IT was barely dawn next morning when the twins’ alarum-clock roused them. They sprang up, dressed with swift movements, and tiptoed to the larder. No one else was astir.

“Whatever we do, we mustn’t wake Sarah!”

“No—and we mustn’t take what will be noticed too much,” Jean said. “Here’s a tin of sheep’s tongue, and another of sardines.” She rummaged among the spare foodstuffs that are to be found in every station store-room. “A pot of peach jam, Jean—I hope he likes peach; and a tin of tomatoes. There’s a jar of anchovy paste here.”

“No—make him too thirsty,” objected Jo. “He can’t crawl up and down the bank for water, with that ankle. Look, I’ll pack butter into this little pot—it’s got a screw-top, and he can put it in a tin of water if it gets too soft. We must take a spare billy and a cup—oh, and grab a tin-opener! And a knife.”

“Right!” whispered her twin. “Plenty of bread, thank goodness: Sarah baked yesterday. No wonder she was cooked at night, poor old dear! I believe we can spare him some cake.” They progressed to the meat-safe under the walnut-tree, and abstracted some cold beef. A bottle of milk finished their depredations, and they set off, laden, across the paddock. The house still slumbered peacefully.

So, apparently, did their patient when they appeared at the door of the hut; but he woke with a terrified start.

“It’s all right,” Jean assured him. “No one knows you are here. How are you?”

“Better,” he whispered. Speech seemed difficult to him; he lay quietly while they bathed his injuries. They gave him milk, which he drank thirstily, but he refused food.

“We’ll bring you more milk as soon as we can,” Jean said. “It was no use bringing more now, because it would only go sour—it’s going to be another blazing day. Sour milk would be bad for you, so finish that soon.” She spoke in the tone of an understanding mother to a fractious child, and he looked at her gratefully for a moment. Then his heavy lids drooped over his eyes again.

“It’s hard to believe he’s a criminal; he looks such a boy,” Jean said, as they hurried home. “Oh, I do hope the police won’t come this way. I feel as if I’d do anything to keep him out of their clutches!”

“So do I,” Jo said. “After all, the police have so many criminals that they could easily spare one! And if he gets a chance now he may live a good life for ever after. But I do wonder, Jean, if he oughtn’t to have a doctor.”

“But that means the police!” Jean cried. “Dr. Lawrence never could visit him without letting the police know.” She thought a moment. “I’ll tell you what, Jo: we’ll see how he is this evening, and if he’s not better we’ll get Sarah to see him. She’s as good as a doctor, and we could swear her to secrecy.” The phrase struck her with a pleasant flavour of conspiracy and mystery: she repeated it to herself, ending with a little chuckle.

“It really is fun, Jo! To think of the police scouring the country for that poor fellow, and you and I have him planted in that hut! Don’t you wish we could tell them at school!”

“Rather!” Jo agreed. “Wouldn’t there be excitement! By the way, I wonder if we’re likely to get into a jolly row!”

“Well, there’s a pretty good chance, I suppose,” Jean said. “But it’s worth it. Goodness me, Jo, there’s Father!”

Mr. Weston, in riding-breeches and shirt, was in full view, going to the house-paddock, a bridle over his arm. The twins ducked guiltily behind a bush, waiting until a high fence hid him; then they rose and bolted to the garden, and climbed over its pittosporum hedge with the kindly aid of an overhanging pepper-tree. They gained the house without being seen—it was only a little after five o’clock; and were soon hard at work. Presently Sarah appeared.

“Tea’s ready,” she informed them. “Yes, it’s early, but the Master’s wanting breakfast; he’s off to Reedy Creek, after some sheep. I thought you would ’ave your tea in the dining-room with ’im an’ see that he eats somethin’; there was mighty little eaten in this ’ouse yesterday!”

“Too hot to eat, Sarah,” said Jo.

“Too ’ot not to eat,” responded Sarah. “People’s gotter keep up their strength in weather like this. Just you go an’ bully the Master, now: he told me to give ’im just some bre’n’butter, but I’ve done ’im some bacon the way ’e likes it. You two go an’ be firm with ’im.”

They found their father rather ruefully contemplating the bacon-dish, and induced him to eat by representing Sarah’s wounded feelings should he send it out untouched.

“I suppose I’d better; but it’s too early to eat,” he said. “And later it will be too hot, so Sarah’s cookery doesn’t get a fair chance. However, I’ve a twenty-mile ride, so it really would be wiser to have something.”

“Are you going to buy sheep, Father?” Jo asked, pouring out tea.

“I believe I am. It’s a gamble, of course—but they’re very cheap, and I need not move them for a month. Your mother will tell you about it. It’s going to be a worse day than yesterday, I believe: I’m going to get back as soon as I can, and get the trip over. Take care of your mother, girls: she was awfully done yesterday.”

“We’ll take her a nice little breakfast-tray before she gets up,” Jean said. “Perhaps she may eat something if we do. I’ll make her an omelette à la Smithy.”

“Do,” he said, smiling at her. “And have one for me when I come back. I’ll need it after spending as much money as I’ve got to spend this morning!” He pushed his chair back. “Well, Cruiser’s had his feed by now, I expect: I’ll be off.”

Jean’s brow had a little furrow as she gathered up the breakfast dishes.

“Poor darling!” she said. “Jo, did you notice how grey he’s getting?”

“Do you wonder?” Jo said. “Oh, I do wish we could get a few more small boys to teach!”

It was a day of blistering heat. Lessons were voted impossible, and teachers and pupils spent the morning in the river, accompanied, for once, by Mrs. Weston, whom the twins conveyed carefully on Merrilegs. The bathe refreshed her, and afterwards she sat in the shade and laughed to watch their porpoise-like gambols at water-polo. But she was restless and uneasy, and before they were ready to come out she mounted the grey pony and rode back to the house, declaring that her stock-riding days were not so far behind her that she should need assistance now.

As she neared the garden, she saw her husband coming. He was riding up the track slowly, his head bent down. She turned and rode to meet him, laughing at his astonished face.

“You!” he said. “Whatever are you out for, on such a day?”

“Oh, I’ve been with the children,” she answered. “I couldn’t rest, John: I had to know. Did you get the sheep?”

“Yes, I got them,” he said. “But, Mary, what is it? Aren’t you well? Why are you troubling about it?”

“I’m all right,” she said. “But I wanted you desperately to buy those sheep, and I couldn’t rest until I knew. I don’t know why—perhaps because my silly toe still aches! Tell me about them, dear. Was Murphy glad to sell?”

“Oh, Murphy’s gone!” her husband answered.

“Couldn’t wait any longer: he cleared out two days ago, and I believe he sails for the old country to-day. He left the sheep in the agents’ hands to sell, if possible: if they were not sold when the lease of his place expired they were to put them in the yards and let them go for what they’d fetch. The agents didn’t expect to get rid of them: neither did Murphy himself. But he said, ‘Is it a mob of sheep will be keeping me from Ireland? Begob, it is not!’—and went.”

“And they’re really ours?”

“Really and truly—signed, sealed, and delivered. I saw them first—they’re not bad sheep, considering—and then fixed up the deal with the agents, in Reedy Creek. They’ve got my cheque, and I’ve got their receipt. Now, are you satisfied, you worrying woman!” He smiled down upon her from Cruiser’s back.

“Yes, I’m satisfied,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll be sorry afterwards, but I’ve faith in my old toe!”

“I hope we shan’t all be sorry afterwards,” he said gravely. “But it’s a big thing, Mary-girl.” He helped her to the ground. “Go on to the house while I let the horses go: it’s far too hot for you to be out.”

The long day dragged to evening—an evening that brought little relief from the overpowering heat. There was something almost malignant in the heavy air. Even Billy and Rex were subdued by it: they lay on the floor in their room, in the minimum of clothing, and would not face the short journey to the river, declaring that one couldn’t actually live in the water, and that one felt worse on coming out. The twins tried to read, and found it impossible to keep their attention on a book: slept, lying on the floor, and awoke in a bath of perspiration, acutely sorry they had slept. Mrs. Weston would not come into the house. She lay on a lounge on the verandah, pretending to read; but whenever her husband looked at her, her eyes were fixed upon the western sky, where the sun, a ball of lurid fire, was sinking into the bank of dull cloud that waited for it every evening.

Sarah—who had ironed all the afternoon with steady persistency—made no attempt to induce people to eat what she termed a “proper” meal. She marched through the house towards evening with a tray of sandwiches and a huge jug of cold coffee—the said coffee having been immersed, in bottles, in the underground tank. Jean and Jo nibbled their sandwiches, and then, taking a bottle of milk with them, slipped away to the hut by the creek.

It was evident that their patient was ill. He lay in the stifling little hut, his breath coming in gasps, his face deadly white. But he was more alive now: he looked at them with more recognition, and muttered thanks as they bathed his head and foot; and he drank the milk greedily. They conferred together in low tones.

“I’m sure he needs a doctor,” Jean said.

“We’ll get Sarah,” said Jo.

“Don’t get anyone,” begged the patient, unexpectedly. “I’m all right—want sleep—brute of a headache—sorry!” He closed his eyes and seemed to sleep. They watched him for a little while, and then, as he made no movement, they set off home.

“He’ll simply have to be moved,” said Jean. “It’s enough to kill him, to be in that awful little hut. We couldn’t risk another day of it for him.”

“Yes,” Jo agreed. She heaved a sigh. “Better to let the police have him than for him to die—and he looks awful to-night. But who wouldn’t look awful, to have spent to-day in that hut!”

“Oh, we’ll beg and beg Father!” said Jean. “Perhaps he’ll take the risk and not tell the police. No one would think of looking for the prisoner in the homestead; as far as that went, he’d be safer than in the hut.”

“But if we have to get the doctor?”

“I forgot the doctor,” Jean admitted gloomily. “He’s a magistrate himself: he’d simply have to tell. Well, we’ve done our best, Jo: we can’t do any more. And look here: we’d better tell Father at once, for he’ll have to be brought up to the house before dark, and Sarah couldn’t do it—Father would have to help.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Jo said. “There’s Father, coming across from the lucerne patch. Let’s go and tell him.”

Mr. Weston heard their story in utter astonishment.

“Well, if you aren’t the most amazing twins!” he ejaculated. “And I was assuring a very hot policeman at Reedy Creek, only this morning, that no strangers had been out our way! I’ll go down at once. No, I’m not angry: I don’t see what else you could have done. Tell Sarah to get a room ready, but don’t say anything to your mother: she isn’t well enough to be worried. Do you think we can move him on a pony?”

“I don’t know,” Jean said. “But if you can’t, how can you?”

“That’s just what I don’t know: we can’t get a buggy down to that corner.” He thought for a moment. “Look, Jean: send Sarah out here to me, and you go on getting the room ready. I’ll need Sarah’s help to lift him. Jo, get Merrilegs and bring him down to the hut. You’d better go first: I don’t want to startle the poor wretch.”

So it was that Mrs. Weston, moving restlessly about the garden, caught sight of a queer little procession: Jo, slowly leading the grey pony, on whose bare back was a white-faced young man with his head tied up in a sock, and one foot curiously wrapped in its fellow. On one side her husband supported him, and on the other, Sarah: he wobbled rather painfully between them.

“It’s all right, Mother darling,” said Jean’s voice behind her. “It’s only our prisoner!” She explained briefly. “And oh, Mother!—do you think we’ll have to give him up to the police?”

“I don’t see how we can get out of it,” her mother said. “But the main thing is, to get him better. Poor fellow! what a dreadful day he must have had!” She hurried to the verandah to meet him, all her weariness forgotten.

It was half an hour later when she came out to the anxious twins on the verandah.

“He’s asleep,” she said. “We have fixed him up comfortably, and I hope he’ll sleep all night; Father means to camp near his room. Poor fellow—he’s only a boy! But we must tell the police, twinses dear; Father says there’s no help for it. We’ll get the doctor in the morning and let the police know.”

The twins sighed heavily.

“I suppose it’s got to be,” Jean said. “It’s hard: but I don’t think he can have a wife and children, as I was afraid he had—he’s too young.”

“He certainly is,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling.

“And, perhaps, after he’s served his sentence he’ll be a reformed character, and Father will give him a job.”

“And he’ll marry Sarah!” finished Billy, who, with Rex, had been hugely interested in the prisoner.

“And meanwhile, we’ll look out for our valuables!” said Mr. Weston, who had come out, unperceived—darkness had fallen suddenly. “Sorry, twinses, when he’s your pet criminal—but really, it’s as well to be careful. However, he’s helpless enough to-night, poor wretch!”

“I’m thankful he’s out of that horrid little hut,” Jo said. “We were awfully keen on taking care of him; but the job got a bit too big for us. Of course, in books, he’d get better and escape in the night, leaving a note of thanks on the pin-cushion!”

“And taking the spoons with him!” finished her father, callously. “No, he won’t do any escaping: his head and his ankle will see to that.” He drew a long breath. “My word, isn’t it hot! Are you all right, Mary? I can hardly see you, it’s so dark—but you’re very quiet.”

Mrs. Weston did not answer him for a moment. She stood up and moved a few steps into the darkness.

“John—I smell rain!” she said.

Something in her voice made him suddenly anxious. He came quickly and put his arm round her.

“Sure you’re all right, dear?”

She did not seem to notice the question. Her face was raised to the western sky.

“Listen!” she said. “It’s coming—it’s coming, John! I’ve been feeling it for three days. I know it’s coming—now!”

A scorching breath of wind swept across their faces. Then, as they stood in tense silence, a great flash of lightning cut across the blackness of the night: and suddenly big drops fell around them. They heard them splash heavily on the iron roof of the verandah: they felt them through their thin clothes on their heated bodies. The boys gave a great shout, springing forward, and suddenly Sarah came running through the house.

“Did ye hear it?” she was saying. “Are ye there, ma’am?—did ye hear it?”

Then it was on them in a sudden torrent—blinding, rushing rain. They heard it drumming on the baked earth, beating furiously on the echoing roof. In a moment they were soaked to the skin, but no one noticed it: they stood together on the lawn, with faces upraised to the wonder of it, afraid to speak. It seemed to hiss round them, beating through the hot air. Then, as the thirsty ground grew damp, the smell of it came up to them: the unforgettable smell of rain after long drought. Another vivid flash of lightning showed them standing together, with Sarah peering anxiously from the verandah.

“Come in!” she cried. “Make her come in, sir! Are ye all gone mad?”

“I think so,” John Weston said. His arm was round his wife: he picked her up suddenly and carried her to the verandah. “There you are, Sarah—take care of her,” he said. “She’s soaking wet—soaking wet, thank God! Go in, kiddies!” He turned and strode out into the storm.

“Come in yourself, sir!” Sarah cried. “Aren’t ye wet enough?”

“I don’t think I’ll be wet enough if it goes on for a week!” he said. He felt Billy beside him, catching at his hand. “Go in, Sonnie—it’s enough for one of us to be mad!”

“I’m goin’ to stay with you!” Billy uttered. “I’ll get wet with you. I’m wet already!”

His father put his arm round the thin little shoulders in the soaked shirt.

“Ah, well, then, we’ll go in together, old Son,” he said gently. “Go and change now, all of you.”

He stood awhile on the verandah, looking out into the storm. The lightning flashed, and thunder followed it in long rattling peals: but the drumming of the rain never ceased, and every drop was music to him. Presently he turned and went through the hall to his wife’s room.

She lay on a couch near the window, listening to the roar on the roof. Her face was very pale, but she smiled up at him.

“Well!” she said. “And you bought Murphy’s sheep to-day!”

He bent down and kissed her foot.

“Thanks to your old toe!” he said.

JOHN WESTON slept but little that night. It was as though he were afraid to close his eyes for fear the rain might stop. Too well he knew that the breaking of the drought could be no affair of a thunderstorm! many inches of rain must fall before they could hope to recover from the long months of heat and dryness. He woke every half-hour, dreading to find the rain had stopped; but always there was the steady drumming on the roof—no music had ever been so sweet to him. He would go to the window and look out into the blackness: sometimes he went out to the verandah, and walked up and down, all his being rejoicing in the rain, just as the thirsty earth was rejoicing. There was splashing now, mingled with the steady pelting on the roof: splashing from leaking spouting, untried for a year; splashing of deluged trees, discharging their burden of water on the ground; splashing of a miniature torrent, running past the house on the gravel path. And towards morning the ceaseless downpour began to conquer the heat, and cold fresh air seemed to rush to greet him when he came out of the still, stifling house. He flung on a coat, and then tiptoed round the verandah to put blankets on the children. Jean woke as he covered her.

“Is it still raining, Father?” she asked sleepily. She could just see his face in the growing dawn.

“Still raining, thank God!” he said. “Go to sleep, little daughter.” He watched her for a moment as she turned over, snuggling her face into the pillow. When he tiptoed away he took the alarum-clock with him. There should be no programme that morning.

Daylight showed leaden skies and a drenched landscape. Not for a moment did the rain cease; it fell as though determined to make up long arrears. The fowls, many of which had never seen rain, cowered under any available shelter, draggled and miserable: the ducks paddled about happily, swam in the big pools that had formed in the hollows by the gates, and quacked their complete approval of the weather. Every garden path, its surface baked to the hardness of cement, was a torrent. The underground tank gave back a thunderous echo as the water from the roof rushed into it. Already the garden looked freshened and more green, washed clean from the coating of dust that had covered everything; the dahlias and chrysanthemums lifted revived heads, sparkling under their veil of moisture, and spoke mutely of blossoms to come. The boys had dashed out early, clad in shirt and trousers, and now were rather like the ducks, splashing in every pool for the mere joy of splashing. They raced to the bathing-pool, shouting with glee to see the river already rising and flowing with something like a current once more: they flung themselves in, just as they were, since it was impossible to be more thoroughly soaked: then, coming up, caught Punch and Merrilegs, and went galloping madly round the paddock—until Merrilegs, finding a baby watercourse that had long been only a dry hollow, jumped it, and finished up with a long slither on the wet ground, whereat Rex, unprepared for such acrobatics, shot over his head, landing in a pool, while Billy yelled with laughter. They capered back to the house, turning somersaults on the flooded lawn; then, discovering that it was breakfast-time, and that they were very muddy, brought out the long-disused garden hose and sluiced each other thoroughly.

“Wish we could, too,” said the twins enviously.

The prisoner awoke, evidently better, but still unable to say more than one or two disconnected words. It puzzled them that he seemed happiest when anyone except the twins was with him: the sight of Jean and Jo invariably brought a look of worry to his face, so that after a time they reluctantly decided to keep away from him. This was sad, seeing that he was their very own prisoner. He fell into a sound sleep after breakfast; and when the doctor arrived—summoned by a passing neighbour, who had called in on his way to Barrabri to mention that the rain was glorious—he was still sleeping soundly.

“Concussion, of course,” Dr. Lawrence said. “He’s had a fall. Sleep’s the best thing for him; I don’t want to rouse the poor beggar. Keep him very quiet: your old Sarah can nurse him.” He grinned. “Fancy the twins getting him, with all the police in the district after him! Did you send word to Ransome, by the way?”

“No, I didn’t,” Mr. Weston said. “I didn’t want the police out here worrying him before you had been out. He can’t run away, that’s certain. I suppose you must tell them.”

“Oh, yes, I’d better. I’ll wait until to-morrow, though; I fancy they’ll have to put a constable on here, to watch him, and there’s no need to give you that bother to-day. I’ll come out in the morning. Great rain, isn’t it, old man? I said that before, didn’t I?”

“Three times, I think,” said John Weston, laughing. “You could say it three times a minute, and it wouldn’t be too much for me. Listen to it!” as a sudden downpour, heavier than usual, suddenly pelted on the roof. “Was there ever such a sound!”

“I’m resenting having the hood on the car,” the doctor said. “Naturally, it wouldn’t be common-sense to arrive at my patients’ bedsides as soaked as Billy and young Rex, whom I met in a puddle on the track—but I understand how they feel. I want the rain on my skin. We all do.”

“I’ve been wet through twice this morning,” said his friend, laughing. “It’s a gorgeous feeling. Of course, I’m not counting on the rain yet; we haven’t had anything like what we need. But it really does look like keeping on.”

“There’s every sign of it. Well, I’ll have a word with Mrs. Weston and the girls, and be off: I’d two cases of sunstroke yesterday. Worst day I ever knew.” He spoke to Mrs. Weston, and immediately prescribed a tonic for her, saying he would bring it with him next day: and chaffed the twins on their ability as detectives. “I’ll have to bring a constable out to stay with your friend to-morrow,” he said.

Jean made a little face.

“I’d hide him from you, if I could,” she defied him. “We were going to help him to escape, only he was too sick. We’re awfully sorry for him—he’s so young!”

“You’re a nice young law-breaking person!” said the doctor, with mock severity. “Don’t forget I’m a magistrate—I believe there’s a special penalty for harbouring criminals. And he was old enough to annex quite a nice little sum of other people’s money!”

“Well—he may have had his reasons!” said Jo—a mild sentiment which evoked mirth among her hearers.

“A good many people have—that’s why magistrates exist,” said the doctor. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to lose your friend as soon as he’s well enough to be moved.” He said good-bye, splashing out to his car through the pouring rain.

It was still pouring when he returned next day, this time with two policemen: a senior man from an adjoining town, and a tall, downcast young constable, the unlucky wight who had been careless enough to lose his prisoner.

“He’s conscious, I think, but still very stupid,” Mr. Weston told them. “He doesn’t attempt to speak, but he has taken a little nourishment. You can’t move him yet, surely, Sergeant.”

“That’s for the doctor to say,” said the sergeant. “But I’ll have to leave a man in charge of him: we can’t run the risk of losing him again. Constable Wilkins will relieve you of some of the care of him.”

“Lemme have a look at him!” said Constable Wilkins sourly. “I’ll bet he don’t give me the slip again!”

“I’ll see him first,” said the doctor.

He came out presently.

“You can go in, to identify him,” he said. “But don’t worry him with talk yet; he’s not fit for it. Don’t take your helmets in, either—no need to make him feel he’s in the hands of the police. I’m not keen on his having a shock. . . . And the sight of that chap’s sulky face is enough to give anyone assorted shocks!” he added to himself, as he followed the policemen in. In the background Jean and Jo hovered with downcast looks.

If Constable Wilkins’s face had been sour when he entered the room, it was frankly furious as he turned and strode out. Only the doctor’s lifted finger had prevented the angry words that sprang to his lips.

“Whose little joke is this?” he queried wrathfully. “That’s not my man!”

“Not your man?” queried the Sergeant.

“Not a criminal?” yelped Jean.

“I’m jolly well hanged if I know what he is,” quoth the angry policeman. “But he’s no more Dawson than I am! Why, he ain’t even like him! Not remotely. And we’ve wasted half a day on a wild-goose chase!”

What more Constable Wilkins might have said was lost in a curious demonstration. The twins, who had been staring, with shining eyes, suddenly seized each other and executed a wild two-step down the hall. The door stood open; they danced through, and disappeared; the sound of their prancing feet died away upon the verandah. The doctor shook with silent laughter.

“But who said he was Dawson?” demanded the Sergeant.

“Why, I’m afraid we’d rather taken it for granted,” Mr. Weston admitted. “Perhaps I adopted my daughters’ view too readily; they seemed to have no doubt. Of course, he has been practically unconscious since they found him. He was a stranger—a delicate-looking man in a grey suit—and he seemed to be a fugitive.” He smiled a little. “Possibly I might have asked more questions if the rain hadn’t come just as we brought him home. But the rain seemed so much more important!”

“It did,” said the doctor. “After all, the circumstantial evidence was good enough to go on: you’d have censured them for not reporting their find, Sergeant.”

“I would,” admitted that officer. “Matter of fact, we’ve been calling them the ’uman sleuth-hounds since we heard! Oh, well, he’s not our man, so we needn’t worry you further, Mr. Weston.” They said good-bye, Constable Wilkins’s face still a study in mingled emotions.

On the verandah, the twins faced each other.

“But there’s no doubt he didn’t want the police on his track, Jo,” Jean said. “Do you think we ought to tell them?”

“I won’t!” said Jean obstinately. “He’s our discovery, and he’s sick, even if he is a criminal—and I don’t believe he is! We’ll tell Father, when the poor fellow is better. Fancy imagining any one ever would get better, with a horror like that Wilkins creature looking at one. He’d be clinking the handcuffs at you all the time!”

The mystery, however, was cleared up two days later, when a hue-and-cry was suddenly raised for one of two young Englishmen who were farming together five miles up the river. He had gone out with his gun, intending to reach a neighbour’s place and remain all night, so that his mate felt no anxiety when he did not return. It was not until the third day that he discovered that nothing had been seen of the absentee, and at once raised the alarm. Therefore a very harassed young man arrived on a very tired horse at Emu Plains, and begged to be allowed to see the Westons’ guest.

“He’s sure to be Harry,” he said. “The police in Barrabri described him to me.”

The guest was by that time regaining full consciousness, and greeted his friend with a faint grin, although he showed no disposition to talk to him. It was several days before he was able to give a coherent account of himself. He had put his gun down on a log while he pursued a wounded rabbit into some thick scrub, and then had been unable to find it again. In the search he had lost his way completely, and had wandered all day in the heat, until, in the evening, he had found himself near the ruined hut at Emu Plains. He had climbed a tree to get his bearings: and, just as he caught sight of the homestead roofs, a limb had given way with him, and he had fallen, damaging his head and ankle. He had managed to crawl to the hut when the twins found him.

“You were godsends, of course,” he said. “But you worried me dreadfully.”

“We didn’t mean to,” Jean said, rather pained. “We only did what we could for you.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that!” Harry Jeffries said, rather appalled at his own apparent ingratitude. “Why, if ever a fellow had two ministering angels looking after him it was I! But it was the fact that you were two that worried me—especially when I came up here, and began to feel better.”

“But why?”

“Because I thought I was off my head permanently. I could see your mother and father, and Sarah, all right: they were normal and natural. But whenever I looked at you I thought I was seeing double!”

“Good gracious!” said the twins in chorus.

“And each said to the other, ‘That’s your fault!’ as Kipling has it,” put in Mr. Weston, laughing.

“But there’s another thing,” Jean said. “Why were you so worried in the hut when we spoke of the police?”

The patient reddened.

“Well, you mustn’t give me away,” he said. “The fact is, I’d been making a collection of platypus skins—the little beggars are very thick in the creek near our place. And it was only the day before that I found out they were strictly protected, and that I was liable to imprisonment, or beheading, or something, for having the skins in my possession. So, when you talked police, of course I thought it was my poor old platypi!”

*     *     *     *     *

But this was after the rain had stopped—it had poured for four days and nights without cessation—and already there was a green tinge all over Emu Plains. The river was running almost a banker: the creeks had overflowed for miles, and the flood-waters were beginning to recede, leaving the paddocks covered with a muddy silt, as good as a dressing of fertilizer. All over the country, thankful men spoke of the wonderful rain, and predicted wonderful grass to follow; the land had rested for a year, and now there would be such a season as would wipe out the memory of the evil time. Already there was talk of bringing back the stock from Gippsland: owners were beginning to plan to stock up their places again, and sheep and cattle had risen sharply in price.

“I’m going to make a hatful of money over those sheep of Murphy’s,” John Weston told his wife. “By the time I’m ready to sell them sheep will be four or five times what they are to-day! and they’re worth twice what I gave for them now.” He looked down at her very tenderly. “You can begin to choose the colour of your motor—I reckon that old toe of yours has earned a car! It shall be carried in luxury for the rest of its time.”

“Then it might not do its duty so well,” she said, laughing.

“It has done its job,” he answered. “I don’t want it ever to ache again!”

They looked out across the paddocks, faintly green. About them was the smell of growing things: although the land was still bare, it was different—there was no longer the feeling of barren desolation. The garden was already bursting into new life, and new life was stirring in every one.

“I don’t want a motor particularly, John,” she said. “But I want to give a good time to my twinses!”

“They’ll have their good time,” he said masterfully. “Your motor will be part of it. And we’re all going away for a holiday, as soon as I get things settled—a real holiday—Sydney, Tasmania, or wherever you like, where we’ll forget about droughts. We’ll let the twins choose, shall we? They’ve been great little daughters to us when we needed them.”

“Great little daughters!” Mrs. Weston echoed softly.

“Then we’ll get a tutor for the boys, and the twins can go back to Merriwa next term. We’ll tell Miss Dampier not to make them prefects yet awhile. I want them to be kiddies again—to forget they ever had responsibilities.”

He was silent for a moment, pulling hard at his pipe.

“It isn’t so much what they did for us,” he said; “though goodness knows they did enough. It was how they did it: how they brought youth and freshness and laughter back to us—how they ‘kept smiling.’ Will you ever forget how they sang as they swept the verandahs?—the little bricks! And never a whine or a murmur from them, though I’ll bet they often ached for the old good times!”

“I know they ached,” the mother said. “Please God we’ll keep that sort of ache from them in future—at least while they are children.”

*     *     *     *     *

At the moment the twins were not manifesting any ache, unless it were the ache that comes from overmuch laughter. They had dismissed Rex and Billy after morning school, and had watched those graceless urchins tear down the paddock on their ponies. Then they had turned to tidy up the schoolroom table, and in doing so a sheet of paper had fluttered from an exercise book. It was covered with Rex’s small, neat writing.

“It’s not a letter,” Jo said, picking it up. “I don’t suppose it’s private. Oh, my goodness, Jean, he’s dropped into poetry!”

They bent delighted heads over Master Forester’s outpourings. The path of spelling was always strewn with rocks to Rex, but his sentiments were definite.

“Why, it’s an ode to you, Jean,” said Jo, chuckling. “Prepare to blush!”

“And I’m the plain, I suppose!” commented Jo ecstatically. But Jean frowned.

“The little villain!” she said. “I must say he’s managed to conceal his sentiments pretty well. I don’t believe he likes me a bit better than you.”

“Shows his sense if he does,” said Jo, laughing. “What on earth does it matter?”

“I don’t suppose it does,” said her twin. “And it’s a gorgeous poem! Did you know I had ‘a lovely stare’?”

“I suppose that’s your look of fixed horror when he shows up a bad copy. Next time you can remember that he’s wallowing in enjoyment of it!” Jo laughed.

“I’ll wallow him!” said Jean. “How dare he make any difference between us—aren’t we twins? He wants spanking!” She flipped the paper contemptuously away.

“Now, that’s foolish!” Jo said. “Remember, you’re never likely to have an ode written to you again!” She picked up the sheet of paper. “Why, my stars, Jeanie! there’s another ode on the back!”

They read together:

“He’s all things to all men, isn’t he!” gasped Jo, when she could speak.

“Did you ever see anything so priceless!” Jean uttered, wiping her eyes. “Twin odes to twinses! Look, he’s grouped us in a grand finale at the bottom—in his best writing, and flourishes all round it, too!”

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

Some illustrations were moved to facilitate page layout.