CISSY: AN AUSTRALIAN GIRL.

Otago Witness, Issue 2915, 26 January 1910, Page 71

CISSY: AN AUSTRALIAN GIRL.

By Mrs J. K. Lawson.

THS .SO7«LIST. [All Rights Reserved,]

NEW READERS BEIG-IN HERB. This delightful lov-e romance has for its hero David Maclntyre, a rising, ambitious ■young fellow, who is enamoured with Mary M vpho is more anxious to be well provided for by marriage than to prove herself a true helpmeet to the man of her choice. David is working alone in the office one day when a gentleman comes in and pays a Idng-written-off debt of £4OO. The gentleman leaves the office, and, as soon as be does so, David hears a piercing cry for bf&lp a»t tho oilier sidle of tile buiioiTig. He eavea the notes on the desk, and rushes out, co be only, in time to save the office boy, who has falcon through a trapdoor in one of the floors, to which he is hanging on for his life. David returns to his desk, to find that the notes have disappeared. He is dismissed, and, immediately on leaving the warehouse he meets Mary Mackay! CHAPTER Y.—DAVIE’S DECISION. O Mary’s great surprise S David neither spoke nor smiled when they met, but steed looking at her with an inscrutible expression of countenance-. “Dear me, David, what is wrong? Are you sick?” “Ay, sick enough, ’ he answered, smiling bitterly. “I’ve left the otiice.’’ “Left the office!’’ she echoed. “Wha£ for?’’ . „ I “Oh! some money gone amissing.” ■ “And they blame you?” “Well, it looks like it.” "And tliey’ve dismissed you?” “•No; I dismissed myself.” “Then you are out of a situation —and without a character ? ’ ’ David laughed bluntly. “My character. is here,” said he, tapping hie breast. “The answer of a goon conscience is more to me than, all the certificates of character that ever were permed.” A dead silence followed, she intently contemplating the side walk, his eyes, keen and steely, observing her. At last she looked up and' met them coldly. "Very well,” she sighed heavily; “I fancy it’s all up between you and me,' “What! Do you mean to »a that •” T mean to say, David Maclntyre, that

i I'll never marry a man who left a good i, situation with a stain on his charade, t What promotion could I expect?" © David had been pale before, now he grew gaunt and haggard. e "Do you believe me dishonest, Mary?" ! * he said in' a. voice that trembled. B "I do not say what I believe; I know j. this, that after thinking I was to marry s a man who would keep me in comfort ' and respectability all my days, after - bringing me to the point of marriage so y to- speak—here you turn out a disgraced man. If you have no respect for my 1 good name, I have. So, good-day, and • there's your ring ! I'm done with you !" f While speaking she had drawn off her a engagement her finger, and now p held it out to him. For a moment he looked at it, dumb . and dazed, trying to realise what all this I meant to him ; but she, seizing his inert 3 hand, opened the fingers and dipped the ring into it. The pressure of it he hard .little circlet on his palm had the effect of clearing his , befogged consciousness. Opening- his fingers, he looked at the glittering thing for an instant, then, with a shrill, hysterical laugh, he threw it from him. It struck a lamp-post, then tinkled down, and disappeared in the grating of the sewer just below. "Oh, what a shame!" cried the horrified Mary. "My bonnie ring! And it cost more than a fortnight's pay!" Seeing that it was irretrievably gone she turned to remonstrate with David on the sin of such wastefulness—not to men- ■ tion bad tamper,—but to her surprise he j was gone—was striding away up the street like one in desperate haste. "Well, well," she sighed, as she turned ! homeward, "I see nothing for it but to be more civil to Tom Fly-ran. His folk are nothing much, but he has a good position and a good salary. I must get mother to ask Tom up to tea on Sabbath evening, so that we may go to- church together. He's not like David. I always liked David, but Tom's a decent chap for all that, and I might do worse." ! John Macintyre and his wife were waiting tea when David entered. Hearing him in the hall hanging up his hat, Mrs Macintyre smiled gladly, calling aloud: "Well, what did I tell you? Got your holiday all right, haven't you?" Her answer was David's quiet presence in the room, without word or smile, and so changed in countenance, that she sprang tc- his side in wild alarm. "Davie, my laddde, what's the matter with you? You're looking as white as a ghost." "It's nothing, mother," he answered with quiet gentleness. "Let us have our tea. I'm fair done.for want of meat." "And no wonder! You ate no breakfast, and less dinner. What other can you be but starving?" "You got your holiday, though?" interposed his father, whose quiet eyes had seen at a dance that something more than hunger gave that new and gaunt expression to his son's face. "Yes. rather. got my. holiday," was the listless answer. "I'll tell you after I I get my tea." J " 'Deed, ay, John, we'll hear all about it after he gets a refreshing cup of tea. And look," * she added, "I'm going to brander a little bit of fine steak for you. You look fair done out." So saying ehe turned over the crimj son coals, and on the gridiron prepared '■ the meat, grilling'it to a turn, and deftly j slipped it on to the hot plate she had ; ready. "There," she said, .placing it before him, "fall to. There's nothing brings up a body's strength like a well-brandercd beefsteak Tight out of the fire. Now, see you eat. and not have my tongue going like a bell on you." Mrs Macintyre's jaunty pretence of scoldinrr the son over whom her heart yearned with love unutterable was quite understood both bv David and his father. John muniMed a araoe. the only audible word being the "Amen!" which he pronounced with the air of a man who had perfox*m<*d an onerous duty. So silent was David during the meal, responding only in monosyllables when spoken to, that Mrs Macintyre soucht her husband's eyes with troubled inquiry more than once. "Nevertheless, she made no sign, until, haviricr cleared, the table and piled the dishes readv for Trashing- on the sink, she washed and dried her hands, .and with a blythe and -aunty air sat down beside him and his father. "Vow, then. D?-vie." she began, laying a hand on his shoulder, "out with it! What about the holidav?" "It's likely to "be a long one," answered David drily. , , , "All the better." said Mrs Macintyre, pretending not to* understand —"all the better. You'll be a"? strong as a horse when you get back." "I'm not co-incr back." "Not eroine back! And what for?" "Ay, what for?" echoed his. father, a shadow, of trouble visible on his countenance. "Well, father, it's got to bo a long storv bv thi> time, but if you'll both have patience I'll Iwrfn at the beginning, as I did wfth Mr Gordon." Mrs Maomtyre drew her chair closer to bis, and a<raki rested her hand on his shoulder, vrheiv sV let it remain. "Say nway, laddie. T know you can sa--- nothing but what's the truth —the God's truth about ->-om-sel£ or any other bcd->\" smiled faintly. "It's 2-ood to know somebody can believe me." he said. Then he vekvtad the whole incidents of that eventful d-av, now over a fortnight ago. During his recitation of the events his father ewew van. ids face drawn as if by pain, hut that of Mrs was flushed with scornful incredulity.

"And what did Mr Gordon say when you told him all this?" ■ "Oh, .veil, mother, we must be reasonMr Gordon. It just looks like a wellspun yarn a thief might weave to keep himself out of gaol. He said they would have a meeting when the rest of the company got back to the town, and they would fee whether I was to be kept on or not." "Like their impudence!" exclaimed the ieipetuous woman, all her motherly affection and confidence outraged by the very insinuation of such a consultation. "Oh, well, mother, me must be reasonable. Anyway, I up and told him I resigned my post then and there, until such a time as the money could be found, or some ciue to its disappearance found." "Well done," Davie !" sue cried, her eyes blazing, her whole frame quivering with excitement. He smiled gratefully. It was comforting to xnow that someone knew him so intimately as to believe in him utterly, even tho. - : it was but one's mother. "And - f \. ~ John Maointyre, sitting there like a dummy, never saying a word to the laddie, good or bad, in such trouble as this," she cried, turning in contemptuous reproach to her husband. John smiled confidently. "Davie knows what I think of him without any word about it—eh, Davie, my man?" And across the hearth he offered a hand to his son. "It's not everyone I would shake hands with, and if I give you my hand, it's because I know your's is clean." David took hie father's hand in a fervent clasp, touched by this evidence of affectionate confidence. It was a tremulous moment, and the eyes of both were conscious of a blur, when, to ease the situation, John remarked with sly humour : "If that mother of yours had the eexi&e to give a man a chance to speak, but there's no getting in an oar when she takes speech in hand. You were quite right, Davie, to throw up your job." "Riight or wrong, father, I couldn't work in a place where I could see suspicion in their eyes. I'll get away out of here altogether. I think I'll go and try my luck in Australia." "Australia!" cried Mrs Macintyre in dismay. "A droughty land of sands and stones, where they don't see rain for years at a time! To say nothing of bushrangers! You'll never stand it, Davie." ''Woman, hold your tongue!" interposed John. "That's the old-fashioned idea of Australia. Do you not know that there the grapes grow in the open fields, rows on rows, .like our potatoes, grapes and other fruit that we've to raise here under glass Where in some places the soil is fifty, feet deep, and where there's enough grass land to raise enough mutton and meat to feed the whole British Empire ! A wimteriess land of eternal sunshine. An empire in itself!" "Not possible! Do you really say so, John Macintyre? I've always thought of it as a place where they had to condense their water. But," added the astonished woman, turning to David with a certain hesitation in her manner, "this will be a surprise to—Mary." "She knows," said David, his face hardening. "She knows! And how did she take it?" "Oh, it's all at an end! ■ Gave me back my ring; would have nothing to do with a man with a stain on his character." And David laughed a mirthless, cynical laugh.. "And she really threw you up? Well, thank God for that, anyway!" said Mrs Macintyre with a fervour there could be no mistaking; but here the father interposed. "Hold your tongue, good wife; bold your tongue. If Davie wants to go to Australia, let him go. There's an old acquaintance of mine there—John Williams. I'll give him, the address. He'll be a good man to advise where's best to s °;«" "Oh, I'll make way for myself, never fear. But stay here I couldn't!" said David. "I wouldn't make a good thief. I've suffered more this last fortnight with the very thought of being blamed. What it would be to be a real thief I do not know. It would kill me outright. I'm glad I have, that money I put away every month in the bank—you know what for—it will come in handy now. I'll leave th? half of it to you, mother. The rest " "You'll do nothing of the kind. You mav need it all. Your father and me haven't been well-doing and thrifty for nothing this five-and-twenty years. So away you go to Australia, my laddie, and God go with vou. You've been a good child all your days ♦** me—and " But here Mrs Macintyre suddenly bolted out of the room, and John turned and looked into the Sre with such, thought fulness that David almost regretted bis intention. CHAPTER VI.—IN THE NEW LAND. The sun. like a great glowing ruby, cast a warm, royeate effulgence athwart the dark stretch of bush that crowned the heights to the north of the. scattered Victorian township of Merry wealth as David Macintyre, towards the close of a hot afternoon, trudced alone the dustv road leading to a fruit farm to which he had be-n directed. He had set out earlv enough, but unaware of the lions distance—.some ten mile.? to his destination—be had naused occasion ally to look around at the scenery on both s'*des of the road; now sitting down at some point to enjoy the new and unarcusioT'e.d of long, wide fields, with rows and rows of some greygreen, broad-leaved sort of plants, sup-

ported by fences, and now lost in admiration of the heavy peach crop on the laden trees. He had never seen plants like these at home, unless indeed they might be rows of peas or beans; but then the leaves, so big and broad and drooping. Could it be tobacco? He wondered if it would be lawful to step across the road and the field in order to have a closer look at this, to him, new species of vegetation. He turned to cross the grass, when from behind one of the fences a man rose up, in his hands a basket of something covered with leaves. "What sort of stuff is this growing in rows?" he asked defer entiairly. The man smiled at the question. "Why, these are grape-vines. I vnas just getting a basketful of the ripe ones to take into town," answered the man, genially uncovering his load of luscious grapes, whose soft bloom attested to their ripeness. David gasped in astonishment. "Grapes growing in the fields like potatoes ?" "Oh, yes! Whore would you grow them? You must be a stranger in this country —what we call a greenhorn," "Yes, I am. I had no idea that grapes could be grown in the open air .like this, though, goodness knows, it's hot enough for anything." And David mopped his face and nock with his handkerchief as he spoke. "Go down and pick a bunch or two to cool yourself," said the nan. "I'd give you some of these, but I've just enough to fill my order." "But the owner of the field might object," said David. "Did j/ou get permission to fill your basket?" The man's eyes twinkled merrily. "Well, rather! I got permission from my wife. She's boss of this ranch. She's going into town to-morrow morning, that's why I'm picking these to take with her." I

"But," said David, eyeing keenly, the elderly, sunburned face framed in grizzled hair, beard, and whiskers, under the rim of a straw hat, which, too, was elderly and the worse for wear, "who is the owner of the field ? Are you employed by him?"

The man grinned gleefully. "Well, I guess he ain't far .away, but if you want to be introduced to him, why, here he is, right here 1" As he spoke he stood with his forsimger pointed to his own chest, which be tapped with an air of amused triumph.. David's eye took in the grey shirt thrown open at the neck, the workmanlike shirt-sleeves, the blue overalls, reaching nigh to the shoulders, and a contemptuous "What?" almost escaped him. Bui suppressing his feelings of surprise, he said in his best manner :

"Oh, indeed ! I beg your pardon." "There's no offence, young man—no offence. I guess you're accustomed to the old country style of owner. I remember them—think work beneath them, got poor folks to make the money for them while they sail round in broadcloth, purple, and fine linen, as the Scripture would say. Oh, I remember! But won't you go down and sample my grapes? You'll find them first-class." Very modestly indeed Davie murmured : "Thank yon; it's very kind, I'm sure," and stepped into the field, feasting his astonished eyes on the luscious clusters that clung to the vines far as his eyes could reach. And quite as modestly he selected a small bunch, and was bearing it back in his hand, when the farmer, laughing at his extreme moderation, laid down his basket and strode back into the field. There be selected two or three of the finest bunches, and, returning, held) them out to David, who protested against such generosity. •" "Take them and eat them, all but the husks and stones; they won't agree with you." David partook of the refreshing fruit with sailing satisfaction. "The grapes of Eschol must have tasted like these," he said, with a humorous smile. The farmer looked at him with new interest. "I see you know the Scriptures, like Timothy," he remarked. "It's a thing the young people of this generation don't trouble with much." "Oh, well, in Scotland .we all read the Bible ! I can't remember when I didn't." "Ah, that's good.—-that's- good! I'm an Englishman, ff«bm Yorkshire, but we like the way the Scotch bring up their children in the fear of God. Are you going far?" David smiled and shook his bead. "I don't know myself how much farther I may have to go. I'm looking for a srentlem.an named Wdodhouse —a fruit farmer." The man suddenly laid down his basket and stood staring at David.. "Well, I declare ! John Williams sent you out here, didn't be?" "Yes, it was a Ma- Williams who hired me," admitted David, with some wonder in his eyes. "Williams is my wife's brother, and I'm the man you're looking for! I'mi Albert Woodhouse. John said he'd try to get a man for roe the last time he was up. Well, I'm glad you've come, we're mighty short-handed, so come along." Amazed', but glad to be at the end of his ouest, David stooped to take the basket. "I'll carry this, Mr Wccdhouse," he said, feeling it was the proper thing to do, since evidently this was his new employer, though in the garb of a humble workman. "Oh, no, never mind! I'll take my graoes home. "But if yon -must have something to carry, wu strip off that heavy tweed coat, and throw it over your arm. You'll feel mwc comfortable-. This is a shirt-sleeve climate at this time of the wax. Whor° did vou hail from in the Old Coimtrv'" "Ofa.s.wTw," Raid David, with an inner twin we he could not control. "Ah. I've beard of Glasgow. Gr?a4 city, I believe," said Woodhouse, leading the way homeward, which lav nast long

I rows of fruit bees—pears, plums, and peaches—the branches bending to the I ground with their weight of fruit. The peaches were more than David could pass without outspoken admiration, their rich tints of red and yellow perfected by Nature's finishing touch of soft furry bloom. The wide branches of the pear trees, too, unable to keep upright, were bowed down to the soil, overburdened with their load of luscious peare. "My," exclaimed David, "such peaches and pears! The trees fair look broken down with the weight of them! They look as if they needed props to help them." yes, yes\ I tried that at first when I was a greenhorn in the bueiness. I propped them, but when the wind came along, instead of swinging them, it broke them clean off." "But," said the astounded David, "are all these yours, too, sir?" "Course they're mine! I've two fruit farms, this -one and the other, up to the hill yonder." Here he paused to point to the height behind which the eun had sunk iin ruddy flame, but where now the evening star had risen with calm effulgence. "It's really a beautiful country, a veritable garden of the gods, as we used to read about," said David with enthusiasm. "I suppose the rent for such iai'ins must be pretty high, judging from the produce."

A slow smile of amusement illuminated the sunburned visage of the farmer. "It's well to be seen you're from the Old Land. That's where nobody owns anything but the landlord. I pay rent to no man. I bought this farm fifteen years ago, when it was bush for the most part. Now, look at that!" And he waved hia hand in the direction of the fruitful acres with an air of supreme satisfaction. "There they are, from the strawberries right up to -the plums, peaches, and grapes, every kind of berry you can mention, all eent into the towns and cities for the daily markets. No, sir, no rent. The ground's mine, and my wife and eon's after me; the cow. chickens, and all, all our own. Thank God for such a good earth"!" David had been so Jong accustomed to the dignity of Mr Gordon, his late employer, his tall hat and frock coat, not to mention the white vest and gold watchchain of his debonair front view, that it was hard to realise that the wearer of" those blue overalls, and that old straw hat—original value sixpence—carrying hig basket m a. sun-burned hand, could be the owner, landlord, and tenant "n. one ■of those wide fruit-laden orchards. Could be such and yet—British ! That he was the man he had been sen! to by his father's acquaintance, Williams, hoover, he was assured of by the nexi question, which was one of wages and arrangement for the future, in case of hif finding the work congenial enough to continue on the farm. The terms per month, with bed and board, were Quite satisfactory, more indeed than David had expected ; but, as Woodhouse remarked, labour was scarce, and most of the incoming immigrants were inclined to make the mistake of staying in the towns, instead of making a break into the country, where good food and good wages were ottered.

These preliminaries w«M scarcely concluded when a white-painted framehouse, with green shutters, glinted through the trees a .little ahead. "There, that's Woodhouse Farm, as the folk here call it. See the asters and hollyhocks at th'e front of the door? That's my wife and daughter's patch. They're great on flowers." His statement was corroborated &y the appearance of a girl coming down between the trees with a bunch of asters in one hand, while the other was raised to her mouth as she called a long "Coo-eel" which floated musically to their -ears. Woodhouse answered by a similar call, adding, as he returned to David : "That's my daughter. Guess she's wondering what's kept me. Got a son, too, 10 years old. His name's Horace, and he's a caution is Hory, I can tell you!" The girl was fair, of medium height, broad-browed, and brown-eyed, her delicate, rose-bloom complexion harmonising with the rich coils of dark auburn hair which she wore like a crown. Her level eyebrows were parted wide above the slim, tip-tilted nose which gave a suggestion of energy to her face ; while a finely-curved mouth and slightly-dimpled chin completed the expression of sweet sympathy, which was her chief charm. "That's my daughter," said the farmer, as she approached, her questioning eyes on the newcomer. (To be continued.)