign nor movement. Could he be tied there to a stake? the boy wondered. Was he deaf and blind?

"I say," Eustace said, almost shouting now, "can't you see me?"

Fighting down his own horror of the situation, he pressed a little closer, to find the man's shirt torn to shreds, his arms pinioned down to his sides by something that looked like small cords.

"It's the 'wait-a-bit' cane!" Eustace exclaimed aloud, shrinking back sharply with a quick horror of being entrapped by it himself.

Here was an awful state of affairs. A wretched wayfarer caught and held like a fly in a spider's web, and not a soul at hand to help.

To go back to the natives was out of the question. With their reputation for cruelty and hatred of white men it would be worse than useless to appeal to them. What was to be done? What would Bob have done under the circumstances?

With a gasping cry Eustace crept closer again, and bending low he strained to catch a glimpse of the man's face without going too perilously deep into the thicket.

"Bob," whispered the boy, "Bob, is it you? Oh, speak to me—is it you?"

Little fool that he had been not to think of it before. But somehow these last hours of terror, centred only upon himself and his own means of escape, had blunted his intelligence to everything else—even to the remembrance of Bob. He was mad with himself for it now—so mad that all thought of personal danger fell away from him. He had room for nothing but the realization that this must be Bob indeed standing here helpless and dying of privation.

Oh the folly of having waited for the light! But Eustace stayed for nothing more now—not even to look at the two sides of the question. He dashed against the bushes like a little mad thing, recklessly fighting his way towards the imprisoned man.

"Bob, Bob!" he said in a voice choked with sobs.

It was difficult to grasp that this huddled, helpless figure was Bob, the big, the strong. But when at last Eustace saw the white, drawn face he knew there was no mistake about it.

There came that awful groan again, but this time Eustace did not shrink back.

"It's all right, Bob," he said huskily. "I've come now. I'm going to help you all I can. You shan't die—you shan't—you shan't."

He spoke the last words through set teeth, for he had taken out his clasp-knife, and was hacking at the cruel bonds with all his might.

It needed no explanation to tell Eustace how Bob had got there. The thing was as plain as daylight. He must have been riding fast, and inadvertently struck against some "wait-a-bit," which rebounded like a bit of twisted elastic, and caught him in such a grip that he was powerless to free himself. Bolter passed on from beneath, and the more he fought and struggled the tighter he became entangled. Had his arms been free it would have been different; but the strength of the cane was marvellous—moreover, it was covered with vicious thorns. That Bob had fought desperately for his life was to be seen by the condition of his shirt and his deeply-scored skin. He was now in a state of more than semi-unconsciousness from exhaustion and starvation; still, at intervals, he half roused himself to call for help, as he must have been doing for days.

It was no easy matter to saw through the cane, which was wound again and again round him. But bit by bit Eustace worked at it, with a ferocity that was bound to tell. He was mad with fear for Bob, and madness is said to increase strength extraordinarily.

More by good luck than good guidance the boy was not caught in the meshes himself, for he took no care.

As the last coils were cut, and Bob was bereft of his main support, he fell gradually to the ground, lying in the pathway Eustace had made to reach him, and from there the boy could not move him an inch. Perhaps owing to the change of position Bob had stopped groaning at last; but though Eustace called him, and implored him to speak, if only a word, he made no sign.

"I suppose it is faintness," Eustace thought in deep trouble, for this was something so terribly new in Bob. He did not seem the sort of fellow who could ever be ill.

Something ought to be done for him, and that quickly; this much Eustace knew. At home he would have rushed for water; but here where there was none—where there was nothing—what was he to do? If only he were a man, and carried a brandy flask, as his father always did! A sudden brilliant idea struck him—perhaps Bob carried a flask himself!

It was the work of but a few seconds to search him, and to the boy's joy he found a little flask full of spirit. It was not very long since Eustace had had a practical demonstration of what to do with some one in a faint. He remembered Mrs. Robertson's treatment of his mother the night of their fright about Becky.

So first he moistened the dry blue lips, then put a few drops between them. Oh, it was a tedious, terrifying business—too long to describe; and nothing scared Eustace more than the choking and gasping with which Bob came to himself at last. But it was the turning-point and saving of his life.

It took Bob a long time to pull himself sufficiently together to make a sign to Eustace that he knew him. He was far too weak to speak at first; but after a long, dazed study of the boy's white, miserable face, Bob's lips parted in a pitiful attempt at a smile.

To his own after-annoyance and shame, whenever he remembered it, Eustace flung himself face downwards on the ground and fairly sobbed. What fear for his own safety and all the horrors he had gone through had no power to do, the relaxation of this tension of anxiety about Bob did.

"Say, old chap," came in a far-away whisper to his ears, "don't!"

It pulled him up short. Bob's eyes were closed, and he looked so like fainting again that Eustace gave him more brandy.

It had a good effect; but later, not even when he had regained his full consciousness, could Bob move hand or foot; he was as stiff as a log. Just as he had been bound rigidly upright, so he remained now lying at full length.

"Guess I'm pretty helpless," he said in a thin, weak voice. "I shall have to be oiled before I can move." Then, after a little while, when he had been lying staring at his companion meditatively some minutes, he said, "Just explain what you are doing here, will you?"

From the very beginning—the return of Bolter—Eustace told the story of the last few days, and Bob listened with growing eagerness in his eyes.

"So you lost yourself finding me," he said at the end. "And there isn't a doubt you've saved my life, old boy."

But even this assertion did not cheer Eustace.

"I'm afraid I haven't, though," he said miserably, "because you see we are lost."

"Not a bit of it," Bob said. "If I had any legs I could walk you out of the wood in two hours. I know the way perfectly."

"Do you?" Eustace exclaimed. "Then what did you come here for?"

"Merely to see if it was true there were any natives in the neighbourhood," was the answer. "I never got as far as the camp, but my shouts brought a whole lot of them gibbering round me. It seemed to amuse them to see me there; but they threatened to kill me if I went on shouting, so I had to shut up and hope for the best. They have come each day in little batches and watched me awhile, then slipped away. At last I began to feel so bad that I rather wished they would come and finish me off, to put me out of my misery; so I began calling again. But I suppose my voice was too weak to matter; they knew I couldn't be heard. Anyhow, the beggars didn't touch me. I dare say they'll come again to-day."

Eustace looked scared.

"Oh, I say," he exclaimed, "I hope they won't. They'll take us prisoners, and goodness knows what they'll do to us. We must get away from here before they come."

"You must," said Bob, "but I can't. You'll have to take my compass, and keep going due west with it all the time. You'll know where you are the minute you get out into the open."

Eustace stared at him blankly.

"But I couldn't go and leave you," he exclaimed.

"Why not?" asked Bob with a smile.

"How could I," Eustace said warmly, "and you in danger? I just won't go. Nothing shall make me."

There was a curious light in Bob's eyes as they rested on the slip of a lad kneeling beside him.

"Good old man," he said, "you can't do me any good by staying. For both our sakes you must go, and as fast as you can."

"But suppose while I am away—" began Eustace desperately.

"We've got to chance that," said Bob bravely. "You couldn't save my life if you stayed; you could only die too, and what would be the good of that?"

"I would rather," said Eustace chokily.

"Well, I wouldn't," Bob said firmly. "We mustn't think about ourselves in it at all. You've got to go home and set the dear home-folks' minds at rest about us. They'll know no peace till they hear, one way or another. Then, of course, they'll set out to fetch me. You'll guide them. If I am here, well and good. If I am not, don't you forget I wouldn't let you stay. You did the only thing you could for me by obeying orders."

Eustace hid his face in his hands because his lips were trembling so; he felt sick, and shaky all over.

"O Bob," he said, "must I?"

"For my sake, laddie," said Bob softly.

Eustace stood up, but kept his head turned away that Bob should still not see his face.

"I do wish," said Bob lightly, "that you could give me a nice slice of beef before you go; I'm so hungry."

It was a little bit of chaff to help the boy to pull himself together. It worked quite a miracle, for Eustace's face cleared instantly.

"Why, how stupid of me!" he said. "I can give you something to eat. It was what I couldn't finish of my own."

Out of his pockets he pulled the unappetizing lumps of food he had secreted, and kneeling again, he began feeding the helpless man as if he had been a baby.

"Upon my word, you are a magician," said Bob, keeping up a cheery tone, although he could little more than whisper. "But eat some yourself; turn and turn about."

"I don't want any," said the boy.

"Obey," said Bob briskly, with his kind smile.

So they made their strange meal together. It was a small one, but quite enough for Bob after his long starvation.

"I ate every leaf and berry within my reach," he told Eustace, "or I don't think I should be alive to tell the tale. Lucky for me, they were none of them poisonous. When they were done I started on chewing twigs, but they didn't go far."

At last Eustace had no excuse to linger. Very unwillingly he rose to do Bob's behest. He had never heard of anything so awful as leaving him like this to his fate. It seemed the worst kind of desertion—something that he would be ashamed of all the days of his life.

Bob made him take his watch and chain with the compass on it.

"Keep the compass afterwards if you like," Bob said, "and give my love to every one."

Eustace turned sharply away; he could stand no more.

"Good-bye," he said thickly; "I feel a beast."

He took two quick strides forward, and walked right into some one. It was the great native chief.



CHAPTER XIII.

A GREAT SURPRISE.

Eustace thought he had never seen anything so wicked as the chief's grin when he looked down into his astonished face. The black-fellow's teeth gleamed like a wolf's. His whole expression seemed to say, "Ha, ha! so I've caught you in the very act. You don't escape me so easily, you see." He evidently felt an exultant satisfaction in frustrating his departure, or he was rejoicing over having found him again.

With an overwhelming consciousness of Bob's helplessness, Eustace moved back quickly to the prostrate figure, as if to shelter it.

"What's up, old man?" questioned Bob, who from his position could see nothing. "You're not shirking, are you?"

The chief came rapidly within range of the sick man's eyes, and Bob's face fell most unmistakably. There was disappointment in every line of it.

"Phew!" he whistled, "we've lost our chance this time."

Exactly how crestfallen the pair was it would be impossible to describe. Not that Bob had harboured any hope for himself. He knew the natives would come to him before Eustace could possibly get back with assistance, and finding him no longer an amusing spectacle, would probably dispatch him. But he had been bent on saving the boy's life and sending his message home.

The native chief said something in his rapid, unintelligible language, then turned, made a strange call, and began gesticulating violently.

Eustace dropped on his knees and hid his face on Bob's tattered shirt.

"Buck up, old chap," Bob said softly; "one can only die once. Let's show these black-fellows how a Christian and an Englishman can do it. You'll get the strength right enough; I'm not a bit afraid of your funking."

There was an advancing tramp, a crashing of branches: the chief's summons was being rapidly obeyed. With a long shuddering sigh Eustace raised himself and knelt upright, gazing down on his hero.

"That's right," said Bob steadily, with his own genial smile lighting up his whole face, "keep your eyes on mine; hold on to me if you like. I shan't think you a muff, because I know you aren't one."

But the boy did not touch him; he kept his hands clasped tightly together in a supreme effort to be worthy of Bob's belief in him. He heard the new-comers halt. The native spoke and moved aside. Then—

"Both of them!" exclaimed a familiar voice. "Thank God for that."

Eustace sank back in a heap on the ground and stared up.

"Father!" cried Bob in astonishment.

It was Mr. Cochrane indeed, and with him Mr. Orban—as haggard a pair as could be met with in a long day's march.

It seemed little short of a miracle that they should appear at such a juncture, yet the explanation proved simple enough. The native chief had fetched them straight to the spot. There was no sort of nobility in the act: the man knew enough of white men's ways to expect a big reward. Bob he did not know; but when Eustace appeared on the scene he recognized the boy as belonging to the master of the neighbouring plantation, whom he had seen many times from a distance as he rode through the Bush. Mr. Orban was out with Mr. Cochrane making a frantic search of the entire neighbourhood when the chief arrived, and he would communicate his business to no one else. Not that it is likely any one else would have understood him or followed him as Mr. Orban did the moment he arrived home. The language was unintelligible to both men; but putting two and two together in their great anxiety, they made out that the chief could lead them where they would find something of interest to themselves. They had not dared to hope he knew the whereabouts of both their sons, or to speculate which they should find; they did not even know whether they were being taken to the living or the dead.

"I'm afraid you'll have a bit of bother getting me home," said Bob; "I'm as stiff as a board, and can't move hand or foot."

Then he told his story, and how Eustace had found him, and to all intents and purposes saved his life.

"And you, Eustace," said Mr. Orban—"how did you come here?"

When Eustace came to the description of the answering coo-ee on the banks of the creek, Mr. Orban interrupted him.

"That was only an echo. I knew there was one there, but I never thought of telling you."

"Thank God you didn't," said Mr. Cochrane, "and that he made the mistake. We should never have found Bob but for that."

"Father," Eustace said anxiously, "you won't forget poor old Bolter, will you? This black-fellow has got him in the camp over there."

"I had quite forgotten him," Mr. Orban said; "and we shall need him too."

Their own horses were quietly waiting a little distance back. By means of much gesticulation—pointing towards the horses, and then in the direction of the camp—the chief was made to understand what was wanted; and after a little demur he went away to fetch Bolter, but certainly most grudgingly.

The journey back to the plantation was one that none of the party could ever forget. The difficulty of conveying the helpless Bob, the suffering he so bravely tried to endure, and the terrible time it took, were indescribable.

It had of course been necessary to tell both mothers of the loss of their sons. Mrs. Cochrane and Trixy had gone immediately to the Orbans' house as more central for obtaining news.

Mr. Orban dispatched one coolie from the plantation for the doctor, who lived fifteen miles away. Another man he sent up the hill as fast as he could go with a note preparing his wife for their arrival, and the whole white-faced party was out waiting for it as the slow procession—Bob on a stretcher in the midst—wound its way to the house.

The joy of the meeting was lost sight of in the anxiety, for Bob was by this time delirious with pain, Eustace so weak that he was nearly fainting.

For the next ten days the house was no better than a hospital—its central interest the condition of the two patients within its walls; but the first day Bob and Eustace were brought out on to the veranda—two white-faced shadows of themselves—Bob laughingly called it the convalescent home.

Up to that point everything was, as Nesta expressed it, horrid; but when Bob was about again, even if his voice was weaker, his laugh a ghost of itself, matters at once began to improve.

They were all sitting together enjoying the cool of the evening.

"What I can't understand," said Nesta meditatively, breaking a long pause, "is why the black-fellows wouldn't let Eustace answer father's coo-ee."

"It is quite simple," said Mr. Orban. "The chief had evidently given strict orders he was not to be allowed to go in his absence, and they were afraid we should come and take him away. Then the chief would have got no reward."

"What I can't understand," said Peter, who never remained long in the background, "is why the black-fellows didn't cut Bob down. It was wicked of them."

"That's what I think," said Nesta. "If they left him because they thought it funny, I wish they could be tortured."

"Nesta, Nesta, my darling!" said Mrs. Orban warningly.

"I suppose," said Miss Chase softly, "the poor things have no knowledge of mercy."

"None," said Mr. Cochrane, who was over spending the evening; "and they wouldn't understand it if you showed them any, either."

"No heathens ever do," said Mrs. Orban, "and how should they? They have no Great Example to follow as we have. It is the people who have the chance of knowing better, and still are cruel and heartless, that I would have tortured—if any one."

Mr. Orban gave a soft laugh.

"If any one, indeed, wife," he said. "You know as well as I do that you wouldn't have a spider hurt for torturing a fly."

Every one laughed with him except Mrs. Orban herself. Her tender heart was as good as a fable in the household. But she said quite gravely,—

"You have chosen a bad example for once, Jack. A spider is as ignorant as a heathen. It has only its own nature to follow."

"Got the worst of it there, Mr. Orban," said Bob in an amused tone.

"Talking of cruelty," remarked Miss Chase, "what do you do to your unfortunate cows here at night? I never heard such a dismal noise as they make."

"Cows!" exclaimed every one in astonishment.

"Yes, cows," was the answer. "If you listen you can hear them now."

There was an instant hush, followed by renewed peals of laughter.

"Those aren't cows I advise you to go and sympathize with, Miss Chase," said Bob. "We call them alligators hereabouts, and at the present minute they are lying on the banks of the creek wishing a nice, tasty supper would come strolling along."

"There are alligators in the river, and yet Nesta says you boat on it and bathe in it!" exclaimed Miss Chase. "What extraordinary people you are!"

"There are alligators one side of the bar and sharks the other, and one often upsets going over it in rough weather," said Bob cheerfully.

"How horrible!" said Miss Chase.

"When Aunt Dorothy saw a tarantula strolling round the table towards her the other day she nearly had a fit," said Peter.

"Don't tell tales out of school, Peter Perky," said Aunt Dorothy. "A poor, ignorant Englishwoman isn't expected to be brave when she sees a spider as big as a penny bun, with furry legs in proportion, trying to sit on her knee."

"Then, so far, Miss Chase," said Bob, with a twinkle in his eyes, "you are not infatuated with our Bush life?"

"Have you and Eustace given me much chance to be?" she asked. "You must confess you did not give me a very good first impression by both running away and losing yourselves. We don't think that sort of thing necessary for the entertainment of our friends in England. Spiders are spiders there, too, not animated penny buns, and our cows don't want to eat us."

"Oh, of course," said Bob, "everything is perfect in England—isn't it, Nesta?"

"It has some advantages," said Mrs. Orban. "I think the absence of these excitements is amongst them."

She was looking very worn out after her recent experiences.

"Well, it's my opinion, my dear," said Mr. Orban, "that with your little family you would have excitements wherever you went. It has seemed fated to give you one shock after another."

"Only just lately, Jack," was the gentle response, for Mrs. Orban caught a contrite expression in Eustace's eyes.

"It was the coming of the witch that did it," said Bob. "As soon as she started for Queensland queer things began happening over here. She wanted to make you out of conceit with life here, so that she could more easily bewitch you over to England. That was her spell."

"And the queer thing is," said Mr. Orban quite gravely, "that it has acted. She is going to take them all away from me when she goes—wife, and sons, and daughters."

"Father," exclaimed Nesta, "what are you saying?"

"Is it a story, daddy?" demanded Peter.

"No, the solemn truth," said Mr. Orban.

"I don't understand," said Eustace blankly.

"How should you when so much nonsense is being talked?" said his mother. "But the fact is, father thinks a change of air would do us all a great deal of good; and as grannie wants us, and has sent us our passage money—"

"Oh! oh! oh!" cried Nesta, "don't go on, mummie. You make it sound just as if it were real, and it will be so disappointing to have to un-fancy it again."

But Eustace said breathlessly,—

"Mother, is it true?"

"Quite true," was the grave answer. "We sail the end of next month. It is all settled."

"What did I say?" said Bob in mock despair. "She'll take you away, and you'll never come back any more."

"Oh, there you are quite wrong, Bob," said Mrs. Orban. "If Dorothy is a witch, Jack is a wizard, and he will magic us all back again in a year and a day at latest."

"Well, I simply can't believe it," said Nesta.

"It's the queerest thing I have ever heard," said Eustace.

But Peter set up such yells of delight he had to be repressed by the early-to-bed threat—always a useful one when Peter became rampageous, for he hated going to bed at any time.

That evening no one could talk of anything but this trip to England. No matter what subject was started, everything harked back to this wonderful plan, which Mr. Orban had been thinking out for some time, only confiding in his wife and Miss Chase as long as the matter was undecided. Bob kept up the appearance of being utterly woebegone, and Nesta and Peter seemed to have turned into machines for asking questions.

Of the party only Eustace was silent, and presently Nesta noticed the fact.

"Aren't you most awfully glad?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Eustace slowly.

"Goodness!" said Nesta in a bustling tone, "you've always said you wanted to go."

"That was when I knew we couldn't," replied Eustace, scarcely thinking what he was saying.

"What a funny thing to say," said Nesta. "But you do still want to go, don't you?"

"I don't know," said Eustace.

"Well, you are a queer boy," said Nesta in rather a disgusted tone. "I call that silly."

"I think I know just what Eustace means," said Miss Chase quietly. "He wants to get there without going—to be there without leaving home. It is how I felt about coming here."

"I don't understand a bit," said Nesta, with a shake of her head.

"I do," said Bob. "One knows what one is leaving, but one doesn't know what one is going to. It is a toss-up whether there is to be any happiness in the venture. But I prophesy the witch will see to it you don't want to come back in a hurry. You'll enjoy yourself no end."

"Why, Bob," exclaimed Nesta in astonishment, "how you have changed! That is all the opposite to what you have always said before."

"Is it?" said Bob lamely. "Well, I suppose I must be bewitched too. What do you expect when you will import such things into the country?"



CHAPTER XIV.

A MOONLIGHT DISTURBANCE.

"Aunt Dorothy's cows" became as great a family joke as "Aunt Dorothy's lunatics;" indeed, scarcely a day passed that the household was not amused by some quaint mistake of hers. Every one chaffed her, especially Bob; and as the two patients rapidly recovered, the house-party was a merry one. In spite of the thought of parting with his family so soon, Mr. Orban was in much better spirits; the cane had been safely cut, the good crop had been spoiled neither by fire nor the rainy season coming too soon, and the crushing was well in progress.

"Oh dear," exclaimed Nesta one morning at breakfast, "I am so sorry you are getting well, Bob."

"Very kind of you, I'm sure," said Bob with deliberate politeness. "One is always so glad of one's friends' good wishes."

Every one laughed except Nesta.

"Well, you know what I mean," she said. "Of course the minute you are well you will go, and the house will be duller than ever without you."

"Very prettily put for the rest of us, dear," said Miss Chase. "I am sure we feel much complimented."

"I don't know what you mean," said Nesta in bewilderment. "I didn't mean to compliment any one."

"You achieved it, however," said Bob. "You called them a pack of dull dogs not fit to live with. Of course they feel charmed with your opinion."

"Oh, I didn't," said Nesta.

"You inferred it," said Miss Chase. "However, we forgive you. Fortunately we shan't be able to die of dullness entirely, because there will be so much to be done preparing for the voyage."

"I vote Bob stays with us till we go," said Eustace.—"He would be jolly useful, wouldn't he, mother?"

"Really, Eustace," remonstrated Mrs. Orban with a laugh, "I am ashamed of you. Is that the way you treat your friends?"

Eustace reddened and looked uncomfortable as the laugh went round. Glancing deprecatingly at Bob, he found that he was not even smiling. It did seem a cheeky way of putting it.

"I beg your pardon," he began, when Bob interrupted quickly.

"No, don't. I was only thinking what a jolly thing you had said. What are friends for if they are not to be made use of?"

"That is rather a dangerous theory to propound," said Mr. Orban. "Supposing your friends take advantage of it—what then?"

"A real friend never would take advantage of it," said Bob with certainty; "that is just how you can test him. The chap who will take nothing from you, but only give, is a patronizing bounder; the fellow who will give nothing to you, but only take, is a mean beggar; the man who will give and take equally is your chum. Hold on to him when you've got him."

"An excellent definition, Bob," said Mr. Orban, with a genial smile. "We shall certainly never let you go."

There was a second's pause, then Bob said quietly,—

"Thank you, sir. I guess I shall hold on to all of you too."

It took Nesta to the end of breakfast to unravel the meaning of the sudden gravity that had fallen over the party, and then she was not sure of herself.

"Why, you silly," said Eustace, to whom she appealed in private, "don't you see?—Father as good as said it—Bob is the right kind of chap to have for a chum. And so he is. I guess I know that better than any one."

"I don't see why you should," exclaimed Nesta jealously. "We all know Bob; he isn't anybody's in particular. He said himself he meant to hold on to all of us, not just one person only."

Her tone was "snubby" in the extreme, but Eustace was utterly silent for a moment.

Nesta did not know it; he would never know it himself; but there was a big difference in Eustace nowadays. He had not gone through great experiences untouched; some things in life leave an indelible impression.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "I'm glad he said that."

Nesta was so astonished at getting no response to her assertion that she exclaimed,—

"Said what?"

"Why, that he will hold on to us," Eustace said.

"Well," Nesta remarked, again with a touch of superiority, "of course we all knew that without his telling us."

Eustace eyed her with a quietness that somehow irritated the girl. She could not understand him at all, and nothing annoyed Nesta so much as to discover she was not understanding something that was perfectly clear to somebody else.

"Didn't you know it?" she asked sharply.

"Of course," said Eustace dreamily.

"Then what do you mean?" Nesta demanded.

"I was thinking about going to England," was the seemingly irrelevant reply.

"What has that got to do with it?" said Nesta.

"Everything," Eustace said. "If we had been going to stay here for ever and ever I shouldn't have thought so much about it. As it is, it means a lot that good old Bob won't forget us."

"Why, how stupid you are to-day," Nesta exclaimed. "Did you think he might in 'a year and a day,' as mother calls it?"

"How do you know it will be only 'a year and a day'?" Eustace said almost roughly. "How do you know we shall ever come back?"

"Eustace!" cried Nesta, staring at him as if she thought he must have suddenly gone mad.

"Well?" he said briefly.

"But this is home—and father is staying here," the girl argued. "We couldn't stay in England for ever."

"I don't know," said Eustace. "I've got an awfully queer feeling about going ever since it was settled. And it seems to me Bob has it too."

"Oh, stuff!" said Nesta bracingly. "Bob only says it to tease Aunt Dorothy."

"He said just the same things before Aunt Dorothy came," was the response. "That is nothing to go by."

"Well, neither are your queer feelings," said Nesta. "I haven't any. I don't see why we should stay in England. What is to make us?"

"Suppose we were left there to go to school?" suggested Eustace, watching her narrowly.

Nesta stared at him blankly. It was evidently a new idea to her.

"Do you think we might be?" she said; then her expression broke, and she smiled. "It would be just splendid, wouldn't it?" she added.

Eustace was silent a moment.

"You wouldn't mind leaving Trixy?" he said.

"Well, I should come back again," Nesta answered, feeling somehow annoyingly rebuked, "and I should have such loads and shoals of things to tell her and show her. All about the girls and my clothes, you know—"

"Oh," exclaimed Eustace in a tone of disgust, "that is all girls care about—talking, and showing off."

"It isn't," Nesta said quickly. "I should like the learning."

"Well, I shouldn't," admitted Eustace frankly; "I hate learning. It is only games that make school worth going to, and that isn't enough to make up for other things."

"What other things?" asked Nesta curiously.

"Oh, never mind," said Eustace impatiently; "I don't want to talk about it."

But Nesta did exceedingly; she wanted to talk of nothing else; till at last Eustace went off in desperation down the hill to watch the sugar crushing, saying something about, "It isn't as if people could come back to Queensland for the holidays," and "Everything would be different when they were all grown up."

"I don't know what is the matter with him," Nesta said to herself in perplexity. "I do believe he doesn't want to go at all. And I'm sure he is wrong about our staying there. No such luck!"

Bob did stay on after he was quite well and strong, and he entirely justified Eustace's prophecy. He proved most useful; nothing apparently could have been done without him. "But for Bob," said Mrs. Orban, "I don't believe we should ever be ready in time."

It was he who saw to the soundness of the travelling boxes, to the making of a packing case; he who had advice and assistance to give to every one, and who was certainly the life and spirit of the party in the evenings when other people seemed tired or out of heart. Eustace was not at all in good form. Mrs. Orban was at times inclined to have grave misgivings as to the wisdom of the step, and of course felt leaving her husband. Mr. Orban himself, though he insisted on the trip, was naturally a little sad at the prospect. Even Aunt Dorothy—the witch—had her moments of sadness that her visit should be drawing so rapidly to a close. Only to Nesta and Peter did the time seem to drag and hang heavy, as if it would never pass.

"You'll have to come back with them, Miss Chase," said Bob a few evenings before the great departure.

"I wish I could," she said; "but I am quite sure mother and father won't see the force of that."

"Well, I think you ought to—don't you, Mrs. Orban?" Bob said. "Miss Chase hasn't had half enough Colonial experiences yet."

"The few you have given me have been sufficiently vivid to count for a good many though," said the girl merrily. "I don't know that I really want any more."

"One doesn't always want what is good for one," said Bob. "Besides, there is another way of looking at it—isn't there, Nesta? It has been proved you are a witch. You ought to be brought back by main force to be punished for whisking these good people all off to England with you."

"So she ought," said Nesta gleefully. "She must be burned at the stake. We'll make you come."

"We will, Aunt Dorothy," cried Peter, ready for the fray; "and if you won't, we'll get Bob to come and fetch you."

"Will you really, Peter Perky?" retorted Aunt Dorothy. "I should like to see you. Why, Mr. Cochrane wouldn't set his nose inside England for all the witches in the world."

"Well, no, perhaps not for all the witches in the world," said Bob thoughtfully; "they might prove rather too much for me. But what a lot of nonsense we talk, to be sure."

The nonsense had the effect of sending Miss Chase to bed quite unusually meditative, and, do what she would, she could not get off to sleep for wondering whether she ever would come back to Queensland again. It seemed of all things most impossible, and yet, as she argued, who would ever have thought of her coming at all this time only a year ago?

She had become accustomed to most of the night sounds that had at first puzzled and sometimes frightened her, and by day there was something about the life that delighted her—it was so free, such an open air existence! "They seem to me to sweep all their worries with the dust over the edge of the veranda," she thought. "I think England will feel a little stiff and shut in after it."

It was a bright moonlight night. A deluded cock at about midnight awoke and fancied it must be day. He crowed so loudly over his discovery that he roused a great enemy of his, who replied in husky irritation and no measured terms that he was a fool. But the mischief was done—some half-dozen young cockerels took the matter up as a joke, and crowed persistently in spite of all remonstrance from the rest of the poultry.

Miss Chase put her head under the bedclothes and tried to shut out the sound, but in vain. Besides, it was far too hot to sleep with a buried nose and mouth. Resolutely keeping her eyes tight shut, she set her mind upon nothing but sleep. She must have lain like that for quite ten minutes, when suddenly her eyes unclosed in spite of her, just as if they were worked by a spring, and she was as wide awake as ever. At least so she fancied the first instant, but the next she thought she must be dreaming. There had been no sound—nothing but Nesta's regular breathing—and yet at the other side of the room, standing with his back towards her, was the figure of a man.

Her first impulse was to call out, her second prompted caution, and she pinched herself hard to make sure whether she was awake or not. There was no doubt about it—she was not asleep; the pinch hurt considerably, and the man was still there. He was apparently examining the things on her dressing-table minutely, and she guessed he was looking for valuables. Knowing the story of the dark visitor who had frightened every one so before her arrival, Miss Chase had followed the general rule and left nothing of any value lying about, though no one thought a thief would venture into the house now that it was so full. Here he certainly was, however, and the question was, "What ought she to do?"

Miss Chase lay absolutely still, her heart beating to suffocation, her mind working rapidly. There was no saying that this was the same man. He might be of a much more desperate and vicious character. Had she been alone she might have risked screaming for help, but there was also Nesta to be considered; she dared not expose the child to a knock on the head to silence her.

The man took a slow tour of the room, peering into nooks and corners in a stealthy, silent way that was most eerie to watch. Miss Chase bore it until at last he went towards Nesta's bed with that cat-like, sinister gait. The horror of his approaching the helpless sleeper at the other side of the room was too much for the girl's strained nerves. His back was towards her; he fancied her asleep. Slipping her hand under her pillow she drew out a small revolver, then sat up softly and took careful aim. There was a report, a howl of fear and pain, and the man turned to gaze wildly round the room. Nesta sprang from her bed with a terrified yell and rushed to her aunt, who sat, still pointing her weapon at the intruder, with a look of grim determination in her eyes.

With a heavy groan the man started towards the window, limping pitifully. He disappeared out on to the veranda, leaving a trail of blood across the uncarpeted floor.

"Now go for your father," said Miss Chase, giving the trembling girl a push. "Tell him what has happened."

Nesta needed no second bidding, but she had not reached the door before it opened and Mr. Orban dashed in.

"Through there," said Miss Chase, pointing towards the window. "Follow the blood track. He can't go fast. I winged him."



CHAPTER XV.

WHO IS IN THE BOAT?

"Really, Miss Chase," said Bob next morning, "I'm glad you didn't burst all your accomplishments on us at once. We might have been rather frightened of you."

Miss Chase smiled. She was looking very pale, and unlike her usual bright self.

"I hope I didn't do an awfully wrong thing," she said nervously; "but I had only two definite ideas—one was to save Nesta, the other not to let the man get away."

"You were perfectly right, Dorothy," Mr. Orban said; "there would never have been any end to the worry until he was caught. He may thank his stars I didn't find him out. I should not have been so merciful."

"So that is why you aimed at his ankle, Aunt Dorothy?" said Eustace. "It was clever of you to think of laming him."

"She says she did," said Bob, the tease.—"But are you quite sure, Miss Chase, that you really didn't aim at his head? For most women his ankle would have been wonderfully near the mark."

"I shall treat the aspersion with silent contempt," laughed Miss Chase.

"Where did you learn to shoot like that, Dorothy?" asked Mrs. Orban.

"Oh, I've patronized every shooting gallery that has come to the village for the last eighteen years, I should think," was the answer. "But, do you know, I feel most awfully remorseful about that poor fellow. He will be lame for a long time."

In the kitchen sat Manuel, the stable-boy, his leg bandaged and resting on a chair; for the midnight visitor on both occasions had been no other. He confessed to the first performance quite readily, and declared that this second had been at the instigation of Sinkum Fung, who promised always to get the reward for stolen goods, and give him half. Mr. Orban was not sorry to get hold of some definite reason for turning Sinkum Fung out of the place. He had long suspected him to be a cheat, and he wanted an Englishman in the store. But Manuel, when he was well, was to be allowed to retrieve his character, as he protested vehemently he would.

"You needn't worry about Manuel," said Bob. "We shall all be coming to you to shoot us, if you'll just bind us up as beautifully afterwards. Did you learn that in the shooting galleries too, in case you put the showman's eye out?"

Miss Chase really did treat this speech with silent scorn, and changed the subject.

The clearing up of the black-fellow mystery was a great relief to every one's mind.

"Though it comes rather late in the day, just when we are going away," said Mrs. Orban.

"Do you know, I don't feel a bit as if we were really going," Miss Chase declared the very evening before their departure.

All the same, when the next day came, they started in the plantation schooner for Cooktown, accompanied by Bob and Mr. Orban, who were going to see them off.

The children found many excitements on the way; and when finally they were hoisted on board the big boat by means of a crane and basket, Peter's joy knew no bounds.

Nesta found it was certainly not very nice saying the last "good-byes," and she wished Eustace had not said anything to her about the possibility of not coming back to Queensland for years.

But when they were fairly off, and out of sight of waving hands and the two strong, kind faces that had been his ideals from his babyhood, even Eustace began to cheer up considerably. He had been very much like a bear with a sore head, rather to his mother's and Miss Chase's astonishment; for Eustace could generally be counted on as sensible and fairly serene in temper. To get short answers from him, to find him unreasonably uninterested in things, and to see him really snappy with Nesta and Peter, was something new and extraordinary.

"Well, good-bye, old chap," said Bob. "Let England see the best side of you, and be a credit to us."

The words rang in the boy's ears long after, and he pulled himself together with a sudden consciousness that he had not been much of a credit to any one for some days. He hoped Bob hadn't noticed it, for never, never could he explain to him that it was just the thought of leaving him that made going away so hard. If only he had not been possessed by the horrible feeling that he would never come back again, or at least not for years and years, it would have been different.

It was impossible not to become interested in the boat before very long—it was so huge, such a real house afloat, and so unusual. Peter revelled in going downstairs to bed. Becky wanted to play in what she called her "bunky-bye" instead of going to sleep. Nesta eyed some other families of children speculatively, wondering how much good they would prove as friends on the voyage. But Eustace only wanted to talk to the officers, especially the captain, of whom he determined to ask hundreds of questions about the machinery, how he knew his way, and the exact time the boat would reach every port, just to be able to check it off, and see how far he was right in his estimates.

The first day was a lovely one—a less likely one to be productive of adventures could scarcely be imagined.

"Calm as a duck-pond, isn't it, sir?" said one of the seamen to Eustace, who stood staring out to sea. "Yet I've seen some storms here too. It's a nasty bit of coast, with some ugly reefs about."

"Are there many wrecks here?" asked Eustace with interest.

"A goodish few," said the seaman; "but one doesn't look for them this kind of weather."

"No, of course not," said Eustace, with a great show of certainty, for he did not want the man to imagine he was scaring him.

Peter had been fairly irrepressible all day. He was always a fidget—made on springs, his father said—and the excitement carried him away entirely. He talked to every one indiscriminately, especially if they happened to be in uniform, and had no shyness in asking questions. He had a dozen friends in a very few hours. Afraid lest he should weary people, Mrs. Orban tried to keep him with her, and towards evening she said,—

"You might play with poor Becky a little, Peter. She will have to go to bed very soon, and I think it has been a duller day for her than for any one else."

Which was probably true, as Becky was too tiny to have the sustained interest in things the others had.

So Peter began a game of romps with Becky, which at first consisted of careering round and round and in and out between their mother's and aunt's chairs, Peter making the reiterated assertion, "I'll catch you, I'll catch you," Becky retorting with delighted chuckles, "Oo can't, oo can't!"

Mrs. Orban was just congratulating herself that Becky would be delightfully sleepy after the exercise, when the child made a sudden dive away from the chairs in her excitement, Peter behind her. The next minute she was rolling head over heels down the companion-ladder, down which it had evidently been her intention to go right side up, for a joke.

The yells that proceeded from the passage below assured every one that Becky was not killed; but when she was picked up it was discovered that one poor little wrist was terribly sprained. She must have fallen with it doubled under her. To put her to bed in such pain was out of the question; her mother's arms was the only place in which she could find any rest. So Mrs. Orban remained on deck in the cool with Miss Chase near her. The children's bedtime was quite forgotten; in fact, after the doctor had examined Becky and reported on her injuries, Nesta, Eustace, and Peter had disappeared—probably out of range of orders to go to bed. Their mother, when she gave them a thought, supposed them to be all together, and in her anxiety over Becky never realized how late it was getting.

It was quite dark. All the other children had disappeared. Most of the grown-ups who had begun the voyage together, and were friendly by now, were in the music-room below having a concert. The ship was utterly still but for the throb of the engines and the "swish" of the water as the bows cut through it. They were running at full speed, without a pitch or a roll, the sea as clear as glass, when all of a sudden there was an awful crash, and the boat shuddered from bow to stern.

In an instant the peaceful scene was changed to one of wildest confusion. There were cries of terror, hurried questions, rapid orders, the crew dashing hither and thither, and a stream of horror-stricken people began swarming up from below. It was awful, the intense darkness of the night adding to the confusion immeasurably.

"We've struck on a rock," Mrs. Orban heard some one say. "There isn't a minute to lose."

"Man the boats!" called a strident voice, and there was a running of ropes over pulleys, a creaking and a splashing not far away.

"Here you are, ma'am," a seaman said, taking her by the arm.

"Oh, the children!" said Mrs. Orban, holding back.

"We're here, mother," said Nesta's voice at her elbow.

"We'll see to them, ma'am," said the seaman; "you and the little one first."

He was almost rough in his kindness; and Mrs. Orban found herself swinging down into the boat below before she had time to make any protestations.

One after another, through pitch darkness into the only chance for safety, people were sent down. It was impossible to know who came—nothing could be seen or heard. The seamen above could not stop to pick and choose, but whoever they could lay hands on went.

Then came a hoarse cry—the boat was becoming overcrowded, the crew pushed off, and away they went with a bound at every stroke of the oars. To Mrs. Orban it was a hideous nightmare of awful anxiety. She could not tell whether all her children and her sister were with her or not. Her one ray of hope was that as they had apparently been all standing close together, the others must have been put in after her. But people had rushed so the moment they knew the boats were lowered, there was an awful possibility the children had been swept aside. They were certainly not near her, for she called their names and Dorothy's again and again, and there was no answer.

The men had not been rowing for seven minutes when there was a sudden awful sound behind them, and the boat plunged and rocked as if she were a living thing gone mad with terror.

"Oh, what was that?" Mrs. Orban cried, and the question ran from mouth to mouth.

"The ship," answered a solemn voice with a break in it; "she's gone under, poor thing. Must have been ripped from bows to stern."

The silence that followed was dreadful. How many boats had got away? Who was left on board? There was not one in the boat who had not a thought of agonized pity for the poor souls left behind.

It was so unexpected; every one was so unprepared. Who could suppose that with a sea as calm as a mill-pond a great vessel could strike on a rock and sink in less than seven minutes?

Afterwards, when the matter came to be investigated, it was discovered that the Cora had run on to a coral reef unmarked in the charts. Coral reefs form with extraordinary rapidity, and are infinitely dangerous, because they are so sharp as to cut like razors. The loss of the Cora was no one's fault; but that fact was of but little comfort to those whose friends went down in her.

The boat pulled steadily on awhile, then paused, for no one could be certain where she lay as regarded the shore.

"Easy, mates," said the man in command. "We must hang about till there's a gleam of light to give us our bearings, or we shall go down like that poor thing over there."

In the hush that fell it was possible to hear each other speak. People began to question who was in the boat with them.

"Eustace, Nesta, Peter, are you there?" cried Mrs. Orban.

"Yes, mother; yes, mother," she heard, and her heart bounded with thankfulness.

"And you, Dorothy?" she forced herself to say.

But to this there was no answer.

"Children," Mrs. Orban said, "isn't your aunt there?"

"I don't know," Eustace said; "she wouldn't come before us."

There could be no doubt that Miss Chase was not there.

The first streak of daylight fell upon a boatload of haggard men and women, afraid of, yet longing for, the day. It was discovered that they had come within half a mile of shore, and the crew pulled with a will till they beached the boat. One after another in the shadowy gloom the stiff, cramped figures landed. There were meetings, but no open rejoicings, because of those others left behind.

Eustace and Nesta clung to their mother, half sobbing.

"And Peter," she said—"where is Peter?"

"Peter?" said the other two blankly.

"I thought you said he was there?" said Mrs. Orban.

"We—we answered for ourselves," faltered Eustace. "I didn't notice he didn't speak."

The boat was empty now. Groups of shivering, unstrung people stood about, utterly incapable of thinking what to do next. But Peter was not there—nor was Dorothy.



CHAPTER XVI.

WHAT THE TIDE BROUGHT IN.

The stranded party was much in need of a leader till one of the crew volunteered the information that some miles higher up the coast there was a beche-de-mer station where they would probably get some means of communicating with the rest of the world, and at least find food, of which every one was much in need. Beche-de-mer fisheries are a feature of the coast, the beche-de-mer being a huge sea-slug, thought to be a great delicacy.

This particular station was owned by some half-caste Portuguese, and worked by a mixture of aborigines and Malays, a most unpromising and ruffianly-looking set. However, they received the unhappy boatload quite civilly, promised that a messenger should be dispatched across country to the nearest civilized centre, and provided a good meal of salt junk, sweet potatoes, rice, and tea. It did not matter to the exhausted men and women that they had to eat off tin plates, drink out of tin pannikins, and that the food was more roughly prepared and served than any they had ever tasted before.

They camped under some trees for the meal; and many sad eyes looked towards the great calm sea, where not a trace of last night's tragedy was to be seen. In the distance there was the sail of an outgoing vessel—one of the beche-de-mer boats off on a several months' trip. Besides that, there was just one tiny speck, not so far out as the sail, but much smaller.

"It's a boat," said the captain of the station, a swarthy Portuguese. He had been watching the speck for some time through a telescope. "So far as I can make out it is something of the same build as yours."

There was instant excitement. Could it be another of the ship's boats?

It seemed an eternity before the boat came close enough to discover that she did indeed belong to the ill-fated Cora. The crowd on the beach was speechless before she pulled in to shore and her worn-out occupants were disembarked.

Amongst the anxious watchers were Mrs. Orban, with the fretful, feverish Becky in her arms, and Nesta and Eustace. But though they pressed forward and saw every man, woman, and child that landed, there was no comfort for them. Miss Chase and Peter had not come. There was but one interpretation to put on this—they had never left the ship.

"Any more boats likely to come?" asked a woman whose husband was missing.

"No, lady," said a sailor, shaking his head pitifully. "They only got one more out, and she was overcrowded and swamped. There was no time for anything."

There is no describing the misery of the day that followed—the terrible blankness for many, the haunting recollection that all had of the nightmare experience.

The men at the station were as kind as they could be in their rough way. The sailors who had manned the boats set to work to arrange some comforts for the women and children, improvising hammocks for them to lie in, as sleeping in the grass was dangerous on account of snakes and other disagreeables.

Poor little Becky spent a day of weeping, for her wrist was very painful. She needed all Mrs. Orban's attention, which was perhaps fortunate for the poor lady—it gave her less time for brooding over her terrible loss. Nesta cried herself nearly silly, and then fell asleep in a hammock that a kindly old sailor prevailed on her to try.

Eustace was too restless to settle down. He spent his time hovering about his white-faced, desolate-looking mother. The moment inaction began to tell on him and make him feel sleepy he went away for a while, and paced up and down by the water's edge to rouse himself. However useless his presence, he could not bear to leave his mother lonely and unwatched; it seemed heartless to forget her and her sorrows in sleep when she could take no rest.

"She might want something, or perhaps she would like to speak," he argued, "or she may cry presently; and there mustn't be no one to comfort her."

But Mrs. Orban asked for nothing for herself, only water now and then to bandage Becky's wrist. She took the food when it was given her, but ate very little. Whatever she was thinking about, she did not speak of her trouble, but inquired after Nesta, and whether she and Eustace had had plenty of food and felt no symptoms of chill or fever.

"I wish father or Bob would come quick," thought the boy helplessly; "we're no good. She is only thinking about taking care of us all the time; and I don't know how to look after her. It would have been better if I had been drowned instead of Aunt Dorothy; she would have known what to do."

He was doing one of his violent pacings up and down, and every turn backwards or forwards he had to change his course, for the tide was running in fast. The sea fascinated him; he could not help watching it, especially now when all sorts of bits of wreckage were beginning to float in—lengths of rope, a life-belt or two, and things belonging to the Cora's deck. The men from the station were watching with the sailors and hauling things in to land.

"Any bodies that went down will be carried by the under current into the next bay," Eustace heard the beche-de-mer owner explaining to the Cora's crew.

"Well, my name's not Swaine," said an old sailor with a telescope, "if that isn't one coming now."

There was a thrill of excitement, an immediate demand for the telescope, as every one pressed forward.

"It will be a broken spar," said the beche-de-mer captain. "I've been here fifteen years and there's never such a thing happened yet."

"I'm going out in one of the boats, mate," said the old sailor resolutely. "Who is coming with me?"

There were many volunteers at once, and the boat was launched.

Eustace remained as if frozen to the spot. He could just see the log-like thing lying upon the water, gently tossed by the tiny waves that were slowly, slowly bearing it to shore. It certainly looked no bigger than a broken spar, and very much that shape as, the boat drawn up alongside, two sailors leant over and lifted it in.

It was all Eustace could do to make himself stay until the boat's return, and he covered his face as the burden was gently lifted ashore.

"It's all right, youngster," said a kindly voice at his elbow, one of the older sailors; "he is alive—only unconscious. It's a miracle; but there, miracles do happen, say what you will."

The news made all the difference to Eustace, and he pressed round with the rest.

"Here," said one of the Cora's crew, catching sight of him suddenly, "make way for this laddie—it's his own brother."

In utter bewilderment Eustace felt himself forced to the centre of the crowd, and there, with a man kneeling beside him trying restoratives, lay Peter, with a life-belt round him, his face ashen, and his fair hair all sodden—but he was living. They said he was alive, but certainly he did not look it.

Eustace turned, fought his way madly through the press, and dashed up the beach straight to the trees where his mother sat bending over Becky.

"Hush," she said warningly; "I am just getting her off to sleep."

The quiet voice pulled the boy up just in time, before he had blurted out his news in all its crudeness.

"Mother," he said instead, "let me hold Becky—I can really. Peter will want you."

Mrs. Orban neither started nor changed colour; she just stared at Eustace curiously, and said inquiringly,—

"Peter?"

"Yes, mummie, Peter," Eustace said in a shaking voice. "He is unconscious, but he will want you when he opens his eyes."

He held out his arms for Becky; and Mrs. Orban rose and went as if she were dreaming, leaving him standing there with the baby.

It was a very long time before Peter knew that he wanted his mother. Terror and the exposure in the water for so many hours had done their work, and even when the little fellow recovered consciousness he was too ill to realize anything at all.

Every one was very kind to the Orbans. The poor lady who had lost her husband took entire charge of Becky; other fellow-passengers offered to help with Peter, who needed nursing night and day. The survivors from the wreck clung together, and found some comfort in helping each other. The people of the station were very attentive and good; but the relief party from Cooktown was hailed with thankfulness, for there were of course many discomforts and unpleasantnesses. The blacks had a disagreeable habit of prowling about in the night and peeping at their guests as they tried to sleep in the impromptu hammocks. The food was coarse and monotonous; the men rough, and uncouth in their ways.

When Eustace saw his father he felt a great burden lifted from his shoulders; his powerlessness to help his mother did not matter any more; no one could comfort her like his father. Then there was Bob; he would help the whole family to keep up in his usual splendid way!

Fortunately Mr. Orban and Bob had not yet left Cooktown when the news of the disaster arrived. They hastened to the beche-de-mer station on getting Mrs. Orban's message, without the least knowledge whom they would find of their own party; and after the first explanations were over, no one could speak of the cloud shadowing the joy of meeting. To Eustace's infinite surprise, Bob, to whom he had looked for so much, failed him utterly—he could not rouse himself, let alone other people.

The survivors of the wrecked Cora were carried by steamer to Cooktown, and Mr. Orban took his family to the best hotel, for no plans could be made till Peter was better.

Alone with Eustace, Nesta gave vent to her feelings very often.

"Eustace," she said, "wasn't it queer Aunt Dorothy saying the very day before we left she didn't feel a bit as if we were going to England? Do you remember?"

Eustace replied with a kind of grunt. He had not words for every emotion as Nesta had.

"And it seems so horrid," she proceeded chokily, "to know nothing about what happened to her or even how it happened. If only some one could tell us!"

"What's the good of talking when no one can?" said Eustace gruffly. "I can't think why you do. You only make yourself cry."

The first person to speak of Miss Chase without tears was Peter. He was lying in their private sitting-room, and suddenly he said,—

"I say, where's Aunt Dorothy?"

He had asked before, but in his weakness the subject had easily been changed.

"She is not here, dear," said Mrs. Orban.

"That's funny," said Peter, in his old talkative way; "she distinctly said she was coming."

Bob got up from a deep chair and stood, with his back to the room, looking out of the window.

"Did she, Peter?" said Mr. Orban quickly. "When?"

"Why, on the boat," said Peter; "when she put the life-belt round me."

"Oh, she put the life-belt round you, did she?" said Mr. Orban. "And what did she say?"

Every one leant forward eagerly. It was the first time Peter had shown any inclination to talk, and no one had guessed he could possibly know anything of Miss Chase.

"She said," was his clear reply, "'That's right, Peter Perky. Now mind you float; don't struggle, but lie on your back.'—Bob," he broke off, "lucky you taught me to float, wasn't it?"

"Yes, yes," said Bob; "never mind about that. Go on about Dorothy."

Eustace stared at his back in wonder. For the first time in his life he heard Bob irritable.

"She said," Peter went on obediently, "'Don't be frightened; I am coming too.'"

"Well?" prompted Mr. Orban.

"Then she took me up, and we jumped overboard. I don't know what happened next."

"Try to think," said Bob in a hard voice.

"I can't," said Peter; "everything was noise and blackness. Ask Aunt Dorothy; she'll tell you."

There was a solemn hush—so solemn that Peter stared round in amazement at the grave faces. Bob turned and walked heavily out of the room. Nesta buried her head in her hands.

"Why, what's the matter?" asked Peter sharply.

He had to be told then, and he wept as if his heart would break; but he could remember nothing after the jump into the sea. It appeared that he was all by himself at the other side of the ship, very unhappy because he thought it was all his fault Becky had been hurt. Then came the crash, and he was terrified. He was wondering what had happened, when Aunt Dorothy came running towards him, crying, "Peter, Peter, where are you?" And then followed the putting on of the life-belt. It was so easy to picture her talking to him all the time, to reassure him, in that quick, cheery way of hers.

"O Eustace," Nesta said afterwards, "wasn't she splendid? I guess Bob must be sorry he teased her so now."

"Pooh," said Eustace, "that was only his fun. Aunt Dorothy knew it."

But Nesta could not stand teasing herself, and was sure no one liked or understood it.

"I don't know," she said; "she used to get red sometimes. And I'm not so sure Bob did mean it all in chaff. He has a real down-on-anything-English. I mean to ask him some day what he thinks of English girls' pluck now."

"If you do," said Eustace, with sudden ferocity, "I'll never speak to you again."

Nesta stared at him in dismay.

"Why ever?" she asked dully. "Wouldn't he like to talk about her? Didn't he like her, really?"

"Like her!" Eustace exclaimed. "Oh, you little stupid! Didn't you see him when Peter was telling us about her? Didn't you hear Bob then? Can't you understand?"

Nesta stared in blank silence for some seconds.

"Oh, I say!" she gasped, "I didn't know! I never thought of that! I—I wasn't looking at him."

"I wasn't looking at anything else," said Eustace; "but I guess he wouldn't like to think any one knew, so we must hold our tongues. But I couldn't have you going and asking him blundering questions."

"I won't," said Nesta, with unwonted meekness. "When did you guess?"

"Only then," said Eustace; "but now I can remember lots of things. Bob always liked talking to her better than any one. Bob didn't want her to go. Bob asked her to come back."

He broke off short and slammed out of the room. It was as bad to think of as it had been to bear his mother's helpless loneliness; for as he could do nothing then for her, he could do nothing now for Bob.

It was a matter of conjecture between the twins what was likely to happen next. They really expected that, when Peter was well enough for the rough journey, they would all go back to the plantation, and settle down again for ever and ever.

A telegram had been dispatched with the bad news to Mr. and Mrs. Chase. The reply was an urgent appeal for them all to go on as first intended.

Leaving everything on the plantation in Bob's care, Mr. Orban decided to take his wife and family home himself. It would not be the joyful home-coming they had anticipated; and Mrs. Orban would need him, he knew.

"We must do what we can for the poor dear old people," Mr. Orban explained to Bob. "Dorothy was their baby. It is a terrible loss to them."

"To every one," said Bob briefly.



CHAPTER XVII.

MOTHER'S HOME.

In the length and breadth of England there could hardly have been found a more lovely little property than Maze Court. There were larger houses in the neighbourhood, with more extensive grounds; but as Brenda Dixon stood on the terrace and gazed down towards the good old English park she felt a real glow of pride and pleasure in belonging to such a place. It was the sort of feeling she had whenever she brought a new school friend home for the holidays.

Beside her stood Herbert—long, lean, and very gentlemanly in his flannels. It was one of his sister's great joys that he always looked a gentleman in everything.

She was a striking-looking girl herself, with features a little too pronounced for accurate beauty; but this very fault had the effect of making her handsome. She had little personal vanity—mere features she cared nothing for—but pride of birth and of the old home were deeply rooted in her.

"I think Nesta and Eustace ought to be surprised," she was thinking; "they won't have seen anything like it. It will seem so big and splendid to them after the kind of life they have had."

Brenda was never very sure how to picture the Orbans' existence in Queensland. There was a touch of pettiness about it—a feeling of poverty and "hugger-muggerness," if one may coin such a word. The thought of her uncle going daily to his work in his shirt-sleeves; of her aunt helping in the housework; her cousins brought up just anyhow, without a governess or any schooling, shocked her sensibilities and gave vivid local colouring to her ideas about the Orbans. Those were the sort of details she would never have referred to at school.

And now she and Herbert were waiting for the arrival of the travellers, whom their grandparents had driven to the station to meet.

"Oh dear," she said with a sigh, "how I wish I didn't wish they weren't coming! If they are fearfully eccentric, all the neighbourhood will be talking about it in a week, and thinking it funny we have such relations. One can't explain to every one that they really are ladies and gentlemen gone to seed, can one?"

"Not exactly," said Herbert. "I jolly well hope you won't try; it would be beastly bad form. Of course if one had a fellow staying in the house one might have to explain."

"I simply couldn't ask any one," Brenda said. "It would be all over the school next term my uncle was a common labourer, and my cousins savages—or something!"

"Nice sort of friends you seem to have," said Herbert. "Is that a girl's usual way?"

"Well," said Brenda, with some asperity, "boys aren't any better, if you should have to explain matters to a chum of yours."

"That's different," Herbert said; "one doesn't want to give a bad impression. What I hope is that Eustace isn't an awful little muff. I expect he is, though—can't help being when he has never been amongst any boys. It will have to be knocked out of him."

"Aunt Dorothy said he was a very nice little chap," Brenda quoted, and then her voice broke, so that she could not go on.

It was the beginning of the summer holidays, and both she and Herbert were feeling the death of Miss Chase most dreadfully. It had been bad enough when she left before the end of the winter holidays. Again at Easter the dullness of the house without her had known no bounds. But now, when they knew she would never be with them again, her very name choked them; they could scarcely speak of her, because her absence proved at every turn all that her presence had meant to them and to every one. How they had hated Australia when she left! How much more they hated it now and everything to do with it—even the coming of the cousins! Australia seemed the root of all evil—the cause of Aunt Dorothy's death.

"Aunt Dorothy was a brick," said Herbert jerkily; "she saw niceness in people whatever they were like. But girls don't really know when fellows are muffs."

"I don't know about Eustace," said Brenda, "but Nesta looked fearfully long-legged and queerly dressed in those snapshots Aunt Dorothy did."

"I hope she won't want to kiss me when she says 'How-do-you-do,'" said Herbert; "that is all I mind about her. But if that kid Eustace fancies he is going to hang around with me perpetually, he will find himself mistaken. I couldn't be bothered."

"But we shall have to look after them properly, and treat them just as we would any other visitors," Brenda said anxiously; "we can't sort of leave them to themselves, you know."

"Of course," said Herbert rather testily; "what do you take me for? I hope I shan't behave like a cad in my own house! But that is just the nuisance of it: they'll be visitors without being visitors, and they'll be here such an awful time. Thank goodness, there will be term time to look forward to!"

"If only Aunt Dorothy—" began Brenda.

"Oh, shut up," said Herbert roughly. Then added more gently, "I think the carriage has just turned in at the park gate. Listen."

All through the voyage Eustace and Nesta had been picturing this very day—this very hour. The parting with Bob and the farewell to home necessarily dropped into the background of their thoughts; the foreground was full of expectations. Now that they could realize they were on their way to the fulfilment of what had originally been the dream of their lives, all the old feeling of longing possessed them. At last they would see England! At last they would know what real "home" was like—their mother's old home, to which she had given them such a sense of belonging by all the tales they knew so well!

That England was not what they expected was natural enough. Mrs. Orban had never pretended to describe England, but simply her own particular corner of it on the borders of Wales. Leaving the ship was all bustle and rush, but during the long train journey there was plenty of time to look about, and English scenery struck all three children as most peculiar.

"Why, it's just like a map!" exclaimed Peter, as he knelt up at a window. "I'm certain if I was up in a balloon it would look like a map with all those funny little hedges."

"I think it would look like a patchwork quilt," said Nesta. "Father, why do people mark their land out into such funny little bits?"

So spoke the children, used to wide tracts of land without boundaries, hundreds of acres without fence or railing—such country as England boasts of in miniature only on its wildest moors.

The twins were speechless and almost suffocated with excitement when the train at last ran into a little country station, and Mr. Orban said briskly,—

"Here we are!"

"There they are!" exclaimed Mrs. Orban, with a little sob in her voice.

"Who? who?" yelled Peter, dashing from the other side of the carriage.

"Grannie and grandpapa," answered Mrs. Orban.

"Oh, where?" said Peter, as the train stopped. The children knew Bob Cochrane's grandfather and grandmother—a very comfortable, homely old pair of the typical "grannyish" type, rather bent, rather deaf, and always referred to as "the old people." Trixy invariably rushed at them when they came, and called them "the dear old pets."

There was no one the least "grannyish" or cosy-looking on the platform. Only a very erect, elderly gentleman with silver hair, and a lady who might have been the Queen, so dignified, so stately was she. They were the sort of people the twins had read of but never seen.

A hush fell over the children as they scrambled out of the carriage after their mother, and waited till their grandparents were ready to notice them. Then they each received a kiss and a handshake which made them instantly feel that nothing would be more impossible than to rush upon this grandfather and grandmother and call them either "dear," "old," or "pets."

All through the drive in the old-fashioned waggonette the sense of unfamiliarity grew as the children stared—the twins furtively, Peter openly—at Mr. and Mrs. Chase.

It seemed to the twins such a queer arrival, and so different to anything they had expected, that they could scarcely believe it was real. "Why," thought Nesta, "the Cochranes make much more fuss over us when we go to see them for a day." But Eustace's thoughts were too confused for description.

The conversation was funny and jerky, and just the sort of things strangers say to each other. Mrs. Chase hoped they were not very tired, and that they had had a nice journey. And Mr. Chase said it was a hotter summer than there had been for the last ten years, and so on.

"Oh dear," thought Eustace wearily, as they drove into the park, "how different it would have been if Aunt Dorothy had been here!"

But still there was the place to be interested in, and when his mother said, "This is home, Eustace," he roused himself, and looked about him.

Even a Colonial child, accustomed to vastness, could not help admiring such a place as this, full of fine old trees spreading over the short cropped turf. The park was hilly, and swept away to right and left towards thick woods.

Then, as the carriage reached a bend and came into full view of the great house, standing gray, massive, and strong in the evening light, the children's hearts did thrill with pride. This was something better than their own slenderly-built, iron-roofed house in Queensland.

"There are Herbert and Brenda waiting for us," said Mrs. Chase, "but I don't see nurse. I have got you a charming woman as nurse for Becky and Peter. You can't be tied down to looking after the children, you know. I want you to be free to enjoy yourself."

Peter started as if he had been shot.

"Me have a nurse!" he exclaimed. "I don't want looking after."

Eustace and Nesta glanced quickly at their mother. Becky with a nurse! This was something extraordinary. And mother "not to be tied down to looking after the children." When had it ever been a tie to mother to look after them? Such a strange idea had never occurred to any of them before, and all in their own separate ways resented it.

Mr. Chase looked at Peter in surprise.

"When I was your age," he said gravely, "I had what was given me, no matter what I wanted."

"We've got to think about your mother's wants first," said Mrs. Chase, "and she deserves a holiday after all these years."

"Quite right," said Mr. Orban; "she needs one badly. I am thankful she should have it."

There was no time to say more, for just then the carriage pulled up under the fine old portico.

Again there was that sense of stiffness and awkwardness as the Dixons came forward to greet their cousins; there was no triumphant entry and welcome to the old home. Mrs. Chase drew Mrs. Orban in; Mr. Chase took Mr. Orban; Becky, sleepy and perfectly placid, was whisked away by a grave-faced, elderly woman who said, "Come along, sir," to Peter, and disappeared through a red baize door, whither the little fellow had to follow.

"We're to have meals with the little ones in the schoolroom," said Brenda, to whom this new rule was not pleasing. "Come and get ready."

Now that she was a schoolgirl, and only home for holidays, she had all her meals with her grandparents except late dinner; but the arrival of the Orbans put an end to this. It was felt that the perpetual presence of such a crowd of youngsters at meals would never do. To Brenda and Herbert the change was typical of the whole difference these unwelcome guests would make in their lives.

"Couldn't we just have one look round first?" said Nesta, staring about her in proprietary admiration at the walls of the great hall, where hung the horns and weapons, the family portraits and trophies, of bygone Chases. "I would like just to see the secret chamber. Let me see—it must be through that door and up some steps—"

She stopped inquiringly.

"No, it isn't," Brenda said, with a look of surprise; "you go just the other way. But there isn't time now; Herbert and I will show you everything to-morrow."

Nesta looked taken aback.

"I don't expect I shall need much showing," she said, with a little air of importance.

Her cousins both stared at her.

"You certainly will," said Herbert decidedly; "it isn't at all an easy house to find one's way about in, I can tell you. You would go blundering into all sorts of places you oughtn't to."

"Places we oughtn't to?" repeated Eustace in bewilderment.

"Yes, the servants' quarters, you know," said Herbert, as if he were talking to a child of eight.

"Aren't you allowed to go into the servants' quarters?" asked Nesta wonderingly.

"Oh, we're allowed, of course," said Herbert; "but one doesn't go. I dare say things were rather mixed out with you, though."

"What do you mean?" asked Eustace abruptly.

"Oh, you had to rough it rather, hadn't you?" said the elder boy. "I had a sort of idea you all had meals together."

"With the servants?" questioned Eustace.

"Yes," said Herbert, with perfect gravity.

Eustace flushed deeply.

"Oh, of course," he said, "coolies and every one had meals together. We all ate out of a trough."

"Eustace!" exclaimed Nesta in dismay, wondering what had happened to him all of a sudden.

The cousins stared at him blankly, hardly realizing for a moment what he had said.

"Well, it is just as sensible as saying we had meals with the servants," said the boy, in such a tone of disgust that Herbert was left in no doubt as to his meaning.

"You needn't be cheeky, youngster," he said; "you can't expect me to know your habits, can you? I do know people in the Colonies can't pick and choose their company, and have to make friends with cowboys and bushrangers, if they want any society."

"What!" shouted the twins. "Who told you that?"

"Oh, I've read it somewhere," Herbert said carelessly. "It said 'there are no class distinctions in Colonial life. Men and women meet as equals.'"

"Then it is rot," said Eustace briefly. "I don't know how you could believe it. Our friends were all gentlemen and ladies. Australians are as particular as you are whom they have for friends."

"My good kid," said Herbert aggravatingly, "you don't know everything, and you haven't been everywhere in the Colonies, you know. But it really doesn't matter, does it? We were only saying one doesn't do that sort of thing in England. Come and wash for tea."

The small passage of arms left neither boy much pleased with the other. Herbert foresaw that Eustace was likely to be uppish and cheeky, and would want keeping in his place. Eustace thought Herbert gave himself airs, and more than justified the criticism he had long accorded his portrait. He did not look it in real life, for Herbert was manly and unaffected in appearance. "All the same," thought Eustace, "he's a silly ass."

Not so much what was said as the tone in which it was said left an unpleasant impression upon both new-comers. They had planned together that the very first thing they would do when they arrived would be to rush all over the house and see everything. Nesta declared she would not be able to sleep a wink for excitement if she did not. It had never occurred to them there would be barriers of any sort. Nothing in their own free lives hitherto had suggested baize doors through which they "ought not to go."

Somehow those baize doors were suggestive of everything irksome and disappointing; they were of a piece with all the other changes which the twins began to feel from the outset.

Before the evening was over Eustace and Nesta had grasped something of what coming to England really meant: it seemed a case of shut doors all round—there was no feeling of home about it. Rather, Eustace reflected bitterly, it was like prison, and all the freedom of existence was gone. It appeared that here the grown-ups lived in one part of the house, the children in another. There were certain times at which the drawing-room or dining-room might be visited, otherwise the grown-ups must not be interrupted. Becky and Peter were provided with a sort of jailer, whose business it also was to give all the young people their meals, and their mother seemed utterly ungetatable.

Life on the veranda always together, always in the thick of everything that was going on, with no shut doors anywhere, had ill-prepared them for this.

Then there were Herbert and Brenda.

Strange to say, Eustace and Nesta had not thought of them as anything but some one to play with—other children staying in the same house as themselves. That they were really the son and daughter of the place had never occurred to the new-comers. That they would play the part of host and hostess, and treat the Australians entirely as visitors, was a shock to Eustace and Nesta. Not thus did they expect to be received into their mother's old home, which she had always taught them to look on as their own.

Before the end of the day, however, they had realized this one thing very vividly—Herbert and Brenda had lived here all their lives, but the Orbans were outsiders, their very coldly-welcomed guests.

"It is delightful," said Mrs. Orban, as she dressed for dinner, "to think of the children getting to know each other at last. I do hope they will be happy."

"All the happier for being thrown so much together," said Mr. Orban. "We couldn't help it, of course, but ours have been thrown far too much with older people. This sort of thing is much healthier for them."

"It is all hateful," wept Nesta to her pillow that night. "Herbert is a bully, and Brenda is a stuck-up pig—and I wish we had never come."

And Eustace did not close his eyes for hours.

"Bob was quite right," he thought. "English people are horrid; they freeze you right up the minute you see them. But oh! I believe it would be better if only there was a veranda. They do live in such a queer way, all divided up like this."

Back into his mind there came the refrain of one of Bob's songs—the one he had sung to Aunt Dorothy the day of her arrival. He went to sleep with the tune ringing in his head,—

"Certain for darkies dis is not de place, Where eben de sun am ashamed to show his face."



CHAPTER XVIII.

PETER MAKES A DIVERSION.

But for Peter and Becky schoolroom breakfast next morning would have been a very dismal and quiet affair, for the elder cousins had little to say to each other.

Herbert and Brenda cudgelled their brains for topics of conversation to keep things going, and they thought they had never had any one so difficult to talk to in their lives. The Australian cousins seemed downright stupid and uninteresting. Just for one thing Brenda was thankful—they were not outwardly so unpresentable as she had anticipated.

Nesta, still smarting under a sense of disappointment, had made a sullen resolution not to appear to want to know anything at all. In spite of Herbert's assurances she was quite sure she did know a great deal about the house and grounds. Brenda and he should see later that she did.

Eustace held his tongue because he had literally nothing to say that was at all agreeable. They had begun the day by going into their mother's room to say good-morning.

"O children," she had exclaimed when she saw them, "isn't it all lovely?"

"It is, mummie," began Nesta in such a miserable voice that Eustace knew she was going on with a "but."

There were tears of joy in Mrs. Orban's eyes. To her at least everything was perfect. Eustace was standing close to Nesta, and he gave her a surreptitious pinch that just nipped the complaint right off before the "but" could come out.

"It is ripping, mother," he said. "I never thought it would be half so splendid."

"I knew you would love it," said Mrs. Orban confidently; "and it is so jolly for you having Brenda and Herbert. If only—"

She stopped, and her face had grown suddenly sad. There was always that "if only." The twins knew she was thinking of Aunt Dorothy.

"Look here, Nesta," said Eustace in a low voice when they left the room, "don't you go grumbling to mother and spoiling everything for her, or you will be a selfish little pig."

"But when things are horrid—" began Nesta.

"It won't make them better to worry her," said Eustace shortly.

"But how could you say it is splendid?" Nesta said with a choke.

"Well, isn't it?" said Eustace. "I was thinking about the house and the park. It was not the people mother told us about before we came, but the place."

"Grannie and grandfather are not a bit like what I thought," Nesta remarked in an aggrieved tone.

"They are very beautiful," said Eustace in an awed voice. "They somehow match the house and everything in it, and it seems to make them much too grand for us."

"I know Herbert and Brenda think themselves much too grand for us," said Nesta crossly. "Fancy their thinking such silly things about the way we lived, just as if we weren't ladies and gentlemen! Why, last night, when Brenda told me we were to go in to dessert, she said, 'You know people always dress for dinner in England,' in that snubby way of hers; and I laughed right out, and said, 'Goodness, father and mother dress for dinner every night at home.'"

"I think they fancy we are sort of savages," said Eustace. "It makes me feel inclined to be one, and give them a shock."

Dessert the evening before had proved a very dull affair, and the time in the drawing-room afterwards, playing halma with the cousins, was worse. They all four hailed bedtime with thankfulness. Never before had Eustace and Nesta felt so shut in—so pinned down and overawed. Never, thought Herbert and Brenda, had they met such queer, unresponsive children.

At breakfast they found Becky entirely at home with her keeper, who had a grave kind of way of smiling down upon the small person and Peter.

"You had better come and see the house now," said Herbert immediately after breakfast. "I'm going off rabbit-shooting later."

"Not you, Master Peter," said nurse as Peter shot off his chair; "your hands and face are all sticky, and must be washed before you can do anything."

The others did not offer to wait for him, so the crestfallen Peter was left behind, wondering why people wanted so much washing in England.

Herbert and Brenda took the twins through the house as they might have conducted a party of sight-seers. Eustace accepted everything in silence, but Nesta did not. For instance,—

"This is the picture gallery," said Herbert, "and all these people are our ancestors."

"Yes, I know," said Nesta.

"This is the room Queen Elizabeth is supposed to have slept in once—"

"Oh yes, mother told us all about that," broke in Nesta; "and the bishop always sleeps here when he comes to hold confirmations in the neighbourhood."

The party passed on in silence. This sort of thing was damping to the showman.

"You see that group of swords over there," began Herbert, trying again as they reached the hall.

"The middle one was the one Sir Herbert Chase killed the man with at Worcester and just saved the Prince's life, and you are called after him," said Nesta, anticipating the tale.

Herbert mentally voted his cousin a bumptious brat of a girl. Eustace began to wish Nesta would stop showing off so palpably—it seemed small and silly.

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