It has come, it has come, it has come! Oh, do be quick, father!"

The cry rang out lustily from three young voices, three eager heads were thrust over the veranda railings. Below, on horseback, was a big, brown-haired, brown-bearded man, who looked up from under his soft slouch hat with a laugh, and exclaimed,—

"What has come, you outrageously noisy youngsters? One would think I had a family of dingoes, to hear you."

Then another head appeared over the railings—a gentle-faced, fair-haired woman looked down.

"It is the parcel from home, Jack," she said. "Hadji brought it up an hour ago."

"Yes, yes, father; it is the parcel from England at last, and mother wouldn't open it till you came, so we have been waiting a whole hour—the longest hour I have ever lived."

Nesta Orban, to whom one of the first heads over the railing belonged, shook back her masses of fair, fluffy hair with an impatient little toss.

"Stuff, Nesta; you always say that," exclaimed Eustace, her twin of fourteen. "You said it yesterday coming through the scrub because you were tired; and the day before when mother made you sew for an hour instead of reading; and the day before—"

"Oh, shut up!" Nesta retorted. "You needn't quote pages from my biography like that. Let's think about the parcel.—Hurry up, dad, darling."

This last she called after her father, for Mr. Orban had not stayed a second after his wife's explanation of the excitement.

"The parcel from home," he repeated, all the laughter dying out of his face, and he spurred his horse into a trot round the house towards the stable.

The heads all came back into the veranda, and there fell a hush of expectancy as every one listened for Mr. Orban's footsteps coming up through the house.

"La, la, la! look, Nesta. Dolly downside up; Becky done it," piped a little voice from the floor.

"Oh, do be quiet, Becky. Think about the parcel from England. Perhaps there is something in it for you," said Nesta.

Mrs. Orban had seated herself again in a low wicker chair, and was busy sewing—patching a well-worn shirt with utmost patience.

"Don't be cross with Becky," she said gently. "She can't be expected at two years old to realize the meaning of a parcel from home. I don't believe you do yourself, Nesta. It is just a lot of nice things from England to you—only to father and me is it 'a parcel from home.'"

Nesta flushed a little and looked grave as she stood by the table fingering the string of the wonderful parcel. Such a lot of string there was, and so much sewing and writing! Whatever it might contain, at least the parcel looked interesting.

The owner of the third head that had looked over the veranda railing to shout the news was ten-year-old Peter. It always seemed to Nesta and Eustace that he was ever so much younger than they were—perhaps because he had been the baby for so many years, till Becky came.

"Mother," said Peter, setting himself right in front of her, and staring at her with wide blue eyes, "why don't you and father live in England when you want to so much?"

Peter was fair, and very like his mother and Nesta. Eustace and little Becky were the two who were like their father, brown-haired and brown-eyed. Peter had a delicate, sensitive face, and he was always wondering about things in a queer, dreamy sort of way.

"It is easier said than done, my little son," Mrs. Orban answered, bending low over her sewing that the child might not see the tears his question had brought to her eyes. "Father must work."

"But couldn't he work in England just as well as Queensland?" asked Peter.

"Unfortunately not," said his mother sadly. "Work is not easy to get in England, or anywhere for the matter of that."

Eustace caught the note of sadness in his mother's voice, and strolling behind Peter he gave him a kick on the ankle with all the air of its being accidental.

"Ow-wow-wow!" exclaimed Peter, hopping on one leg and holding on to the other. "You hurt me."

"Sorry," said Eustace carelessly, following him across the veranda.

"La, la, la! dolly upside downey," crooned Becky from the floor, where she sat deeply engaged in trying to make her boy doll stand on its head as she had seen Eustace do.

"Look here," said Eustace under cover of Becky's singing, "don't ask stupid questions, Peter. It always makes mother feel bad to talk about England—any silly could see that without being told, I should think."

But Peter looked surprised.

"Then you kicked me on purpose," he said, no louder than Eustace had spoken.

"Of course," said Eustace.

"What for?" demanded Peter, flushing hotly.

"To make you shut up, that's all," Eustace said coolly.

Peter dropped his injured leg and flung himself upon his brother with doubled fists.

"How dare you, you—you horrid boy!" he said chokily, for Peter's temper always sprang out like a sheet of flame up muslin curtains.

With a queer little smile, Eustace gripped his slender wrists, and held them so that the little chap could do nothing but wriggle about like an eel. "Let me go, I say," he said; "let me go, I tell you. I won't be held like a baby."

He had about as much strength as a baby in Eustace's grip, for the elder boy was a well-built, square-shouldered fellow, and powerful for his age.

Mrs. Orban looked up at the commotion, and wondered what it could be all about so suddenly.

"As you are strong, be merciful, Eustace," she said quietly—that was all.

Eustace instantly let go, and Peter stood for a second staring down at the two red rings round his wrists, then, as Eustace turned unconcernedly away, dashed at his back and pommelled it.

"Go on," said Eustace with seeming carelessness, but the words were jerked out by the thumps; "my coat hasn't had a brushing for a week. Glad to get the dust out of it."

"Peter, Peter," said his mother warningly, "you surely don't want to be sent away before the parcel is opened, do you?"

This stopped Peter effectually; a minute later he had forgotten his grievance, which was also Peter's way.

"So the great day has come at last," said Mr. Orban, coming out from the house on to the veranda, which was so large and spacious that it was as useful to the household as several extra rooms.

Mrs. Orban put away her sewing, and every one gathered round the table as Mr. Orban began carefully undoing the string.

"Here's my knife, father," Eustace said, with a pleading note in his voice.

"Plenty of time, my lad," Mr. Orban said quietly. "One doesn't get a bit of string like this every day."

Becky had become infected by the excitement at last, and now insisted upon being held up in her mother's arms. All the eager eyes were bent on Mr. Orban's hands as he skilfully untied knot after knot.

"You won't unpick the sewing on the American cloth too, will you?" asked Nesta anxiously.

"No; I think we can cut that, Miss Impatience," laughed her father. "Mother could hardly use it again even for hemming floor-cloths."

"I'm not so sure, Jack," said Mrs. Orban; "my stock of cottons is running very low. It is time you went away and brought me a fresh supply."

Mr. Orban undid the last knot, but instead of taking the knife Eustace was still patiently holding out, he began winding up the string into a neat coil. The children glanced up in desperation, to find his face grave and preoccupied. He looked as if he had entirely forgotten the parcel.

"What is it, dear?" said Mrs. Orban, with sudden alarm in her voice. "Is anything wrong?"

Mr. Orban roused himself with an effort.

"Oh no," he replied slowly; "nothing wrong exactly. Only your words struck me oddly, for, as a matter of fact, I have to go away, and soon too."

Eustace glanced quickly at his mother, and the look in her eyes made him forget the parcel too.

"Not far, Jack, I hope," she said.

"Rather, I'm afraid," was the answer. "I hope you won't mind being left for a week or two."

"A week or two!" exclaimed Mrs. Orban in a tone that was unmistakably disturbed. "I can't do it in less," Mr. Orban went on. "I am obliged to go down to Brisbane on business."

"To Brisbane!" Nesta cried. "O dad, couldn't you take us all with you? It would be lovely!"

"If you will find the fares, young woman, I shall be delighted," said her father, pinching her ear. "The journey to Brisbane is rather an expensive matter. I couldn't afford to take myself there just for the fun of the thing."

"When must you go, Jack?" asked Mrs. Orban, trying hard to speak steadily and naturally.

"Next week—as soon as possible, that is," Mr. Orban said; "and I will get back just as quick as I can. You will be all right, dear. I will tell Farley or Robertson to sleep up here in the house, and you won't feel so lonely at night."

"Oh no, no," Mrs. Orban said, "don't do that. They have both got their wives and families to look after. Eustace will be an efficient man of the house and companion to his mummie—won't you, son?"

"I'll do my best," Eustace said soberly.

To be quite honest, he was as startled as his mother at his father's announcement; he did not like the idea at all. He had caught that curious look in his mother's eyes, and it troubled him.

But Nesta was too much taken up with the thought of the parcel to notice anything except the delay in opening it.

"Couldn't we go on?" she pleaded.

"Poor Nesta," said Mr. Orban, beginning to cut the sewing, "is it getting beyond your patience altogether? Well, here goes then!"

Inside the American cloth was yet another wrapper, this time of linen sewn up most carefully, and within that paper after paper. The excitement grew more and more tense, till at last, when they came to a series of neat packages, each with a label to say from whom and to whom the gift was, every one except Becky was beyond speaking point.

The joys that parcel contained were indescribable, because no child born and bred in England could be made to understand how wonderful, how undreamed of, how surprising were the most ordinary things to those four Bush children. They lived right out of the world, and had spent most of their lives on a sugar plantation in North Queensland; the common things of our everyday existence were marvels to them.

A clockwork train sent out to Peter with a hope that "he was not too old for it" fascinated Eustace, despite his four years' seniority; the exquisite little doll's dinner service for Becky set Nesta longing to play with it and cook pretence dinners for it.

There was something for every one, and the children's eyes shone with pleasure; but Mrs. Orban's were dim as, the unpacking over, she turned quietly away and disappeared into the house.

In the midst of turning the pages of his new book to look for pictures, Eustace missed her, and shortly after Mr. Orban went away too.

"Oh!" Eustace exclaimed, slamming his book together with a big sigh, "I do wish parcels from England didn't always make mother sad."

"I guess she wants to see grannie and Aunt Dorothy badly," Nesta suggested.

"Oh, it is more than that," Eustace said, getting up and moving restlessly about. "I sometimes think she simply hates this place and everything to do with it."

"Do you, Eustace?" asked Peter, his eyes round with wonder.

"Well, it is fearfully dull, isn't it?" Nesta said. "England must be quite different. English stories always make me ache to go there. It must be so awfully interesting, mustn't it?"

"Wouldn't it be splendid if father said suddenly one day we could all go to England!" Peter cried excitedly.

"I don't think there is the least chance of that," Eustace said. "You heard what he said about its being too expensive to take us even to Brisbane. It would cost ten times as much to go to England."

"I say," Nesta said quickly, "I wonder why father has to go to Brisbane in such a hurry? Don't you, Eustace?"

"I haven't thought about it," Eustace answered. "But, anyhow, mother doesn't like his going—that's very clear."

"Doesn't she?" Nesta asked in a surprised voice. "How do you know?"

"Didn't you see her face when father said he must go?" Eustace asked with a touch of impatience.

Nesta shook her head.

"Oh!" was all Eustace exclaimed; then he turned, and resting his elbows on the railings, stared straight ahead with unseeing eyes.

The Orbans' house was built on the top of an isolated hill three hundred feet above a valley which, except where the scrub had been cleared for the growing of sugar-cane, was thickly wooded. On three sides of the valley, stretching round like a great horse-shoe, lay range upon range of hills, now softest purple. The fourth side, on which the boy gazed, was bounded by the sea—a shimmering patch of blue. No scene could have been grander, none more infinitely lonely. But Eustace was not thinking about it either admiringly or otherwise.

Nesta joined her brother, and stared curiously at his unusually serious face.

"What do you mean, Eustace?" she demanded.

He did not speak, so she put her hand on his shoulder and gave him a little shake.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"Mother," Eustace said quite shortly.

"Yes, I know," Nesta said; "but what about her?"

"Father's going away," Eustace said.

"Of course," Nesta said, rather scornfully; "you told me that before. And I know mother will be dreadfully dull without him."

"Dull!" exclaimed Eustace, knocking the tips of his toes impatiently against the woodwork.

"Yes, dull," said the girl.

"Worse than dull," Eustace responded soberly.

"But we can do our best to cheer her up till he comes back."

Eustace turned slowly round until he was staring right into Nesta's eyes, and his look was so queer that she was startled.

"Do you mean to say you don't understand?" he said solemnly.

"No, I certainly don't," Nesta replied.

Eustace wheeled quickly back to the railing, gazing seaward again."Then I'm not going to tell you," he said decidedly.

Nesta stood blankly wondering for a moment.

"Well, it's hateful of you," she began; then suddenly her expression changed. "Eustace," she exclaimed, grabbing his arm with both hands, "do you mean mother will be frightened?"

"I'm not going to tell you," repeated the boy with seeming obstinacy.

But Nesta's face was full of certainty.

"It is that!" she said with conviction. "You think she will be scared at being left."

Now Eustace had suddenly begun to repent of having said so much. He had not the least desire to frighten Nesta; he had honestly believed that she must have noticed what he did in their mother's tone and look, but now he realized Nesta had not understood. He stood silent, regretting his carelessness.

"O Eustace," Nesta cried, "of course it is that. How dreadful! I remember now what father said—he knew mother might be frightened, and that is why he offered to have Farley or Robertson up."

There was terror in Nesta's voice now, and Eustace rounded sharply upon her.

"I say, shut up!" he said, with a glance towards Peter, who was too engrossed with his train at the other side of the veranda to be listening. "You don't want to frighten the kids, do you? Besides, father said we should be all right, and he knows."

"But mother was frightened," Nesta said, looking unconvinced.

"She didn't say so," Eustace argued. "She refused to have either of the men up, you see. That doesn't look much like funking it.""Then what did you mean?" demanded Nesta.

"Oh, never mind," Eustace said, throwing himself into a chair and reopening his book. "Don't let's talk about it."

"That is nonsense," Nesta said. "How can I help minding about a thing like that?"

"Well, but what's the good of talking?" Eustace exclaimed. "Dad has to go; we can't prevent that if we talk for ever."

"Yes; but if it is dangerous—" Nesta began in a low, awe-struck voice.

"Dangerous!" Eustace repeated. "What could there be dangerous about it?"

"You know as well as I do," Nesta replied. "Supposing the blacks were to come down on us in the night when we were here all alone!"

"Oh, do shut up!" Eustace said sharply. "Why should the blacks happen to come just because father is away? They may not even be in the neighbourhood."

"Yes; but you remember that horrid story Kate told us," Nesta said, almost whispering. "The father was away—there were nothing but women and children in the house—"

"Oh, stop, Nesta!" Eustace said. "Of course I remember all about it. I don't want to hear the beastly thing all over again. What is the good of frightening ourselves all for nothing? Don't you know that father wouldn't go if he could possibly help it? And if he must go, we've got to make the best of it, that's all. Now I'm going to read, so do shut up."

Nesta stood silently staring at him a moment, but he seemed already to have forgotten her very existence.

"Well, you are a queer boy," she said, in what the boys always called her "huffy" voice.

Still Eustace took no notice.

"Perhaps you will be sorry some day," Nesta said with a little gulp, and turned away to Becky, who was calling her.

Eustace was apparently engrossed in his book, but not a word did he see on the page he stared at so intently. He had done a stupid thing, and he regretted it, for the mischief was past remedy now. Quite unintentionally he had made Nesta as nervous as he was himself, and he knew that nothing he might say would reassure her. He was quite right that there was no use in talking about it; he felt sure that his father would say he ought not to have said so much, and he was vexed with himself for his carelessness. Silence seemed the only course open to him—silence on the subject for the present, and for the future a great, whole-hearted resolve to play the man come what might.

Back to contents