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