Five Little Bush Girls

“Yes, I’m pretty good at letters,” answered Mollie. “‘If possible, we would like you to come and see us.’”

“Tell him he can have the verandah room,” said Doris.

“‘And then you could decide for yourself if you would care to help us.’”

“Don’t forget to tell him not to tell Father and Mother that we wrote,” warned Eva.

“Oh, no!” they all cried.

“‘And now, Uncle, we have a big favour to ask of you. Don’t, please, let Mother and Father know we wrote to you, on any account, because they would be fearfully annoyed. It’s because they’re working so hard and try to do their best, and are so cheerful about all the bad times, that we’re writing to you.’”

“I think we ought to write another one all over again, and tell him right at the beginning it’s a secret,” said Eileen.

“Oh! do you think so?” asked Mollie, wearily. “I wonder ought we? I’m just about sick of it. It’s about the hardest thing I ever tried.”

“Oh, it’s sickening!” declared Doris.

“Ugh!” grunted Baby.

“I’ve scribbled about a hundred already, and we’re just as far off as when we started,” said Mollie. “I wish he’d ride up this very instant and save us all this trouble.” And she looked away and sighed. “Oh, well! I suppose we’ll only have to do it. We’ll have to stick at it till we do get something to suit.”

“Yes, we’ll have to have it ready for to-morrow’s mail,” said Eileen.

“Oh, yes, it has to be done! Let’s have another go.”

They had a great many “goes” before they managed one to satisfy them, but at last they all gathered round while Mollie read the last one out aloud, and they declared that would have to do.

Dear Uncle,—

No doubt you will be surprised to hear from us. We are your five little Bush Nieces. We live away up in the North-West of New South Wales, on a selection, in a wooden house on the bank of the Gillongi Creek, and our father is your brother Robert.

“Won’t that s’prise him?” chuckled Doris, clasping her fat hands.

Eileen gave her a withering look, to command silence.

Of course we are all strangers to you, but we would like very much to know you. We don’t know where you are now, but hope this letter will reach you, and we would like you to come and see us as soon as possible.

The five of us now have a very big secret to tell you, and we hope for our sakes you will keep it. Father and Mother don’t know we are writing to you, and we never want them to know, because they would be very, very much annoyed and angry, and might think that you will think that we are beggars. But we would not think of begging; only as we are very poor, and Mother and Father are always struggling and working hard, we are hoping that you might lend us some money, and we’ll pay back every penny of it when we grow up. We are all willing to work to make money, and if we get the chance we are sure we would be quite clever. But we would like to see you and talk to you, and as we heard by accident that you are very rich and travel a great deal, we hope that you will come up here very soon. Our house is only a wooden place, but it is very clean, and we’ll all do our very best to make you happy; but we do hope that you will keep our secret.

We have a very lonely life up here. I suppose you don’t know what loneliness is, as you are so rich and travel so much; but if you woke up day after day and saw only the hot sunshine and a few pet lambs and people working hard, and no one new and fresh to talk to, and the night comes on, and there’s another day gone, and nothing done.

If you think you would care to meet us when you read this letter, we would like you to write to us to the undermentioned address, and we’ll ask the mailman to give it into our hands, as we would not like to hurt Mother’s and Father’s feelings by letting them know we wrote; and we are sure you are clever enough to fix up a way of coming here without letting them know we asked you. If we can only talk to you, we are sure we can make you understand.

If you think you wouldn’t like to meet us, please burn this letter, and oblige,

Yours very faithfully,

PS.—We give you a description of ourselves, as it might interest you.

P.S.—PLEASE KEEP OUR SECRET. M.H. E.H. E.H. D.H. B.H. (X)

P.S.—The above address will always find us. M., E., E., D., and B. Hudson.

“That ought to be plain enough,” said Mollie, anxiously. “He ought to understand just what we mean.”

“Understand? Of course he’ll understand! He ought to go and bury himself if he doesn’t,” declared Eileen, vehemently. “Why, a man with one eye and a wooden leg would understand that. I’m glad it’s over,” she went on; “it’s the hardest bit of work I ever tackled!”

CHAPTER IV.
“TEDDO.”

And now the trouble was to square Ted, the mailman. He jogged up about four o’clock the next day, with his packhorse and mailbags, and the girls hovered round while he had a cup of tea and told all the news. Strange to say, Ted seemed to stay longer than ever that day, and Mother would persist in talking to him and asking him questions, and Mollie and Eileen were nearly distracted. There was no chance of giving him the letter while Mother was there, so they tried to get Ted away out to his horses.

“My word, your horses look well, Ted! You must feed them very well,” said Eileen.

“Yes, a mailman wants good horses,” he answered, well pleased. “That’s one thing about me, I always look after my nags. Why, I’d rather go short myself than see ’em hungry!”

“Fancy!” said Mollie.

“Yes, as long as Ted’s on the line, you’ll never see poor mail horses. I couldn’t be like some of them other chaps you see knocking round, with horses like bags of bones; I always say the gee-gees first.”

“Fancy!” said Mollie again, not taking a bit of interest in Ted’s rambling.

“Do you remember old Dave, Mrs., that used to run this mail last year? Why, he was always eight or ten hours late. Recollect?”

“Yes, indeed, I do,” said Mother, coming out to view Ted’s wonderful “nags,” much to the little girls’ disgust, for another day she would not bother.

“We’ll never get it away,” whispered Eileen.

“Let’s have a stroll,” said Mollie, as she saw Ted drawing out pipe and tobacco, preparatory to filling his pipe before he continued his journey. So the two of them strolled round the “bend,” to wait till Ted came along.

“Of all the bad luck,” grumbled Mollie. “Another day Mother wouldn’t see Ted at all, and we could have just given him the letter without any trouble.”

“It’s always the way,” sighed Eileen.

Then they heard the welcome thud of horses’ hoofs and the clink of harness and buckles as Ted appeared.

“Oh, Ted! here’s a letter we want you to post, please,” cried Mollie, “and here’s a penny for the stamp; and, Ted, don’t tell anyone at home about this, please—because—because it’s a secret, and if a reply comes, Ted——”

“Hello! what’s the game?” asked Ted, suspiciously.

“No ‘game’ at all,” said Eileen, indignantly. “It’s a business letter.”

“It’s not a boy you’re writing to on the sly, is it?” asked Ted, with a wink.

“No, we don’t write to boys,” snapped Eileen. “It’s a very important letter, Ted, and there’s nothing wrong about it. It’s—it’s for a good cause.”

“Oh! a charity affair?” said Ted. “Righto, give’s it here. I’ll post him for you all right.”

“Oh! and, Ted, a reply might come, addressed to the Misses Hudson——”

“Mrs. Hudson—your Mother?”

“No, to the Miss Hudsons—us—you know. I suppose it will be M-i-s-s-e-s, so we want you to keep it back, and give it into my hands,” said Mollie.

“Righto! give it into your hands,” repeated Ted, as he pocketed the letter. “And when do you expect the blooming reply?”

“Oh, we don’t know, Ted! It might be a week, or it might be a month——”

Ted whistled. “Whey! Righto, I’ll watch for it, and give it into your hands when it does come. You can stake your life on Teddo!”

“Oh, thanks so much, Ted! I’m sure we can trust you. And, Ted, if you don’t mind, we’d like you to take this sixpence and have a drink with it—from the five of us, because we’re all in this letter.”

“Chase the ducks!” exclaimed Ted in surprise. “Keep your sixpence, little Missie, and thank you, all the same; you’re little bricks!”

“But we’d like you to take it, Ted; we would, really.”

“We’d love you to take it, Ted,” put in Eileen.

“Run away and play,” cried Ted. “If Teddo can’t do a favour without taking drinking silver, he ought to be shot! So long; you can trust your life with Teddo.”

For the shock-headed “Teddo” was a good-natured lad, and many a one “on the line” had reason to be grateful to him.

“Thank you so much, Teddy,” they all cried. “Thanks so much.”

“That’s all right!” answered Ted, riding off. “So long.”

“So long, Teddy,” called out Eileen, and they watched him till he disappeared from view round the next “bend.”

“Queer little cusses!” muttered Teddy to himself. “I wonder what’s their little game. Nothing wrong, though, I’ll be bound.”

As soon as Teddy was lost to view the girls had misgivings.

“I wonder ought we have sent it,” said Mollie.

“Oh, well! it’s too late to cry about it now,” answered Eileen, who was also feeling a bit “scared.”

“I do hope it’s all right,” said Mollie, anxiously. “I wonder whatever he’ll think.”

“Goodness knows!” declared Eileen, solemnly, shaking her head. “I do hope he’s not a grumpy old man. What a terrible thing it would be, Mollie, if he sent it back to Mamma and Dadda!”

“Oh, dear! I never thought of that,” cried Mollie.

And then they were joined by the other children, who had overheard the last remarks, and who looked very woe-begone.

“I hope he don’t send us to gaol,” said Eva, and Doris burst into tears.

“I wish we never wrote the ole letter; I wish we never had an ole uncle.”

“Oh, he might never get it!” said Eileen, hopefully.

“Oh, I hope he does!” answered Mollie, quickly, who was beginning to get over her misgivings. “Now, no more crying; let’s laugh instead, and—remember—not one word about this! Let’s try and forget it for a week, whatever.”

“Yes, mum’s the word,” said Eileen, solemnly.

“Yes, mum’s the word,” declared Eva.

And then, led by Mollie, they all went back home, singing and laughing.

In a big private office, with oak fittings and crimson carpets, in the suite of offices of Langdon and Ross, Melbourne, a tall man, with iron-grey hair and keen, dark eyes, read the letter a fortnight later.

“Bless their hearts! Little Bush Nieces! Want a loan! Pay back every penny when they grow up! Keep our secret! Try and make me happy! Come and see us soon! By Jove! they’re original, right enough. Bless the children! Robert’s five little girls, and they’re lonely—and they think I don’t know what loneliness is, because I’ve got plenty of money and have travelled a lot. Ah! little girls, you have yet to learn that money and travel can’t always banish loneliness. Five little Bush girls!” he mused, laying down the letter, and leaning his head on his hands.

Then that very keen business man who had only just returned from the Continent, and was preparing to go off again very soon, did something very unusual for him. He sat for a whole hour, thinking! and then seized pen and paper and wrote for the rest of the morning, and his private secretary and clerk wondered what on earth had come to the head of the firm; and when the letter was finished, he sealed and stamped it, and marched down to the Post Office and posted it himself, and the big office with the oak fittings and crimson carpets saw no more of him that day, and his big sheaf of correspondence was left till the following morning.

CHAPTER V.
THE REPLY.

“I don’t suppose he’ll ever get it.” For over a fortnight Eileen had been saying that. “If an answer doesn’t come to-morrow, I’ll say it’s gone astray. I didn’t think he’d get it from the moment we sent it.”

“Oh, nonsense, Eileen! We can’t expect an answer straight away,” answered Mollie.

“Straight away,” echoed Eileen. “I like your ‘straight away.’ It’s eighteen days since we posted the letter, and I’m just about sick of waiting. But I suppose there’s nothing else to do,” she added, disconsolately, as she kicked her heels against the verandah steps. “I’m sorry now that we wrote such a long letter. What we should have done was just to have written a very short note—just ‘Dear Uncle,—We are your five Bush Nieces, and we’re very poor, so please handy up some cash.—Yours respectfully,’ and then all our names. That’s what we ought to have done. But, anyhow, I suppose if he does come, the first thing he’ll want to do is to pack us off to school, to an old governess or to an old teacher of some sort. I suppose he’ll be like that big ‘Commercial’ that said we were raw.”

“That said we were what?” cried Mollie.

“Raw. I heard that big ‘Commercial,’ with the red shiny boots, who stayed here last week, say to that other traveller that we were raw material——”

“Raw material!” repeated Eva, in disgust. “What did he mean?”

“That we wanted schooling, I suppose,” said Eileen.

“Ugh!” said Eva, with her head in the air. “I’d rather be raw than be cooked looking like him. But where did he say it, and when and how?”

“Oh!” said Eileen, impatiently, “he said that we were nice children, but raw material, and it was a pity that we were running wild. That’s just what he said, and if you want to know what he meant you’d better write and ask him. I do hate saying word for word what people have said, and after today I’ll never do it again. I suppose Uncle will say the very same thing—that is, if he comes; and, of course, I don’t expect him. I don’t expect to ever hear another word about that old letter, and I expect to live here to the end of my days. I suppose I’ll just grow up and go into long dresses and put my hair up, and—and go on till I’m thirty and forty and fifty and sixty, and then die here, just working about a bit, and feeding lambs, and watching the shearing, and seeing the wool go away, and never go for a trip myself, and then die.”

She looked so dismal and drew such a forlorn picture of herself that Mollie burst into laughing, for Eileen had fits of the blues and grumbles in the one instant, and the next was flying round the house in high good temper, the gayest of the gay.

Every mail day now they watched for Teddy with wild eagerness and suppressed excitement, but Teddy came and Teddy went in the same old way, handing out letters that didn’t “count,” fishing out papers and telling scraps of news, and riding off again without gladdening their hearts.

But an eventful day arrived, when he lingered longer than usual over his cup of tea; when he strapped and buckled and unbuckled the pack-saddles, and fixed and arranged the mail-bags until the coast was clear, and then across a great stack of canvas bags he beckoned to Mollie.

“Here,” he said, as he whipped a letter out of his pocket; “here you are, and don’t say that Teddo failed you.”

“Oh, Teddy!” murmured Mollie, growing almost faint with excitement—“at last!”

“Yes, at last, right enough,” answered Teddy, “and I hope it brings you luck,” he said as he rode off.

Mollie stood with the precious letter in her hand, almost too dazed to speak. She must tell the others and get them all away together—away down in the bed of the creek, under the big gum tree, where all their picnics were held. They must all get away together, where no one could hear them, and she must not open the precious letter till the others were with her.

Mother was lying down reading the paper, and the men had gone out again, so she called softly to the others, who came out with curiosity stamped on their faces. Mollie beckoned and pointed to the road down the creek, and then with her fingers on her lips to denote silence she held up the magic letter.

“Sh! No noise, creep out quietly, and not a word!”

Once out of the house and garden, they scampered as fast as they could down the track to the creek, Eva making up the rear with Baby, who puffed and stumbled; but not a word did she utter after that warning glance of Mollie’s.

“Oh, Mollie, it’s come!” cried Eileen.

“Yes, it’s come,” she answered, “and I’m afraid to open it.”

She looked at the stamp, she looked at the address again, and turned the envelope over and over. “I wonder whatever is inside it. I do wonder what he says.”

“Let’s see the writing,” said Eva; so the letter was handed round to the circle.

“Go on, Mollie, tear it open,” said Eileen; and Mollie ripped the flap of the envelope.

“Oh, what beautiful thick paper!” she murmured.

Doris looked eagerly to see if any money fell out, but there was nothing—only thick sheets of paper.

“Are you all ready?” asked Mollie.

“Yes, we’re ready,” they answered, clustering round.

“Very well, then——”

She smoothed out the pages and cleared her throat.

“‘My dear little Bush Nieces’——”

“Oh, dear! does he say that?” asked Eva.

“Yes. ‘My dear little Bush Nieces.’”

“Oh, well! it’s all right, then?—go ahead, Mollie,” cried Eileen. “It sounds well to start with—go ahead and see what else he says.”

And then Mollie read right on—

My Dear Little Bush Nieces,—

Pleasant surprises are the best things in the world, for they wake a person up thoroughly and make him think of people and things that he hasn’t thought of for years, and add a new zest and interest to life; and your letter is one of the most pleasant surprises, if not the very best, I have ever received.

Chorus of “Oh’s!”

I shall be delighted to meet my little unknown bush nieces.

Another chorus of “Oh’s!”

But first of all I must assure you that I shall keep your secret for ever if you wish, or until such time as it pleases you to release me from secrecy.

“Oh! isn’t he nice?” gurgled Doris, while all the others clasped their hands in delight.

Far from wishing to burn your letter, as you suggest, I shall keep it as one of my treasures.

Chorus of “Oh’s!” again.

I have not long returned from the Continent——

The letter dropped from Mollie’s hand at this, but she picked it up hastily.

“Where’s the Continent?” asked Doris, eagerly.

“Oh, any old place!” said Eileen. “Go on, Mollie.”

and as soon as I overlook matters in connection with my firm, I shall be ready to pay a visit to “Gillong”——

The letter fell again while they all gazed at each other.

“Here! He’s coming here?”

“Goodness me, he’s coming!” gasped Eva. “I hope he don’t tell.”

“Don’t tell?” echoed Eileen, scornfully. “Didn’t he give his word?”

In the course of a week or so I shall write to your father, but don’t be afraid, my dears, that anything I say shall arouse suspicion. I am going to be as smart and as clever as my little Bush Nieces and concoct a letter that will make everything right. Thank you so much for your offer of happiness; you will find me a willing subject to take all you offer in that respect——

“Oh, dear!” cried Eileen; “and we haven’t any to offer him!”

“Yes, but we promised we would,” said Eva. “Whatever will we do?”

“I didn’t think he’d come,” moaned Eileen.

“He can play with Rose sometimes,” declared Doris, making a great concession.

“Play with Rose and ride the stick horses——” commenced Eileen, witheringly; but Mollie gave her a warning glance.

“Yes, Doris, we’ll all do our best.”

“Oh, dear! I wish we had a gramophone,” sighed Eva, “to play for him.”

“I suppose he won’t stay long,” said Mollie, hopefully, “and he can talk a lot of the time.”

“What a pity the creek wasn’t up, and he could go fishing,” said Eva.

“Yes, and sail boats,” continued Doris.

“Tail boats!” echoed Baby.

“Sail fiddlesticks!” snapped Eileen. “Go on, Mollie. What was the last?”

“Let me see—ah——”

in that respect. And so you are often lonely? Well, I don’t wonder, as you seem quite isolated; but I think you will find as you go through life that a great, great many people are lonely, even when everything seems prosperous and bright; so you must not despair on that score, and perhaps things will change for the better before very long, and brighter days may be in store. What a great, great deal we will have to talk about when we meet! And re the little loan——

“Did he send it?” asked Doris, jumping up.

“Sh! Go on, Mollie,” from Eva.

which you are so anxious to pay back when you grow up. Well, we shall arrange that, too, and for the present, adieu, my newly-found nieces. With love and good wishes to Mollie, Eileen, Eva, Doris and Baby, from Your affectionate Uncle, Henry Hudson.

“Oh! isn’t it lovely?” gasped Eva.

“Bosker!” agreed Eileen.

“Bueful, bueful,” gurgled Doris.

“It’s just splendid,” said Mollie, with shining eyes. “Three cheers for Uncle!”

They all joined hands and danced wildly round Baby, who had fallen asleep on a heap of bushes in the shade of the gum tree.

“And to think that he’s coming! In about another week’s time Dadda will get a letter from him to say he’s coming,” cried Eileen. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! I’m that excited that I feel silly. It’s the only excitement we’ve had since old Dave died. But it’s lots better. Oh, dear! oh, dear! it’s just grand! I won’t know whatever to do to put in the time till Dadda’s letter comes. And I do hope we’re not about when he gets it,” cried Eileen. “Oh, dear! whatever will he say? I do hope that he won’t guess that we’ve been writing. I do hope that Teddo never splits. Do you know what I’ll do when he comes? I’ll give Teddo a whole pound to spend as he likes, and I’ll ask him to take it. Oh, dear! I wish we had about a dozen rich uncles, and we’d never see a poor day again! Hooray!”

“Hooray! Hooray!” shouted Eva and Doris, till Baby woke up, looking silly and stupid, blinking in the sun.

“Clap hands, Baby,” shouted Doris, and Baby clapped away while she yawned and woke up properly.

“Do you know what you’re clapping for?” asked Doris. “Well, it’s because our rich uncle’s coming, and we’ll all be rich by-and-bye,” and then she hoorayed at the top of her voice again.

“I wish I could go to sleep and not wake up till the next letter comes. Oh, dear! it will be so hard just going about in the same old way, knowing what we know,” said Eileen. “We’ll have to be awfully careful. I know I’ll be dying to talk about it, and to sing and laugh and shout and hooray when Dadda and Mamma are about. I’ll be glad when the other letter comes, so as I can give way to my feelings.”

“So will I,” said Mollie. “It will be hard to pretend we know nothing.”

And hard it was, and they often had to get away by themselves to talk the matter over and wonder and surmise, and give three cheers for Uncle.

CHAPTER VI.
A SURPRISE.

The letter had come at last. Ted was late, and they were all waiting for him as he rode up to “Gillong,” and when he fished a thick, square envelope out of his pocket, and handed it to Father, Mollie and Eileen thought their last hour had come.

“It’s it,” whispered Mollie, and she turned and fled, with Eileen close at her heels. They couldn’t face the ordeal yet. Later on they would be called to listen to the wonderful news, but even a brief respite was welcome.

“Oh, I hope they never guess!” said Mollie, anxiously.

“Guess? How can they?” asked Eileen, scornfully; but, all the same, she, too, was anxious.

“What on earth is this about?” said Father, as he tore the envelope open; and then he gasped. “Harry! From Harry! Good gracious! Vera, Vera,” he called to his wife. “Look at this—a letter from Harry!”

“From Harry?” cried Mother, in amazement. “Harry?”

“Yes, Harry! Wonders will never cease! It’s the last thing in the world I expected.”

“What on earth does he say, after all these years?”

Then they both read the letter.

“And he’s coming here? Coming here? Well, wonders will never cease!” cried Mother. “Coming here! Dear, dear! just when things are at their worst, with the drought on and not a decent thing to give him to eat.... But fancy writing after all these years!...”

“What does he say there, again?”

Mother read aloud:

It’s wonderful how memories of the old days come back to one, and I would very much like to see you and Vera again, so if you can put me up for a week or so I shall be delighted to come. I know you are suffering from a very severe drought up there, but I trust that that will not make any difference, as I have to go away again shortly, and wish to see you and the children before I commence my journey.

I have about a week to spare, so I hope you can put me up for that time. We will have much to talk over when we meet. I suppose I can go by coach from the nearest township, and please don’t go to any trouble on my account.

And there was very much more in the same strain that Mother read with exclamations of wonder and amazement.

“Well, it’s the last thing I’d have thought of!” declared Father.

“It’s next week he means to come,” cried Mother. “Why, we’ll have to wire him.”

“So we will,” said Father. “I suppose you can manage it all right?” he asked. “About fixing up things?”

“Oh, yes! we’ll manage it,” said Mother, cheerfully. “I must let the children know. Won’t they be surprised? I suppose they hardly know they have an uncle,” and she called aloud, while Father marched off to the stable, marvelling at the wonderful news, and already building castles in the air.

The five children were together at the usual gum tree meeting ground when they heard the call, and they looked at each other in dismay.

“Look surprised, Doris, do you hear, when Mother tells us. We must all look surprised, and, for goodness sake, ask questions—somebody and everybody. It doesn’t matter what they are, as long as we’re talking, and let’s all look astonished. Oh, dear! it’s dreadful!” wailed Mollie.

“Yes, we must all help,” declared Eileen, staunchly. “Everybody must ask questions and ask all sorts of things, so as it won’t look funny.”

“If only we didn’t know, and didn’t have to pretend!” wailed Eva.

“If we didn’t know, there’d be no surprise,” answered Eileen, “for there’d be no letter, no uncle, or anything.”

“Come on, we’d better run,” said Mollie; “there’s Mother calling again. Come on, let’s run, and we’ll be out of breath when we get up, and it won’t be so bad then if we don’t ask questions straight away.”

And then they took to their heels, and Baby was puffing like a pair of bellows when they reached the house.

Presently five breathless little girls stood in front of Mother, who was looking very pleased and important, as she smiled at the open letter in her hand.

“I have a very, very big surprise for you, my dears. We’ve just heard from your uncle in Melbourne, and—and you’ll hardly believe it—but he’s coming to see us next week!”

They never remembered quite how they got through it. They only knew that for a space there was dead silence, and then a Babel of voices as they all asked questions together, scarcely heeding Mother’s replies. They only knew that they had come through the ordeal all right, that they had all acted their parts well, and that Mother had never guessed; and as Mollie noted the look of pleasure on her Mother’s face, she was repaid for all her anxiety about the letter she had worried over so much.

Then they all commenced to work and clean up the house for Uncle. They scrubbed and scoured and polished and shone, till every door-knob looked like burnished gold and the window-panes gleamed like diamonds. They swept up all round the house and garden and away outside the gate, till there was not a speck or a straw or a leaf to be seen. Dear me! the house was like a new pin, and the little room on the end verandah was transformed. The washstand out of Mother’s room was put there, and snow-white curtains on the little iron bedstead, and the strip of carpet that Mother always kept away in case of emergency was spread on the floor. A snowy cloth was on the little wooden dressing-table, and a glass vase waiting for the day that Uncle would arrive, when it would be filled with pepper leaves and berries, as there were no flowers left.

They all helped; even Baby was found going round with bits of rag, polishing the already shining door-knobs, or busy, with a saucer of water and rag, “washing” the floors; and Eva and Doris even took the broom down to the bed of the creek and swept up around the favourite gum tree, and threw away twigs and sticks and bushes off the path, and did all in their power to make things spick and span for Uncle.

They all laughed and sang and shouted and talked a lot those days, now that they could speak openly of Uncle’s coming.

“I hope we never have a secret again as long as we live,” said Eva.

“So do I,” said Eileen. “I hope it’s my first and only one. Why, I feel years older since I’ve been keeping this one.”

“I’ll have no more,” declared Doris.

“Me, too,” said Baby, looking solemn.

“Oh, well! anyway, the worst is over,” said Mollie, cheerfully.

“I don’t know whether it is or not,” declared Eileen, dubiously. “I don’t know how we’re all going to face Uncle, knowing that he knows what he knows, and we’ll all have to look so innocent, and pretend things—oh, it will be awful!——”

“Oh, yes!” agreed Eva, “I believe my face will burn off with shame.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” declared Mollie, stoutly, although she, too, was quailing at the thought of the ordeal.

“Oh, but the pretence!” said Eva.

“Well, it’s for a good cause,” answered Mollie. “Why, look how bright Father and Mother have been since they got that letter. Oh, whatever we do, we must never let them know! We’ll just have to act again, and pretend for all we’re worth, when Uncle comes.”

“Oh, we’ll face it when the time comes—never fear!” said Eileen; “but the thought of it is worse than—worse than——”

“Castor oil,” said Doris.

“Yes, castor oil,” agreed Eileen, as she couldn’t think of anything worse at the moment.

The great day arrived at last, and they were nearly sick with excitement. Everything was in readiness. The pet lambs all had new red strings round their necks, the stick horses had been “fed” early, and were tied up with narrow strips of bright blue print; the porter-bottle “dog” had a new ribbon, and Rose was decked out in her best finery; so nothing remained to be done but to wait.

Father had borrowed the station buggy and driven to Bragan Junction to meet him, and they knew they would soon hear the “top-top-top” of the horses’ hoofs on the creek bridge.

“My, but ain’t he a swell!” said Old Joe, as a tall man, dressed in grey, alighted from the buggy at the gate.

Old Joe had been with the family for years, and so was privileged.

“My! but ain’t he?” gasped Eileen, unconsciously lapsing into Joe’s style.

Mother had hurried forward to greet him, and for an instant Mollie’s heart sank. How could they ever approach this tall, stylish man, who looked so smart and alert, and so well groomed from the crown of his hat to the sole of his boot; and to think that they had written to him and asked him to come! Dear me! he was the smartest and most business-like man she had ever seen, and he looked rather stern and severe, too, although his eyes lit up with a smile as he shook hands with Mother.

They wished for an instant that he was just the ordinary, every-day, common or garden variety kind of a man; but it couldn’t be helped—they’d have to face the inevitable.

And then he glanced towards them.

“And these are your little girls, Vera?”

“Yes; come along, children, and meet your Uncle.”

They all came forward bravely, and were introduced to their new uncle; and he was a real “sport,” and never let on that he had even heard of them before. He asked their names and ages, as though there were no such thing in the world as a letter. They soon gained courage, and returned his smiles.

“I suppose you are real little bush girls?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eye.

Mother answered, “Yes, real little bush girls,” and then they laughed outright, because they knew what he meant.

Oh! all the talk there was at “Gillong” that night! Long after the children had gone to bed the two brothers sat out on the verandah and talked of many things, while the kindly moonlight cast a glamour over the parched, dried earth, making the white road gleam like a silver band.

It wasn’t until the second day that they had a chance of a confidential talk with Uncle, and then they had a meeting at the usual meeting-ground—the old gum tree, and sat round, solemn and important looking.

“Well, children, we had better discuss this proposition of a loan.”

The children looked more important and solemn than ever.

“Oh, yes!” said Mollie, anxiously; “of course, we don’t know much about money, and all that, but we do know that we want it badly.”

“And about how many hundreds do you think you will require?” Uncle was enjoying the meeting immensely.

“Oh, dear! we don’t know—do we, Mollie?” asked Eileen, anxiously. “You see, we don’t know much about it.”

“You see,” put in Mollie, eagerly; “Mother and Father and Frank have to work so hard, and have so much worry, and we’re always having such bad luck, and we thought if we only had more money things would be ever so much easier——”

“Yes, money can oil the wheels,” agreed Uncle.

“Yes, oil the wheels,” repeated Eileen, “and there are plenty of rusty ones about here.”

“Yes, things are about at a standstill,” said Mollie, “and of course it would have to be to Father you would lend money, and I suppose he won’t want to take it, because he’ll think it will be such a long time before he can pay it all back; but we will pay you back—in time; but, of course, we can’t let Father know we mean to pay. We’ll work and work till we pay back every penny. In about two years’ time I’ll be able to go out as ladyhelp, and if Eileen could get some education she could go out as governess later on, and we’d both save up to pay you back. Oh, Uncle! you don’t know how we’d save and scrape, if we can only get money now——”

“And I have three pet lambs that I’ll sell when the drought breaks,” said Eileen, “and that will be a help towards it.”

“And Dadda gave me old Jennie’s foal, and I’ll sell it when it grows up,” said Eva, eagerly; “and then I’ll go out to work, too.”

“You are clever little girls,” said Uncle, gravely. “Don’t you think you would rather be something else than ladyhelps and governesses?”

“Oh, yes!” cried Mollie, “but we’ll do anything to make money if you will only help us now.”

“Yes, and later on I might be an actress,” said Eileen, calmly.

“Would you like that?” asked Uncle.