  The weeks sped by. Sometimes the children would say the time dragged. At others they wouldn’t have half enough time, and wished the days were twenty-four, instead of twelve, hours long. It just depended upon the mood they were in whether the time dragged or flew. Every Tuesday afternoon they did the week’s darning, and would sit out on the verandah, with the darning basket or other mending, and work away, sometimes grumbling, sometimes laughing and talking or listening to Miss Gibson’s stories or reading. “I don’t know why we wear stockings,” said Eileen one day, as she mended an exceptionally big tear in Baby’s sock. “We ought to wear leggings—yes, leather leggings; and there’d be none of this old stitch, stitch, stitching. Do you hear, Baby?—you’ll have to get a little pair of leather leggings made at the saddler’s.” Baby roared, and declared she “wouldn’t wear ’em, an’ she was tightened of the tadder,” and was just going off into fresh cries of grief, till Eileen assured her that she would let her off. “But, all the same, it would be a good idea,” she went on, digging the needle into her sewing. “I’m sure it would be lovely to run about without boots and socks——” “What about bindies?” asked Doris, triumphantly. “Oh, well! people’d only have to use their eyes,” said Eileen, coolly. “Anyhow, I’m sick of mending and darning and patching—I’d like to live in trees like the Swiss Family Robinsons——” “Or monkeys,” said Willie, teasingly. “You speak for yourself,” answered Eileen, and then the laugh was turned on Willie. “I say, we never had that week on the river yet,” cried Mollie. “Oh, no! wouldn’t it be grand? Let’s ask about it now. Come on!” “Oh, yes, let’s!” shrieked Doris. Then needles, darning wool, cotton, and stockings were scattered all over the verandah, while they rushed away to find Mother. At first she thought they had taken leave of their senses, but they begged and pleaded so hard that at last she consented to think about it. “Yes, we’ll have a great time. We’ll swing the hammocks in the big trees, and, oh—it’ll be great!” cried Mollie. “What about waiting till Frank comes back? You know, he expects to have a short holiday in the early spring time.” “Oh, so he does, so he does!” they fairly shrieked. “We’ll wait till then. Frank will enjoy it, and he’ll be such a help, putting up the hammocks and fixing up the fires, and all that.” “Huh! That’s a nice way to talk about a fellow,” said Willie; “just want him to work!” “We don’t want him to work,” declared Mollie. “We’re real glad to have him, and we know he’ll love helping us.” “Oh, I could lend you a hand if you want help,” said Willie. “Of course you can, and we’ll be real glad to have your help.” “Yes, there’s not much I can’t do in the fixing up line,” went on Willie, boastfully. “Oh, no, you’re all right for your age,” said Eileen, “but of course you’re so very young.” If there was anything Willie hated it was to be called young. “I’m not so very young, either,” he answered. “Now, I call Doris and Baby young. I’ll surprise you all when it comes to fixing up camp.” “Yes, you’re real good at fixing up,” agreed Eva. “Oh, dear! won’t it be grand?” they all echoed again, and just then Dadda came in. “I have some good news for you, children.” “Good news!” they cried. “Whatever is it? Oh, tell us!” “Tell us, quick!” cried Doris. “Mr. and Mrs. Grey are leaving soon, and the manager and his wife and children are coming to live there.” “Oh!” The darning, which had been taken up again, was fairly banged on to the verandah now, and scissors and wool were scattered far and wide, while Eva threw a reel of cotton high in the air. “Children coming! Playmates! Hurrah!” “When are they coming, and who are they, and how many, and how old are the children, and are they nice?” “Are you glad?” asked Dadda. “Glad?” repeated Eileen. “Glad’s not in it! We’re overjoyed. Of course we all like Mrs. Gray; she can make lovely little cakes, and keep her house lovely and clean, but—little cakes and a clean house are not playmates. And when we’re dying for fun and playmates, cakes and houses don’t count!” “No, dere no good,” declared Doris, in tones of finality. “Oh! won’t it be fine?” cried Eva. “I hope they’re nice.” “I hope so,” said everyone, in tones of concern. “If they’re not nice, won’t it be awful?” “Worse nor cakes an’ a house,” said Doris. They all went off into peals of laughter at the worried look on Doris’s face. “Oh, I think they’re sure to be nice,” said Mollie, hopefully. “But supposing they’re not,” groaned Eileen. “Supposing we wish the Greys were back again?” “We’ll fix ’em up,” said Willie. “If they’re not nice when they come, we’ll make ’em nice.” “Well, young man, they’re coming the day after to-morrow, so you’ll have to get ready for your task very soon.” “The day after to-morrow!” They all sat still for a while, with the wonder of it. “I didn’t think it would be for another week, whatever. The day after to-morrow!” “I wonder will they go past here, and will we get a look at them?” cried Eileen. “No, they’re coming past Frazer’s old place.” “Oh, bother them!” she cried. “We mightn’t see them for weeks. I’ve a good mind to camp at Frazer’s old place, just to get the first look at them. I wonder how many children there are, and do they like the country, and can they ride, and what are their names? Did Mrs. Grey tell you anything about them?” “No, she doesn’t know them at all.” “Oh, dear! I don’t know how ever I can live till they come,” groaned Eileen. “I bet I’ll dream about them to-night.” Sure enough she did, and she recounted her dream to a wondering group next morning. “Yes, there were five of them, and what do you think—they were all exactly the one size?” “Oh!——” “And they all had red hair. Real red hair, everyone of them.” “Oh, they must have looked funny!” “All the one size?” asked Eva. “Yes, the five of them; all the one size, with little red heads.” “They must have all been twins,” shrieked Doris. “Twins!” echoed Willie, in tones of disgust. “Triplets, you mean!” “Triplets—oh, listen!” cried Eva. “Fourlets or fivelets, more like.” “Oh, dear, they must have looked like five little carrots!” said Doris. “Yes, that’s what they looked like—five little carrots, all dressed up.” There were shrieks of laughter at this, but the dream made them all the more anxious to see the new people. As the days sped on, they grew nearly frantic with curiosity. “See them?” they’d ask Dadda and old Joe, as they came in, in the evening. But they were always doomed to disappointment. But one day old Joe had good news. “Yes, I seen ’em to-day,” he said, as he unsaddled his horse. “I called there with a sheep notice.” “Oh, Joe! How many—what are they like? What did they say?” A volley of questions were hurled at him. “She seems a nice lady——” “But the children, Joe—what about——” “Children?” echoed Joe. “Who said there was children?” he went on, in his most tantalising manner. “Oh, Joe! but there are, aren’t there? Oh, tell us, Joe.” “If there’s no children, I’ll go—I’ll go and drownd myself,” cried Doris, bursting into tears. “I will—I’ll go and drownd myself——” “Steady, there—yes, there’s children. Well, there’s none real little—least, not what I seen.” “Oh, tell’s all about them!” cried Doris, with the tears still standing in her eyes. “There’s a boy looks about fifteen—a nice lad, he seems, with red hair.” They all gasped. “Red hair! Oh!” “You didn’t see five of them, did you, Joe? Five of them with red hair? Because, if you did, that’s my dream out.” “Dream? Who’s talkin’ about dreams?” answered Joe, testily, for he was always cantankerous till he had his tea. “If you’re goin’ to start talkin’ about dreams, I’ll tell you no more about them.” “Oh! go on, please, Joe.” “Yes, a nice lad he seems, and his hair ain’t real red; leastways, not that bad-tempered ginger red. It’s more like the reddish-brown colour of a myall log just where it’s chopped.” “Yes, I know the shade,” said Eva, eagerly. “He’s got a nice fresh face, and he seems a real nice lad. And there’s a girl about the size of Eileen there, and there’s another one in a sort of a pram or chair.” “Oh, she must be the baby!” they gasped. “No, she ain’t the baby, but I think she must be delicate. She looked about nine or ten.” “Oh! Any more?” “No, that’s all I seen.” “You didn’t hear any more laughing or—crying anywhere, did you, Joe?” “No,” he answered, testily; “of course I didn’t. Wouldn’t I know there was more if I heerd ’em laughing or crying?” “Oh, the poor little delicate one. I’d love to see her. What a pity she won’t be able to join in our fun!” said Eileen. “Now, that’s all I know about ’em,” said Joe. “So don’t you ever mention the new people to me again. If you want to find out any more go and see ’em for yourself, and don’t let on I said anything about the little delicate one—for there’s no knowin’ how they’ll take it.” “All right, Joe—all right,” they shouted after him. “But what a pity!” they said among themselves, “there’s not more of them. If there were only five or six.” “I wish dere was a tousand,” declared Doris. “Why don’t you say a million thousand while you’re at it?” asked Willie. “Well, anyhow, it’s time Mother went to see them,” said Eileen. “Yes, of course it is,” they all agreed. “Let’s go and tell her to go soon.” “Wait a while. Who’ll go with her?” There was a pause. “Whose turn is it? It isn’t mine, because I went to Bragan Junction last week,” said Eileen. “I suppose Mother and Miss Gibson will go and one of us. Let’s see—it’s Eva’s turn.” “Oh, no! you go, Eileen; you go first, and tell us all about them.” “But supposing I don’t like them. You go, Mollie.” “Oh, no! you always get more news than any of us. You go first.” “Yes,” agreed Willie and Doris. “And, another thing,” went on Willie; “I don’t see what Miss Gibson wants to go for. Mollie ought to go instead.” “Oh, no, Miss Gibson must go,” said Mollie, hastily. “It wouldn’t be nice to leave her at home.” “No, and, besides, let them see we have a governess,” said Eileen. “It’s just as well to let people know you can afford it.” “I never thought of that,” agreed Willie. “I hope your Mother wears her best dress.” “Of course she will,” they chorussed. “And now let’s find Mother, and get her to name a day, because once the day’s named half the trouble’s over.” Off they scampered to find Mother. |
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