  Mother had gone away. In all the years of their life they had never known Mother to leave them before. But she had gone now for a whole fortnight, and her letters were very constant. Miss Gibson and Mollie were housekeepers, and all the others helped. At first they were most particular, and Eileen and Eva would sweep and tidy their room most scrupulously every morning, and Doris would tidy up her doll’s clothes and wash and paint up old Rose’s face every morning, and Baby would wander round and get in everybody’s way. “I’m just about sick of work,” Eileen said one day. “I’m only going to do our room every other morning now, Eva, and the day Mother comes home we’ll give it a monstrous cleaning.” “All right,” agreed Eva, who was a bit tired of it, too. “An’ I’ll only wash Rose’s face once a week,” declared Doris. Miss Gibson was extra kind to Baby those days, and would nurse and talk to her for ever so long. “Why, you’re making her a real baby again,” said Eileen. “She’ll be getting too lazy to walk. I suppose it’s because Mother’s away that you pet her so much.” “Poor old Baby!” laughed Miss Gibson, “she won’t be a baby for ever, you know.” “No, and sometimes I wished I’d died when I was a baby.” “Why?” asked Miss Gibson, for she knew that Eileen was in one of her discontented moods, and would probably talk and talk till she talked herself all unconsciously out of it. “Oh! ’cause there’s nothing much to live for, only learning old lessons and things that don’t interest you, and growing up and being disappointed, and—and all sorts of things.” “Never mind, there might be a bright time coming.” “No, there’s no bright time coming. People always say, ‘There’s a bright time coming.’ But it’s a very slow old traveller, for it never gets this far. ‘A bright time coming’——” “Well, what about the time that Uncle came? That was a bright time.” “Yes, but that’s all over now, and we might go all our lives waiting for a bright time that will never come,” and so, talking, grumbling, and arguing, she talked herself into quite a good temper again. Meanwhile another fortnight flew by, and then a letter came to Miss Gibson, and there was a hurried consultation with Mollie. Then Eileen was let into the secret, and then the others were told. “A little brother, a little brother!” they shouted. “Well, isn’t it funny?” “Well, of all the things that ever would happen, I thought that would be the last!” said Eva. “Dear, dear, dear!” cried Doris, jumping round and clapping her hands. “Won’t we have fun with him?” “Won’t we?” screamed Eva. “I hope he’s pretty, and I’ll paint a picture of him.” “I suppose he’ll be cross, and will always want someone to nurse him,” grumbled Eileen. “Jingo! I wish he was older,” said Willie; “he’d be great sport for me.” Then Baby set up a roar, and said she wanted him now; and Miss Gibson lifted her up and talked to her. “He’ll soon be here now, Baby, and you won’t be Baby any more.” “Is that why you was always nursing her?” asked Doris. “And did you know, and never tell us?” and then she cried, too. “If you’d told me I’d ha’ made him some little dresses, ’stead of makin’ them all up for Rose.” “Don’t cry, dear; we’ll all sew for him when he comes home, and Baby can play with him when he gets older.” “Oh, dear! won’t it be funny having a little brother?” said Mollie. “Oh, dear, I wish he’d soon come home!” “I’m going to have first nurse,” said Eileen. “I said first.” “No, I am!” cried Eva, and then there was a quarrel about it. “I know what I’ll do,” said Willie, slyly. “I’ll ride up to Hogan’s letter box the day your Mother’s coming home, and get her to let me have first nurse. There!” “No, you won’t—you’ll do nothing of the kind!” cried Eileen, stamping her foot. “No, he’s not your brother,” cried Eva. “No!” roared Doris, “he’s not your brother, and I’ll hit you, too.” She rushed at him, and there was a wild stampede, while they all chased Willie; and the governess let them have their fight out, for she knew how excited they were. By-and-bye they all came back good friends, and had promised Willie he could have fourth nurse, because Baby wasn’t old enough to care, and she could have the last one. “By Jove! won’t he laugh when he grows up, and I tell him that I nursed him when he was little?” said Willie, proudly. “Oh, he might die!” said Doris, bursting into tears. “He might never grow up—he might die.” Then Miss Gibson had to pacify her and promise her she would make toffee for tea, and so peace was restored again. For the next few weeks nothing was talked of excepting the new baby, and while they were supposed to be studying or doing their homework they would wonder what colour eyes it would have, and if “it” would be cranky or good, and if “it” would like bush life or rather go to Sydney and study like Frank. It would nearly fill a book with their wonderings, and all the time the time was drawing near when “it” would be home with them. “I suppose ‘it’ won’t be very pretty,” Eileen would say. “It will be too little for a long time yet.” “I wonder what’ll we call it,” said Eva. They ran through hundreds of names, but none of them would suit. “What about Teddo?” asked Doris, struck by a bright inspiration. “Oh, yes, let’s call him Teddo!” cried Willie. “Oh, no!” said Eileen—“not Teddo. Teddo’s all right—for—well—for Teddo, but it won’t do for our little brother.” “I think it’s real nice,” said Doris, “and Teddo was a real nice man.” “Oh, yes, I know! but, all the same, we’re not going to call it after Teddo.” “I like Ronald,” said Eva. “No, my pet lamb’s named Ronald. He can’t have that,” answered Eileen. “I don’t know whatever we can call him,” she went on, anxiously. So they went through a lot more names till they became quite cross, and they decided to leave the old name, and let someone else find one. And so the days wore on till the wonderful brother arrived. And then the joy and the criticisms. “Isn’t he a darling, and a little dear, and a beauty?” and all kinds of endearing terms were lavished on him, and he was just like some of them thought he would be, and real different to what others thought, and he proved a great entertainment to them. “Why, he’s got a little red face just like Teddo’s,” cried Doris. “He hasn’t,” cried Eileen. “He has a lovely, pinkish face.” “He’s just like a little angel,” said Eva, “and I’m sure Teddo wasn’t like an angel.” “But he’s like Teddo, all the same,” persisted Doris, “an’ we ought to call him Teddo.” Then Mother asked what about calling him after Uncle Harry, and they were all thunderstruck to think they had not thought of that before. “Of course we will!” cried Mollie. “Yes, ’cause only for Uncle he might never be here,” said Doris, seriously; “’cause everything’s different since Uncle came.” So it was decided to call him Henry, which would, of course, mean “Harry,” or “Hal,” or “Har.” But he was nearly always called “The Baby,” and so Baby still kept her name as merely “Baby.” Dadda made him a cart—a box with wooden wheels—and it was fitted up with cushions, and the baby spent many hours there as the weeks went on, and would lie and coo and laugh for ever so long, and the children would crowd round and talk to him. They declared that he answered them, and they were sure he knew each and every one of them and was the most wonderful baby that ever lived. Doris declared that he called her “Doris” one morning as plain as anything; and she said that she loved babies, and when she grew up she would like to have about a hundred. “Ugh! they’ll be like rabbits!” Eileen answered. “It would be awful to have that many.” But Doris said she didn’t care. Willie would beg to be allowed to drag the cart down the road and give the “little chap” a ride, and sometimes Mother would let him, until she found out that he would sometimes leave the cart with her precious treasure and rush off after a bright-winged bird or butterfly. “But look here, Mrs. Hudson, it’s only for a minute or two, and the baby doesn’t mind—not a bit! He’s great chums with me——” “Yes, but supposing something knocked the cart over, or supposing—oh, hundreds of things; so you may just wheel him down the road in sight of the house sometimes.” And Willie said that was very tame. |
|
