  “I don’t suppose he’ll ever get it.” For over a fortnight Eileen had been saying that. “If an answer doesn’t come to-morrow, I’ll say it’s gone astray. I didn’t think he’d get it from the moment we sent it.” “Oh, nonsense, Eileen! We can’t expect an answer straight away,” answered Mollie. “Straight away,” echoed Eileen. “I like your ‘straight away.’ It’s eighteen days since we posted the letter, and I’m just about sick of waiting. But I suppose there’s nothing else to do,” she added, disconsolately, as she kicked her heels against the verandah steps. “I’m sorry now that we wrote such a long letter. What we should have done was just to have written a very short note—just ‘Dear Uncle,—We are your five Bush Nieces, and we’re very poor, so please handy up some cash.—Yours respectfully,’ and then all our names. That’s what we ought to have done. But, anyhow, I suppose if he does come, the first thing he’ll want to do is to pack us off to school, to an old governess or to an old teacher of some sort. I suppose he’ll be like that big ‘Commercial’ that said we were raw.” “That said we were what?” cried Mollie. “Raw. I heard that big ‘Commercial,’ with the red shiny boots, who stayed here last week, say to that other traveller that we were raw material——” “Raw material!” repeated Eva, in disgust. “What did he mean?” “That we wanted schooling, I suppose,” said Eileen. “Ugh!” said Eva, with her head in the air. “I’d rather be raw than be cooked looking like him. But where did he say it, and when and how?” “Oh!” said Eileen, impatiently, “he said that we were nice children, but raw material, and it was a pity that we were running wild. That’s just what he said, and if you want to know what he meant you’d better write and ask him. I do hate saying word for word what people have said, and after today I’ll never do it again. I suppose Uncle will say the very same thing—that is, if he comes; and, of course, I don’t expect him. I don’t expect to ever hear another word about that old letter, and I expect to live here to the end of my days. I suppose I’ll just grow up and go into long dresses and put my hair up, and—and go on till I’m thirty and forty and fifty and sixty, and then die here, just working about a bit, and feeding lambs, and watching the shearing, and seeing the wool go away, and never go for a trip myself, and then die.” She looked so dismal and drew such a forlorn picture of herself that Mollie burst into laughing, for Eileen had fits of the blues and grumbles in the one instant, and the next was flying round the house in high good temper, the gayest of the gay. Every mail day now they watched for Teddy with wild eagerness and suppressed excitement, but Teddy came and Teddy went in the same old way, handing out letters that didn’t “count,” fishing out papers and telling scraps of news, and riding off again without gladdening their hearts. But an eventful day arrived, when he lingered longer than usual over his cup of tea; when he strapped and buckled and unbuckled the pack-saddles, and fixed and arranged the mail-bags until the coast was clear, and then across a great stack of canvas bags he beckoned to Mollie. “Here,” he said, as he whipped a letter out of his pocket; “here you are, and don’t say that Teddo failed you.” “Oh, Teddy!” murmured Mollie, growing almost faint with excitement—“at last!” “Yes, at last, right enough,” answered Teddy, “and I hope it brings you luck,” he said as he rode off. Mollie stood with the precious letter in her hand, almost too dazed to speak. She must tell the others and get them all away together—away down in the bed of the creek, under the big gum tree, where all their picnics were held. They must all get away together, where no one could hear them, and she must not open the precious letter till the others were with her. Mother was lying down reading the paper, and the men had gone out again, so she called softly to the others, who came out with curiosity stamped on their faces. Mollie beckoned and pointed to the road down the creek, and then with her fingers on her lips to denote silence she held up the magic letter. “Sh! No noise, creep out quietly, and not a word!” Once out of the house and garden, they scampered as fast as they could down the track to the creek, Eva making up the rear with Baby, who puffed and stumbled; but not a word did she utter after that warning glance of Mollie’s. “Oh, Mollie, it’s come!” cried Eileen. “Yes, it’s come,” she answered, “and I’m afraid to open it.” She looked at the stamp, she looked at the address again, and turned the envelope over and over. “I wonder whatever is inside it. I do wonder what he says.” “Let’s see the writing,” said Eva; so the letter was handed round to the circle. “Go on, Mollie, tear it open,” said Eileen; and Mollie ripped the flap of the envelope. “Oh, what beautiful thick paper!” she murmured. Doris looked eagerly to see if any money fell out, but there was nothing—only thick sheets of paper. “Are you all ready?” asked Mollie. “Yes, we’re ready,” they answered, clustering round. “Very well, then——” She smoothed out the pages and cleared her throat. “‘My dear little Bush Nieces’——” “Oh, dear! does he say that?” asked Eva. “Yes. ‘My dear little Bush Nieces.’” “Oh, well! it’s all right, then?—go ahead, Mollie,” cried Eileen. “It sounds well to start with—go ahead and see what else he says.” And then Mollie read right on—
Chorus of “Oh’s!”
Another chorus of “Oh’s!”
“Oh! isn’t he nice?” gurgled Doris, while all the others clasped their hands in delight.
Chorus of “Oh’s!” again.
The letter dropped from Mollie’s hand at this, but she picked it up hastily. “Where’s the Continent?” asked Doris, eagerly. “Oh, any old place!” said Eileen. “Go on, Mollie.”
The letter fell again while they all gazed at each other. “Here! He’s coming here?” “Goodness me, he’s coming!” gasped Eva. “I hope he don’t tell.” “Don’t tell?” echoed Eileen, scornfully. “Didn’t he give his word?”
“Oh, dear!” cried Eileen; “and we haven’t any to offer him!” “Yes, but we promised we would,” said Eva. “Whatever will we do?” “I didn’t think he’d come,” moaned Eileen. “He can play with Rose sometimes,” declared Doris, making a great concession. “Play with Rose and ride the stick horses——” commenced Eileen, witheringly; but Mollie gave her a warning glance. “Yes, Doris, we’ll all do our best.” “Oh, dear! I wish we had a gramophone,” sighed Eva, “to play for him.” “I suppose he won’t stay long,” said Mollie, hopefully, “and he can talk a lot of the time.” “What a pity the creek wasn’t up, and he could go fishing,” said Eva. “Yes, and sail boats,” continued Doris. “Tail boats!” echoed Baby. “Sail fiddlesticks!” snapped Eileen. “Go on, Mollie. What was the last?” “Let me see—ah——”
“Did he send it?” asked Doris, jumping up. “Sh! Go on, Mollie,” from Eva.
“Oh! isn’t it lovely?” gasped Eva. “Bosker!” agreed Eileen. “Bueful, bueful,” gurgled Doris. “It’s just splendid,” said Mollie, with shining eyes. “Three cheers for Uncle!” They all joined hands and danced wildly round Baby, who had fallen asleep on a heap of bushes in the shade of the gum tree. “And to think that he’s coming! In about another week’s time Dadda will get a letter from him to say he’s coming,” cried Eileen. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! I’m that excited that I feel silly. It’s the only excitement we’ve had since old Dave died. But it’s lots better. Oh, dear! oh, dear! it’s just grand! I won’t know whatever to do to put in the time till Dadda’s letter comes. And I do hope we’re not about when he gets it,” cried Eileen. “Oh, dear! whatever will he say? I do hope that he won’t guess that we’ve been writing. I do hope that Teddo never splits. Do you know what I’ll do when he comes? I’ll give Teddo a whole pound to spend as he likes, and I’ll ask him to take it. Oh, dear! I wish we had about a dozen rich uncles, and we’d never see a poor day again! Hooray!” “Hooray! Hooray!” shouted Eva and Doris, till Baby woke up, looking silly and stupid, blinking in the sun. “Clap hands, Baby,” shouted Doris, and Baby clapped away while she yawned and woke up properly. “Do you know what you’re clapping for?” asked Doris. “Well, it’s because our rich uncle’s coming, and we’ll all be rich by-and-bye,” and then she hoorayed at the top of her voice again. “I wish I could go to sleep and not wake up till the next letter comes. Oh, dear! it will be so hard just going about in the same old way, knowing what we know,” said Eileen. “We’ll have to be awfully careful. I know I’ll be dying to talk about it, and to sing and laugh and shout and hooray when Dadda and Mamma are about. I’ll be glad when the other letter comes, so as I can give way to my feelings.” “So will I,” said Mollie. “It will be hard to pretend we know nothing.” And hard it was, and they often had to get away by themselves to talk the matter over and wonder and surmise, and give three cheers for Uncle. |
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