‟YOU didn’t truly mean it, Helen—last night? About being prefects?”

The twins had sought Helen Forester in her study, finding her in the throes of packing up. In itself this was a distressing sight, and induced seriousness. Every one had been proud of the Captain’s pretty room, with its dainty furniture. The big, comfortable couch looked bare, stripped of its Indian rug and the dark-blue cushions embroidered with the School badge. Gone were the photographs—hockey and tennis teams, girls, past and present, Cingalese pictures, and views of Helen’s own people, and of her home in the Western District. Gone, too, were the trophies of her five years at school: silver cups, won in many a hard-fought fight with other schools and other Merriwa champions. Their places looked bare and dismal. In the middle of the room a packing-case yawned widely to receive everything.

Helen, mounted on a table, was detaching a racquet from the wall. She balanced herself on one foot, and the table creaked ominously.

“Sit on the other edge, will you?” she asked with some anxiety. The twins sprang to her aid, and she brought down the racquet in safety. Then she sat on the table and looked at them.

“Mean it? Why, yes, of course I meant it. You can see for yourself, kiddies. There were twelve of us at supper last night, and you were the youngest. Seven of us are leaving. That’s a big loss out of the seniors, isn’t it?”

“But there are other seniors,” said Jean, hopefully. “Ethel Tarrant wasn’t there, nor Janie Frith, nor Doris Harvey.”

“Yes, but look at them. Ethel thinks of nothing in the world but music. She lives with her head in a cloud composed of Chopin and Debussy and Bach. Janie Frith is far too delicate to be counted on, and will never be a prefect. And Doris is queer and prickly, and won’t take part in anything. Not one of them plays games. No, as far as I can see, you two will have to make up your minds to it—not at once, but in six months’ time. You’ll do it, too, all right, because you love the School.”

“Oh—if loving the School were all——” The twins hesitated.

“Why, it’s ninety per cent. You two care awfully for the School, and you’ll never let it down. The honour of the School means a heap to you, and it will mean more. You know how high we stand, and what is expected of us. Merriwa isn’t a new thing: lots of our mothers were here before us, and we’ve got traditions as well as present honour.”

“But that makes it all the worse!” Jean said. “Of course, Mother was here, and she told us about the School from the time we could walk. She’s terribly proud of it. She regards us as about six, and she’ll be horrified if she thinks there is a chance of slumping to people like us for prefects!”

“Well, you have got to see that it isn’t a slump.” The Captain swung the dusty racquet slowly to and fro, looking at them thoughtfully. “You’ll be sixteen; I was only that when I got my prefect’s badge——”

“Oh, but you——!” broke in the twins.

“Oh, of course, I know I was a marvel!” The tall girl laughed at their eager faces. “Just between you and me, I wasn’t a marvel in the least. I was fairly harum-scarum, and the idea of responsibility appalled me. I thought the girls would just yell with laughter at the idea of my being a prefect.”

“They certainly will at us!” said Jo, ruefully.

“Well, they didn’t—much. And they stop laughing after a while, as you’ll find. You don’t want to get fussed or worried—only go straight ahead. If you get it into everybody’s mind that certain things are done, just as certain things aren’t done, simply because it’s the School—well, you won’t have much trouble. You two have a tremendous start, because your mother was here before you, and because you grew up with the School in your bones. Just remember that.”

“Why, I thought it was the other way round!” Jean said.

“Oh, you owls, how can it be? Who’s likely to do best for the School—you, brought up on its traditions, or young Pearlie Alexander, who’s not quite happy that her people didn’t send her to Kooringal, ’cause she thinks it’s a shade smarter than Merriwa? And smartness, to her type, simply means richer fathers and bigger motors. If she went to Kooringal and thought Eversleigh College had a few more Rolls-Royces pulling up before it, she’d want to go there. What does the school itself matter to the Pearlie type? They make me tired!” She laughed. “I can say what I like about her because she’s leaving!”

The twins laughed in sympathy.

“Well, it’s comforting to think you don’t believe we’d make a hopeless mess of it,” Jo said. “We’ll try to believe it too, but it’s difficult. And the most difficult of all will be to make the School believe it!”

Helen slipped off the table and inserted the racquet into a crevice in the packing-case.

“Oh, the School won’t worry you much,” she said. “Don’t start off with thinking about all your problems at once; take each day’s work as it comes, and leave to-morrow’s to look after itself. Remember, you’re not going to be prefects all at once, either, so you’ve time to hatch out a good manner!”

“If ever I see Jo with a prefectorial manner I’ll cease to believe that she’s my twin!” uttered Jean.

“What about yourself?” demanded Jo.

“If I could roll the ridiculous pair of you out into one large prefect I believe I’d have an excellent one!” said Helen, laughing. “Stop worrying over six months hence, and help me pack my books; there’s an empty box in the corner by the fire-place. Oh, and remember, too, Ellen Webster will be Captain, and a jolly good captain she’ll be. Keep your eye on her, and pick up points.”

“Right-oh!” said the twins, falling upon the empty box and transporting it to the book-case. “What goes in first, Helen?”

“The fat ones—line the box with paper, though.”

“Rather. If we’d known about this prefect idea we’d have spent all this term watching you. I’d have followed you about with a note-book.”

“Then thank goodness you didn’t know! At least I’ve had my last term in peace,” laughed Helen. “And when poor old Ellen finds you trailing her with lifted pencil, don’t tell her it was I who put you on to watch her, or my memory will be blackened for ever. By the way, twinses, you’ll find it quite helpful to talk to Miss Dampier if you’re in difficulties.”

The twins looked more round-eyed than ever.

“Does one really talk to her—ever?” queried Jean. “I merely quake in my shoes when I meet her.”

“Oh, one doesn’t take her actual problems, unless it’s absolutely necessary. But a talk about things in general helps one on a lot. She’s awfully human when you get to know her, really, and you’ve no idea how much she understands. Of course I began by thinking she was just one’s natural enemy, but I grew out of it. You will, too. She remembers your mother, too—she was a junior mistress in her time—and so she expects things of you.”

“It seems to be a big responsibility to be born with the School in one’s family, so to speak,” said Jo.

“Well it is, in a way. But responsibility’s a jolly good thing for every one,” the Captain remarked. “Now, that’s enough sermonizing, and I’m sick of packing. Thanks ever so for doing the books. I’ve got leave to take five girls down to St. Kilda to bathe—will you two come?”

The twins gave an ecstatic yelp of acquiescence.

“Then go and collect Gladys and Nita: I’ve collected Ellen already. Hurry them up—we’ll all meet here in ten minutes.”

Bathing was always a joy, but it generally took place in large parties, under the supervision of two house-mistresses, so anxious for the safety of the non-swimmers that discipline was very strict. Even Nita, who was like a fish in the water, was wont to say that it made her nervous to feel that Miss Morrison was ranging to and fro on the gallery like a panther, holding her breath when a girl dived, and emitting a bursting sigh of relief when her head at length popped into sight. But at the end of the term, when rules and regulations were relaxing, parties of senior girls known to swim well were sometimes allowed to go down without a mistress in charge, if at least two prefects were among their number. Invitations to these swims were much prized, and the twins felt that even if the cares and responsibilities of age were descending upon them, so also were some of its delights, as they fled about the business of “collecting” Gladys and Nita.

Ten minutes later the cheerful band hurried down the wide garden path, followed by the envious glances of girls who lay here and there under the pepper-trees enduring the hot afternoon as best they might. Someone begged Jo lazily to bring her back a strawberry ice, a dismal pleasantry which evoked groans from its hearers. Outside, the pavement felt sticky underfoot with the heat. Little eddies of winds swirled here and there, scattering dead leaves and scraps of dusty paper. On the shady side of the street a few tired children toiled home from school, swinging straps of books; but there were not many people to be seen. Even the tram which the girls boarded presently was nearly empty, and the conductor seemed almost too tired to collect their fares. He perched on his tiny seat at the back of the car, glanced with a covetous eye at their rubber bathing-bags, and remarked audibly to himself that it was better to be born lucky than rich!

The esplanade at St. Kilda lay grilling under the heat, the yellow sand of the beach contrasting sharply with the wilted green of the strip of garden and lawn that lies between the roadway and the shore. Beyond gleamed a grey expanse of sea, its surface not marked by the tiniest wave until it broke in lazy ripples on the beach, where hundreds of children were bathing and paddling. The sands were churned into hills and hollows by innumerable feet: greasy lunch-papers littered them, with crumpled bags that had once held cakes and fruit. Rows of deck-chairs bore the forms of slumbering grown-ups; here and there a mother roused herself to shout to Tommy and Winnie that they were going too far into the water and had better come out, now, and behave. Babies crawled everywhere, fighting, falling over, and eating sand and strange treasure-trove of the littered beach. As the girls watched, one crawled straight into the sea, laughing gleefully at the warm touch of the shallow water. A half-naked little brother pursued it, shouting threats and dragged it up the sand, fulfilling his promise of a smack. The baby howled distressfully, and the mother stirred to say, “Now, Willie, whatcher doin’? Couldn’t yer let ’er alone for ’arf a minute?” She gave the annoyed baby a cake, and the baby ceased howling, and fell upon it wolfishly, its joy in it not at all disturbed by the fact that between bites it generally fell into the sand. Willie also seized a cake, and departed, with the puzzled air of one who, having done his duty, receives no commendation. The mother slumbered again.

“Don’t you hate city beaches?” Jo asked; and Jean nodded.

“Think of Anderson’s Inlet beside this,” said Nita, “up at the Eagle’s Rest, with the tide coming in and filling all those jolly rock-pools. Clean, hard sand that you can gallop a horse along; and such bathing. It’s like soda-water to bathe in at night, all sparkle and foam, and you just tingle all over after it!”

“I know,” Gladys said. “I was nearly washed out by a wave on those rocks one day: it came unexpectedly when I’d just been taking photographs, a sort of lone wave that rushed in ever so much farther than any of its mates. I had to hang on like grim death, and it washed the rock clear of everything but me. Camera, book, lunch-basket—they all went off to the Antarctic: and I had five miles to walk home, soaked to the skin. It was jolly!”

“It sounds jolly,” said Helen, laughing. “It’s almost hard to believe there are waves like that when you’re looking at that tame sea in front of us—it looks as if it were made of grey oil.”

“Grey oil or not, it’s all we’ve got to-day, and I won’t have it abused,” Ellen Webster said. “Come on, girls; we’re wasting precious time.” She led the way along the pier that led out to the baths.

There were scores of bobbing heads in the water within. At the shallow end the sea seemed full of small girls, splashing about within their depths; and every inch of the rope that stretched across from side to side, where the water was three feet deep, was occupied by clinging hands, whose owners swung themselves up and down in the waves with shrieks of delight. The shallower the water, the more incessant were the screams of the bathers. Farther out they became quieter, though wild yells rose from one place where a band of mermaids played a kind of water-polo with a huge ball. In the deep water at the extreme end, peace reigned: only a few strong swimmers were to be seen there, moving quietly along, or floating lazily. A big, black-backed gull perched on a water-worn post, crusted with barnacles, and gazed at the scene, probably reflecting that nothing so queer was likely to meet his vision again between there and the South Pole.

A railed gallery ran round the baths, overlooking the water. Dressing-boxes opened from it, trails of wet foot-marks leading from them to the flights of steps that gave access to the sea. The gallery was crowded with onlookers, among whom forms in bathing-suits, wet and dry, edged swiftly, with due regard for bare feet among the many shod. Occasionally a soaked bather, hurrying to dress, cannoned into an immaculate damsel in a crisp frock, greatly to the destruction of her crispness. The crowd of spectators was thickest near a spring-board jutting out over the deep water, where a girl capered gaily, making the board leap up and down until it fairly bucked her off. She turned a double somersault in mid-air before she struck the water.

“That’s Alice Pearce,” said Nita. “I heard she’d broken six spring-boards this season. It must be an expensive amusement.”

“Wouldn’t you just love to be able to dive like that, Jo?” Jean murmured; and her twin breathed, “Rather!”

They had some difficulty in finding vacant dressing-boxes; every one seemed occupied, and sometimes by the wet and dry together. Finally they were lucky in finding three, in which a party of Kooringal girls were dressing after their bathe; and having inherited these damp and darksome abodes, were quickly ready for the water. Making for the nearest steps, they dived in, swam out to a raised platform in the middle of the deep part of the baths, and sat on it for a moment to rest.

“Glorious, isn’t it!” ejaculated Helen. “Look at those girls!”—as two swimmers flashed by, using a powerful trudgeon stroke. “They’re practising for the swimming carnival. Now, I wonder did she mean to do that?” she added, as Jo tumbled off the platform in a casual manner, and disappeared.

“Don’t know,” Jean answered, laughing. “I’ll go and see!” She tumbled in, in the same fashion, and fell squarely upon her twin, who was just rising to the surface. They vanished together, to reappear, presently, having apparently had a heated altercation under water.

“With all the sea to jump into, she had to choose the exact spot I was using!” grumbled Jo, laughing.

“That’s because you’re twinses, and have everything alike,” said Nita. “Come on—let’s go out to the deep end. I’ll race you!” She went off, with swift overarm strokes. Nita was the champion swimmer of the private schools, and Merriwa was justly proud of her. Therefore they reviled her as they panted after her, finally reaching the deep end to find her placidly floating on her back.

“Old leviathan!” grumbled Helen affectionately, turning on her back near her.

“I splash horribly, but I get there—some time or other,” panted Gladys. “Nita, how do you manage to swim as fast as a porpoise, which you resemble, and never make a bubble of splash?”

“All done by kindness!” said Nita, lazily.

“Let’s lean on you, Nita, darling!” The twins arrived on either side of her, and leant, heavily and suddenly. Nita went under for an instant, and reappearing, with a roll which in truth was like that of a porpoise, ducked them both, in a thorough and scientific manner. Every one seemed to become involved in the process, and the sea was churned by the throes of the Merriwiggians. Ellen Webster was the first to emerge from the turmoil. She swam to the nearest steps, and sat upon the lowest, drawing her knees up to her chin.

“You look like a witch brooding over the deep!” Gladys told her. Ellen was small, with rather sharp features and twinkling eyes, and the insult held a certain amount of truth.

“If I were to say what you all look like it would need a vocabulary unbefitting a vice-captain!” retorted Ellen. “Remember, young ladies, you are not allowed out without a keeper so that you may indulge in unseemly horse-play! Your conduct is sadly lacking in either deportment or——”

“She’s drowning in her own eloquence!” remarked Nita. “Come, and we’ll save her, girls!” They made a rush at the orator, who tried to escape up the steps, but being caught by what Jo termed “the hind leg,” was ignominiously hauled back into the water, where she became the victim of all known methods of rescuing the apparently drowned. Then, not because the sea had lost any of its charm, but because time was slipping away, they swam back to the dressing-boxes, making as quick a toilet as their soaked hair would permit.

“Rubber caps are a delusion and a snare if you once happen to go under water,” remarked Helen disgustedly as they walked along the pier to the shore. “Ugh! another drop has slid down my back!”

“Can’t be helped.” Gladys shook her own lank and dripping locks. “Anyhow, we’re all alike—except the twinses. They have an altogether unfair advantage!”

The twins grinned. They had worn their hair close-cropped until they came to school, following an attack of fever in which, like good twins, they had indulged together, and their hair had been compulsorily shorn. It was growing again now, but the growth was slow, and their dark locks clustered about their necks in curls that refused to reach their shoulders. It made them look younger than they were, and had the effect of enhancing a resemblance to each other that the School declared little short of criminal. Even Miss Dampier often had distressing doubts as to whether she were dealing at the moment with Jean or Jo. The twins were quick to recognize any signs of doubt as to their identity, and had never been known to relieve such doubts unless compelled by authority.

“Never mind,” said Ellen Webster. “We’ll soon be hot enough to welcome anything dripping down our backs. Who says ices?”

Every one said ices, with one voice. They sauntered to the café perched half-way down the big pier, and voiced their demands, following the ices with tea and many cakes, regardless of consequences. Then Helen, with the recklessness of one about to leave, ordered raspberries and cream all round; and at length, sustained and refreshed, the Merriwiggians turned their steps homeward. The crowd on the pier was beginning to thin: people were going home to tea, and only the fishing enthusiasts, who sit on the edge of the pier and angle perpetually for fish that never bite, showed no signs of moving. On the beach mothers were collecting children, wet, sandy, and tired. The trams were crowded, and the girls obtained places with difficulty, “strap-hanging” until they changed from the beach tram into the one that took them close to the School.

“It’s been lovely,” Jo said, as the iron gate of Merriwa closed behind them. “And I don’t want tea one bit!”

Nobody did. There was, indeed, a general shudder at the bare idea of a meal.

“We’ve got to face it, anyhow,” said Helen. “And you’d better all take notice that we’ve only about five minutes to change!”

The urgency of this discovery mastered any more personal feelings. They scattered to their rooms, in a wild endeavour to achieve the well-groomed appearance that Miss Dampier was unfeeling enough to demand, in all circumstances. A junior, still in the flush of hero-worship that surrounds tennis championships, hailed the twins as they reached their door.

“Letter for you in the rack. Shall I get it for you?”

“Oh, do, there’s a good kid!” Jo gasped, struggling with buttons as she ran. “Give it to us at tea—we haven’t time to sneeze!”

The letter lay between them throughout tea, while they gallantly tried to obey Ellen Webster’s whispered injunction at the door—“Assume an appetite, though you have it not!” Luckily, the night was hot enough to cause a general disinclination for food, and no one in authority paid any special attention to the lack of interest in the meal manifested by the bathing party. Jean and Jo cast longing glances at their letter, wishing that the time of release would come, and set them free to read it.

It was a rather thick letter, addressed in their father’s firm writing in the style in which he always addressed them—“Miss J. Weston.” Mother might give them the individual Jean or Josephine, or lump them together as “The Misses Weston,” but Father held that these distinctions, with twins, were merely waste of time, since anything he had to say was sure to be said to both. A letter from him was rather a rarity, and the twins puzzled a little over it as tea dragged slowly on.

“Queer that Father should write, when we’ll be home in three days,” Jo said. “I wonder what he’s writing about.”

“Thank goodness, there’s Miss Dampier standing up for grace, so we can cut off and read it,” Jean answered, getting to her feet. The School rose, and after grace was said, filed out of the long room. As the twins passed Miss Dampier, she beckoned to them.

“You have had your father’s letter?” she asked. They fancied her face was rather grave.

“We got it just before tea,” Jean answered. “We haven’t had time to read it yet.”

“I heard from him, also,” the Head remarked. “Come and see me in the study when you have read yours.”

Something in her tone sent swift alarm into the twins’ faces.

“Oh, they’re quite well—don’t worry,” Miss Dampier said hastily. “Run along to your room and read your letter quietly.”

THE twins did not lose a moment. They edged through the crowd of girls, dodged one or two laughing queries about their bathe, and, gaining the staircase, fled up to their eyrie on the second floor. It was a little room, with a big window, and a deep window-seat from which could be seen the Bay and the big liners going up and down on their way backwards and forwards across the world. The twins loved their window-seat, and generally read their home-letters in it. But when they had read this one they faced each other with eyes wide with dismay.

Father had gone straight to his point. That was like Father: he never wasted time.

Jo gulped at this point. “Isn’t he a darling?” she said irrelevantly.

“Oh, poor old chap!” said Jean. “Poor old chap!”

“Oh, isn’t it just rotten luck for him!” said Jo. “My word, Jean, we’ll have to buck up and help him!”

Which remarks Miss Dampier would certainly have condemned on principle as unladylike. But it is doubtful if Father would have found any fault.

“Mother simply isn’t fit to do much work, of course,” said Jean. “I wonder what we can do, Jo. Do you suppose we can run things for her?”

“We’ll have a jolly hard try,” responded her twin. “After all, we ought to be able to do a good bit. But—Jean—Sarah? Can you imagine Mother without Sarah!”

Sarah had been part and parcel of the Weston household as long as the twins could remember. There had never been a time when she had not ruled unquestioned in the kitchen: tall, lean to the point of scragginess, dour and short of speech, but with a heart of gold that belonged entirely to her mistress. Housemaids came and went, after the manner of housemaids, but Sarah was as the fixed stars. When sickness came she was a tower of strength: nothing came amiss to her, and she would sit up all night as tirelessly as she would work all day. Mrs. Weston was not strong, and Sarah watched over her as a warlike hen watches a delicate chick. It was unthinkable that Mother should be without her.

“But—but he said, ‘the servants.’ And there’s only Sarah and Amy.”

“Then he must mean Sarah. Well, I guess it will take a team of bullocks to drag her away!”

“Father wouldn’t keep her unless he could pay her,” Jean said. “My goodness, how poor he must have got!”

“And I ate three ices this afternoon,” said Jo, contritely. “I wish I hadn’t been such a greedy pig!”

“I did, too,” said Jean. “Why didn’t we get the letter a post earlier, and we needn’t have spent all that money going to bathe!”

“Well, it’s gone now,” Jo said, mournfully. “Anyhow, I suppose it’s only a drop in the bucket,” she sighed. “And I know he was hoping to be able to get a motor for Mother next year. Now I suppose it’s doubtful if we’ll even be able to keep the ponies.”

“The ponies?” Jean exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say you think they’ll have to go? Why, Jo—I just couldn’t imagine you without Pilot!”

Jo blinked something away rapidly.

“I can’t quite imagine myself,” she said dolefully. “Or you without Punch: it’s just as awful. But Father will simply have to keep Cruiser, Jean, ’cause he couldn’t work the place without him. That’s one comfort, at any rate.”

“Unless his awful sense of duty makes him sell Cruiser and ride some old crock,” Jean said. “It would be just like him to do that. But we’ll make mother put her foot down about it—he won’t do it if he realizes how we’d all hate to see him riding any horse except Cruiser.”

Jo nodded agreement.

“I wonder Mother didn’t write,” she said. “But I suppose she’s pretty busy: and she’s just waiting to talk it all out when we get home. How do you think we’ll get on at teaching Billy?”

Jean laughed.

“Oh, there will be a good deal of wool flying, now and then,” she said. “Billy hasn’t been exactly all jam for the governesses—he won’t be keen on obeying a mere pair of sisters. Perhaps it would have been as well if we’d had a bit of experience as prefects first.” She hesitated, looking out across the Bay at the sunset sky, against which the tall masts of a wheat-ship showed black and slender. “And only this afternoon we were scared blue at the very idea of becoming prefects!”

“Well, it needn’t scare us now,” Jo said, drily. “Oh, Jean, it’s going to be hateful to leave!”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Jean said. “And it’s hateful to have to tell every one—so we’d better get it over as soon as we can. Let’s go and see Miss Dampier, and then tell the girls.”

“All right,” Jo answered. “And if young Pearlie Alexander patronizes us I’ll—I’ll—well, I’ll cease to be a perfect lady immediately!”

“You’ll have to begin by being one, first,” responded her twin. “And so far, there hasn’t been any sign of it!” At which they managed to laugh, and so took not uncheerful countenances to the study where Miss Dampier sat reading the evening paper.

The Head was not at all cheery. She was to be bereft of so many of her seniors that next year’s discipline presented something of a problem to her; in addition, she was genuinely fond of the twins and of their mother, and sympathized very heartily in their difficulties. She spoke so kindly that Jo and Jean found her suddenly more human than they had ever imagined that she could be, and talked freely to her of their disappointment and their hopes and fears for the future. It came upon both with a shock of horror, later on, that they had used slang expressions several times, and that the Head had never seemed to notice it!

She dismissed them at length, and they went slowly down the passage that led to the senior girls’ studies. No preparation was done on the last nights of term; already the holiday spirit had infected every one. From the big schoolroom came the notes of a piano and a shouted chorus that showed that the junior school was making merry. Several of the studies they passed were in darkness, their doors ajar, their owners released from the tedium of nightly toil. Helen Forester’s door was also ajar, but light streamed from it, and the sound of many voices. The twins looked in.

“Hullo, you two!” Nita Anderson greeted them. “We thought you had succumbed to the mingled effects of bathing and ice-cream. And then an awestruck junior reported that you had gone to Miss Dampier’s room. Anything wrong?”

“Pretty awfully wrong—for us,” Jo said. “We’ve got to leave school!”

“Oh—twinses!” Helen Forester’s voice was a cry of distress. She crossed the room quickly, putting an arm round each. “Not—not your mother?”

“Oh, no. Mother’s all right,” Jean answered “It’s just horrid old money.” Her face was flushed, but she kept her head up, looking bravely at the concerned faces round her. “Father’s been awfully hard hit by the drought—he kept things from us as long as ever he could, hoping they’d pull round, and they haven’t. The stock haven’t anything to eat, and he’s buying feed.”

She stopped, on the verge of further revelations. Suddenly she realized that her father would not like her to speak of the friend to whom he had lent money, and who had failed to return it.

“Got to cut down expenses.” Jo took up the story. “School-bills are simply awful, of course, ’specially for people as fond of ices as we are! House-expenses, too—we’re going to be cooks and bottlewashers, and teach Billy in the intervals. Billy doesn’t respect us at all, so I don’t know how that’s going to answer. But we shan’t have a dull moment.”

She stopped abruptly: so far she had rattled on, but she knew that her voice would not carry her much farther. She was desperately afraid of pity. But no one pitied them.

“Well, you are bricks!” Helen said, cheerily. “Such a chance: we always talk, or think, about doing things for our people, but it generally ends in their doing everything for us, in the same old way. Now you two are really going to do things. You’ll have no end of fun.”

Her eyes sought Ellen Webster’s, saying silently, “Back me up!” Ellen responded promptly.

“Woe is me!” she said, dismally. “Here are you off to Ceylon, Helen, and all the others to frivol or be artistic, and who is going to support me? I’d depended on the twinses. They were going to be kept under my eagle eye and gradually hatched into the perfect prefect! Now they’ll be fully-fledged housekeepers, and they’ll look down on me as a little schoolgirl. It isn’t fair!”

This point of view had very naturally failed to present itself to Jean and Jo. It had not occurred to them that any one could possibly feel aggrieved at their going. Being only human, they found it cheering.

“But we don’t want to go a bit——” they began.

“Oh, you think you don’t. But wait until you’ve been home a few months, running things, and see how you’d feel at the idea of coming back—back to being put in your place by Smithy, and asked at short notice for the subjunctive of a hideous irregular French verb, or made to walk in a crocodile every day! Catch either of you giving up your independence, once you’ve got it!”

“But we shan’t be independent—you seem to forget there’s Mother.”

“No—but I know you two!” said Ellen darkly. “I’ve been vice-captain for a year, and I pity your hapless parents!”

“Yes, poor things!” Nita agreed. “Of course, they won’t be hapless for ever—the drought will break, and stock will go up with a rush, and they’ll become horribly rich——”

“This isn’t a story,” said Jo, regarding her sternly. “It’s real life.”

“Well, that’s what I’m talking about,” said Nita, much injured. “This is the way it happens in the best circles. I wish you wouldn’t interrupt me just as I get thrilling. Where was I?—oh, yes, horribly rich, and then they’ll send the twinses to France and Switzerland, to finish off, and they’ll be touring the world when they ought to be thinking of Junior Public Exams. Their characters will be ruined, of course, but they’ll have a gorgeous time!”

“Yes,” said Grace. “Then they’ll come home and find me painting for a crust, in a torn overall, and they’ll charitably give me three-and-elevenpence for my landscapes——”

“And sell them at a jumble sale!” put in Nita cruelly.

“Oh, I suppose so. That’s how great charitable reputations are worked up. And they’ll look at me through lorgnettes, and say to themselves, ‘Dear me, and to think we were at school with that old thing! Hasn’t she grown into a perfect haybag?’ Because, being purse-proud and ignorant, they won’t know an artistic figure when they see it. And they’ll ask me what has become of that queer, gawky Nita Anderson, and I shall reply, ‘Oh, quite dropped out of decent society—she’s taken to golf!’ ”

The soft drawl ceased abruptly, as the outraged Nita picked up the artistic one in her muscular arms and deposited her on the sofa, where she sat upon her, to keep her quiet, she explained. When the tumult caused by this interlude had subsided—it had managed to include most of those present—the twins were so weak with laughter that their troubles seemed faint and far-off things. The cheery chaff went on—they were somehow the centre of it, and they knew that every one else was trying to “buck them up.” It was only decent to respond; “blues” were for private consumption only, and must not be allowed to darken end-of-term gatherings. So the twins became as cheerful as anyone, and put away resolutely the spectres of drought and unpaid bills and household worries. Later on, these would have their place; to-night was to-night, and every one must be merry.

Bed-time came, and, one by one, the girls drifted away until there were only Helen and Ellen Webster left. The twins were perched, cross-legged, on each end of the Chesterfield couch, and Ellen looked at them, her queer, elfin face, with its sharp features, settling into its accustomed gravity.

“Well, I’ve ragged all the evening, but I’m going to be serious for two minutes,” she said: “just long enough to say I’m horribly sorry you’re going.”

“Thanks,” the twins said, nodding at her. “But we’d never have made decent prefects, Ellen—truly.”

“I’ve my own opinion about that. But apart from being prefects, I’m going to miss you. You don’t seem to consider I’ve a thought apart from prefecting!”

“Well, we’re going to miss you. Oh, my goodness, how we’re going to miss every one!” Jo breathed. “Even the irregular verbs and the crocodile. We’ve had an awful lot of fun this year!”

“I don’t look forward to nearly so much as I’ve had,” sighed Ellen. “You two cheerful lunatics will be gone, for one thing: so will Helen, whom I mustn’t call a lunatic, because she’s Captain, but who is very cheerful. And nearly all the old set will be gone, and I’ll be left like a pelican on the housetop. But it’s worst of all for you, because you’ll have worries as well. I just wanted you to know I was sorry.”

“You’ve all been jolly good,” Jean said. “I don’t suppose we realize the worries yet. Of course we’ve never been rich, but we’ve had all we wanted. That’s one way of being rich, I expect. But it’s going to be horrid to think Father and Mother have worries we can’t help.”

“But you are going to help. Look at all you’ll be saving them.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t seem like making money. If only we could keep Sarah for Mother—’cause Sarah understands all about her, and she’s as good as a nurse if she’s ill. I wouldn’t care how hard we worked, if only we could keep Sarah. But it’s no use wishing. No one is much good when they aren’t even sixteen yet,” finished Jo, with an utter lack of grammar and a woe-begone expression.

“No—as far as making money goes, you can’t expect to be marvels,” Ellen agreed. “But do remember that you’re helping when you save, because that will help you yourselves—ever so much.”

“You’re going to help in dozens of ways, and most of all by bucking them up,” said Helen firmly. “No worries can be half so bad with you cheery twinses about. You’ve just got to go home and be Knights of the Cheerful Countenance, and that’s something a long way better than money. And don’t forget that bad times don’t last for ever—especially if you make up your mind not to regard them as bad. Now, just uncurl yourselves from those sofa-ends and go off to bed, or Miss Dampier will ask if I’ve already ceased to be Captain!”

‟TWINSES, are you awake?”

“Yes,” said Jean and Jo, together.

They had awakened early, and had lain for an hour discussing their father’s news, and trying to face all that it meant for them. Last night had been a kind of whirl, in which it was difficult to realize anything; but in the quiet of the summer morning it was easier to look steadily at the future. They had re-read Mr. Weston’s letter, with a fresh rush of pity for the pain that lay between its lines. Dimly they realized what it had cost him to write it. It made them ache to make things easier for him.

Helen’s voice broke across a wild vision on the part of Jo, in which she had just discovered a gold-mine in one of the back paddocks, and had so put an end for ever to financial shortage. Jean was as thrilled as she over this dazzling prospect, and they both started violently at the interruption.

Helen came in, very tall and impressive in her kimono, with two long plaits of fair hair.

“I thought you’d be awake,” she said, sitting down on the edge of a bed. “I’ve had a gorgeous idea, and I simply couldn’t wait any longer to tell you about it.”

“What is it?” burst from the twins.

“Well, you know, you mustn’t be offended. But you’ve got too much sense to be that. You made me think of it by saying you wished you could make some money to help your father.”

“Try us!” said Jo briefly.

“Well, it’s my young brother, Rex. You know I told you the other day that he was rather a problem to us—we don’t know what to do with him when we go to Colombo. Mother has been at her wits’ end for a place to depot him. He had a bad illness eight months ago, and we don’t want to send him to boarding-school until he’s twelve. Not that he isn’t strong enough; but he just wants a bit of extra care—or Mother thinks he does, which comes to the same thing. She would like him to run wild for a year or two, with just enough teaching to keep him from being too much of a dunce.”

“Yes?” said the twins.

“Well—we’re not short of money, you know, but it’s one of the places where money doesn’t help one much. Mother said in her last letter that she and Father wouldn’t care what they paid if only they could get the sort of home they want for him. But they just couldn’t come across anything, and they’ve been ever so worried, for Father simply must start for Colombo this month.”

“Jolly rough on your mother,” said Jo sympathetically. “I wish we could help, Helen: I know Mother would take Rex like a shot, only I suppose I’d better not tell her now, with things as mixed as they are. If we were even going to keep Sarah——”

“But that’s just it!” Helen cried excitedly. “I want you to take him. Only you’ll have to make Mr. and Mrs. Weston put their pride in their pocket and let us pay for him.”

The twins’ faces expressed blank amazement.

“Pay? For a friend? Well, you are queer, Helen!”

“Oh, don’t be horrid and difficult!” Helen begged. “Don’t you see that’s the only thing that makes it possible even for me to speak of it? We must pay for him somewhere: if we can’t find the sort of place we want we’ll probably have to send him to some boarding-house in the hills with a governess that we don’t know anything about—a horrible arrangement, and as far as payment goes it would cost ever so much more. But to send him to you people would be just ideal for us: Mother would know that Mrs. Weston would mother the little chap, and Mr. Weston would keep him straightened up, and you two could teach him—you’re going to teach Billy, and you might just as well have another pupil. Mother would go off to Colombo feeling as if she hadn’t a care in the world if Rex were at your place!”

“Well, we’d love to have him,” said Jean. “But—to be paid——”

“You were saying only last night how you wanted to earn money,” Helen interrupted. “Well, does it matter from whom you earn it? If you were trained nurses, do you mean to say you would only go to strangers? I think it’s just splendid if we can manage to help each other, and make things simpler all round.”

She glared triumphantly upon the twins, who sat in puzzled silence. She was Captain, and her words sounded very like sense: but all their instincts of hospitality and friendship were at war with her proposal.

“Think!” said the artful one. “You needn’t even ask your father and mother—they’d never turn us down, once you’d made the arrangement. Such a chance for you to help them—to say nothing of us! Why, it would mean that you could keep old Sarah—and think what a difference that would make! Even if you aren’t sixteen you can manage it.”

The twins drew a long breath. It was a dazzling prospect. Hard times with Sarah seemed only a circumstance to hard times without that rock of defence.

“I wonder—I wonder if Father would be awfully wild!” Jo pondered.

“Not he—once it was done. Your father has too much sense: how do you think he feels about parting Mrs. Weston from Sarah?”

“Why, I guess it’s a nightmare to him,” said Jo.

“Well, you’ve got it in your power to spare him that, at any rate.”

Jean caught at her twin’s hand.

“Oh, Jo, let’s do it!” she begged. “It’s only silly pride if we don’t, as Helen says. And we’ll do our level best to give him a good time and look after him. It will be lovely for Billy, too—he’s always wanted a mate.”

“It would be altogether lovely,” said Jo,—“if only horrid old money didn’t come into it. But I agree with you—we’d be stupid not to take such a chance.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” said Helen. “Mother will feel simply years younger. Now look here, twinses: I’m to meet her in town this afternoon, so you had better write her a letter, and then she and I can fix everything up.”

“All right,” said Jo. “Dig out a dictionary, will you, Jean?—we mustn’t spoil our chances by putting in bad spelling!”

“If you spelt every other word wrong it wouldn’t worry Mother just now,” Helen said, laughing. “It’s mothering and a jolly home she wants for Rex, not higher flights of knowledge!”

“There are no higher flights about my spelling!” said Jo, with decision. “You ask Miss Allpress!”

Whereupon the twins politely hinted that solitude would be helpful to them, and applied themselves to composition; the result being a document over which Mrs. Forester smiled in a Melbourne tea-room that afternoon.