Betty of the Wilderness

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVI, Issue 22, 2 June 1906, Page 54

Betty of the Wilderness

Bv

Lilian Timer (Mrs. F. Lindsay Thompson

Author of “An Australian Lassie, *’ “Sights of Sydney,” etc. DEDICATION: To my Huehand.

CHAPTER XIX. BETTY’S SCHEME. THE next evening Betty opened her father’s study door and peejied in. Her face was all aglow, as surely it had never been before, and her heart was beating till it seemed to set her throat throbbing. For Betty had a "scheme"—a scheme which had kept her awake half through the previous night, and made her by turns distrait and gay in the day—to Dot’s bewilderment. At the sound of the opening of the door Mr. Bruce raised his head, and gazed, unseeingly. at the girl’s face. His brain was just beginning to warm and quicken with new thoughts, and a sheet of ink-wet paper was before him. "Should 1 interrupt’’’ asked Betty, whetdingly. "Eh?” said her father. ! “’Could your worship grant me ten minutes?” She came into the room and shut the door. "No more, then." said her father: "and I’d rather have given you them at any time during the day. Well?’’ He lifted his eyes from his sprawling black scrawl, and saw her face. "What is the matter?” he asked in surprise. for the shining light in the girl's face was wonderful, her glowing eyes, her tremulous mouth! "J:—l’ve got a scheme, daddie,” she said, and slie didn’t sit down. She just began to walk up and dcwn the small room. “If you throw- cold water on it. - she said, ‘you’ll kill me. Oh. father, there’s no cold water in the world, so ~ don’t look for any. I’ve used it all up during the seventeen years of my refrigerated life.” "Poor little icicle!" said her father, smiling humorously. "I want to go away from home,” she said feverishly—‘‘right away by myself. I want to live in an attic up ten flights of stairs, where I can see nothing but chimney tops and sky by day, and stars and sky at night. Now Dot is here ” A sudden thought came to her father. ‘‘Surely not a quarrel the first day,” he said. Betty laughed. ‘"I should think not,” she said. "Were far too polite! We’re keeping the first quarrel for the fifth day. No, if Dot had not come home I was going to slaughter my Pegasus and become a model Martha. I was going to ‘make and mend, and do all the housewifery that best becomes a woman.’ But. oh, I hate it so—l hate it so. And I love my Pegasus.” "But. child, ven can keep him at home in your room.” "And never rise on him. Never! said the girl hotly. "It’s Betty. Betty, all day ~long. There’s no peace.” She clasped her hands and faced her father. "My life is one long study in interruptions." she said, and her eyes filled. "I’d rather liave a limb or two off an l have done with it,” she said, speaking as one who had several to spare. ‘ißut the hourly sawing away at my thoughts —it’s—it’s positive agony.” No one could doubt her. Her mobile face was working, her eyes shining with tears; she was suffering the agony even while she spoke. Her father threw down hi- peif. lie. perhaps, better than anyone in the world, could understand her. He. too. had yearned for an attic up ten flights of stairs, with only toe chimney pots and’the star-world for company. And he had l>eeh given eight noisy children and a Weatherboard cottage! ’’ His present oftce in. town was ..the nearest approach to tl|e attic, and- the ideal he had yet attained. “1 know," he said. “I know. But

how on earth can it be done? I don’t want to blot out your stars, my child; but how ean it be done? We must be practical, Betty!” He tried to look so: threw back his head and bent shoulders, and frowned. But of the two of them, Betty, though more of an enthusiast, because younger, was far more practical. "Quite easily,” she said cheerfully. "Of course, I know; for one thing, it wants money.” She then told her father of her visit to the "Times” editor, and of her engagement as letter-writer. Mr. Bruce was as astonished as she could possibly have desired: and the salary v as in his eyes, as well as in Betty’s, munificent. "Forty-eight—practically fifty pounds a year,” he said. "Yes,” said Betty eagerly; "and that’s only one letter a week. I might be taken on by New Zealand or Melbourne. I shall try all the colonies. I eould easily manage three letters a week—and then get time for my stories. In an attic all things are possible.” Her father smiled. "To the young.” he said, "all things are possible. Life looks just a golden stairway. Betty, to the highest heaven of all. And 1 suppose, my child, it is—or may be. We who’ve missed our footing blame the stairway, and even doubt the heaven.” He stared before him with sad eyes. How he, too. had longed to climb —how eager-hearted, warm-blooded he had been. And now —now —— "The desire of the moth for the star!” he murmured. Some of the glow, a very little, faded from the girl’s bright faee. Her father noticed it at once. "Go on. my child,” he said, rousing himself. "Climb, and climb, higher and higher. ... I know what you want -—-yon want your struggle. I won’t stand in the way of your ten-storey-high attic. I’ll make you a settled allowance. That’s how a practical father should talk, isn’t it?” “Not a penny!” said Betty firmly. "It would spoil everything, father. I am practical. I’ve been into this over and over. I intend to be a self-supporting young woman. If 1 come to grief (and no fear of that) I can come to you then for an allowance. Let me have my flutter, anyway.” "Well, let me pay rent.” ‘‘Not a penny,” reiterated Betty. "Not a fraction of a penny!” “’Lei me pay the ” "Nobody and nothing.” said the girl firmly. Her father considered, then a new thought came. “My dear.” he said, “is it. is it what the world calls proper? No, I’m sure it’s not.” "Pooh!” said Betty scornfully. “What do I care for the world!” “But we must consider it. Look at the thing, my child. You’re seventeen, aren’t you? Now, can I let you faee the world at seventeen, alone? Chaperons. my child, though highly unpleasant shadows, are highly necessary ” “Suppose,” said Betty, thoughtfully, “that 1 got my attic in some old lady’s house. There are loads of old ladies—” “With attics to let?” “Yes,” said Betty, stoutly; “loads. T.oads who would be glad to let a room for a trifle a week. An unfurnished room. And if she’s a lonely widowlady, or a dear little old maid, think how she would like to go to the ‘functions’ with me! Why, it would open up life for her. I’ll put an advertisement in the paper, father, and I promise you, if you don’t approve of the old lady and the attic, I’ll—not give up—but I’ll try till you do?’ “Very well,” said Mr Bruee, smiting, “we’ll leave things like that. But, again ” “Not more cold water!” said Betty. “No;' it’s lukewarm. How about Dot?

Is she able to du at once what you hart been doing for years?” "I really think she’s very good,” said Betty. “She’s so tidy, and she’s a bookfull of recipes, and one of the completest work-baskets I ever saw.” "Still ” said Mr Bruce. . “And she ean earve poultry,” said Betty; “she’s taken lessons in it.” "But we rarely have poultry.”

‘’Oh. 1 know. But it’s a sign, isn’t it? She sounds so capable. She has a lot of hints on sick nursing ” "But we are seldom ill.” “I know. But if you are! I’m only showing you that taking her all round she is far more capable than I I only know a few childish ailments—sore throat, toothache, earache, and so on. And when I carve a fowl, I start at one end of the table and before I’ve half done I’ve travelled all round—l and the fowl, and the dish, and my work-basket is always half full of children’s treasures. Oh, I’m sure Dot is far better than I.” "For everyday life—and a rough girl like Mary?” "Oh. yes. Dot knows the duties of all servants, butlers, cooks, underhousetnaids, nursery housemaids- ” Mr Bruce’s eyes twinkled. "Then she can manage our staff,” he said. Betty laughed. “I’m only showing you.” she said, again, "how much better she is than I am. Now, I couldn’t set one of those servants their duties if my very life depended on it.” “Suppose you and Dot talk over pros and cons." suggested Mr Bruce. “’Hear what she has to say. We must consider her. Remember, she has coms home out of consideration to us—has given up. I suspect, a very comfortable home, to make us happier. You must consult Dot.” ”I’ll go now .” this instant,” said Betty. “You’re quite right, father. I should tell Dot. Have I taken up very much of your time? I believe I've been here hours.” Air Bruce gave a whimsical look at his blackly-written page — ”1 was really in good vein.” he said. “Now I’m all attics and old ladies. Betty, do you know this? ‘Making a mock of life and all its-cares— Rich in the glory of my rising sun. Lightly 1 vaulted up four pair of stairs. In the brave days when T was twentyone. Yes: 'tis a garret—let him know’t who will; There was my bed. full hard it was and small; My table there — and I decipher still Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wail." Well, never mind the rest. It’s a cry of one old and weary, who has done precisely what you would do. Go to—go to: and shut the door.” Betty found Dot in the dining-room, sitting idly in front of the piano, her hands sunk on the keys, just as she had struck her last chord. The children were all in bed. Cyril had disappeared with his books to his bedroom. Mr Bruce was in his study, and Betty she had lost sight of. Last night Dot had been treated as a visitor. She had been talked to, listened to. She had played and sung, and the family circle had seemed drawn together. But to-night they had all gon* their own ways without her.

Even Nancy, her worshipper. had crept to bed, almost blinded with one of her headaches. There was a little weariness at Dot’s heart. Until to-day a sort of exaltation had buoyed her up. Perhaps she felt something of a heroine: perhaps she felt she was coming to be a household angel. And now—now where was she? Where was there room for her in all the weatherboard cottage precincts? Who wanted her? Who was there to belong to? Not her father, certainly. He seemed to actually require no one —unless it was Betty. Not Cyril. He gave her scant attention, and turned to Betty in all things. Not Betty! That strange, eager-eyed sister, who seemed to walk with her head in cloudland, and—‘‘Dot.’’ said Betty, in the doorway, “is that ‘The Lost Chord" or a song without words, or ” “I wasn’t thinking.” said Dot. raising her hands from the keys, and leaving the piano. • • “If you’re not going to do anything particular.” said Betty, “let us have a little talk. I have something I would like to consult you over.” Dot's face brightened.

“Certainly,” »he said, and looked exDoubt darkened Betty’s mind. What if Dot should say “No, I couldn't undertake it. I’ll pack up and go back to Mona, and peace and plenty.” "I hardly know how to begin,” said Betty, diffidently: “but the truth is. I want to do something similar to what you have been doing. I want to go out into the wilderness and keep myself.” Dot's eyes opened widely. “A companion?” she asked. “No,” said Betty; ”a scribe. Something of an author, and something of a journalist. But till I'm out of the grublike state, call me a scribe.” "A scribe!” repeated Dot, as one dazed. “A scribe!” said Betty, “is one who wields a pen. I never could get a chance to wield mine. Now I’ve got it, and it rests with you whether I take it or not.” "With met” said Dot. "Yes. You're new to it all—to the house and the children and Mary. NVould it be dreadful if I went away and left all on your shoulders?” "I was going to suggest a division of work,” said Dot. "And now—Oh. Dot. It would be too much for you, wouldn't it? It is a lot. But we might find a way to lessen it—a young girl to come daily and mind the children, for instance.” Something like a smile came to Dot's faee. Perhaps she was a little pleased —just a little—at the prospect of being Queen of the Kingdom of Home. She always had been a trifle afraid of Betty, and although these two days she had rigidly kept to her plan of only regarding the surface of things, she had seen beneath it, for how could she help it? And she had been longing for, say, the fourth or fifth day, when she might say: "Let us make an arrangement, Betty, as to the work and the children. There are so many things I want to see altered, that must be altered. But don't let us quarrel!”.. Yet some subtle sense had warned her that Betty was not an easy young person to dethrone. She would not meekly step down to a lower seat if she felt the higher one was hers by right. And she had ‘recollections of Betty's eyes flashing, of Betty's lips curling, of Betty’s feet stamping! "If,” said Dot. "if you have been able to manage Betty I really think I can. You see I’m so much older!” "Only four years!” said Betty. "I have had eight years more experience of life.” sighed Dot. as one who had been over the rocks of the world and cut her feet. "Pleasant experience.” corrected Betty. "I've seen how houses are managed.” said Dot. "I've seen what you can call the wheels within the wheels.” Betty felt she was being mulcted of somet lung. "There’s such a difference,” she said, “between merely looking on and making the wheels go round!” A little stiffness got into Dot’s voice. “Still.” she said, "it is possible I can manage.” "It’s possible,” said Bettv doubtfully. Dot laughed. She saw, for some reason. things were going wrong, and she made an effort to smooth them over. "Do you want my credentials, my references?” she asked. “I am a fair cook. I can make soups and jellies, puddings and cakes, and entrees. I can sew and darn, do plain and fancy needlework; I—” You know as much of children as the heathen know of you I expect,” Betty. "Ah!” said Dot, airily; "but I have in my trunk a book, and it’s entitled 'The Care and Management of Children, from their tenderest day,’ which will include even Baby.” “Vm.” said Betty. But her eyes certainly admired her elder sister almost frankly. “Are you sure you can learn from a book?” “It’s how I learnt drawn thread work and netting,” said Dot. “You can learn anything from a book if you only get the right book.” "I give in,” said Betty with a sudden laugh. “I didn't expect you to know •o much! I thought you’d be a fashionable young lady who would only lie able to drink afternoon tea and play tennis. In all probability' this household will live to bless the day when Betty turned Scribe, and Qot Head of the Home.”

CHAPTER XX. . ** “FOVR FAIR OF STAIRS. Betty's advertisement appeared in th-? two morning papers, and brought a ha? of replies. She advertised for an Unf:;.nished room in the home of a married < .- an elderly lady—must be quiet and tral. And an exhilarating number of elder ladies replied that they had unfurnish'l rooms to let, and would be pleased ■> show them to “Scribe” if she weui 1 call. Betty sorted out half a dozen that she considered likely ones, and went with an eagerly beating heart to view them. In the first instance there was a baby —and it was crying lustily, so Betty, with a lively recollection of the murdering of supreme moments by the cry of a child, refused. At the second place she was offered a front room off the street; she who longed for an attic; and at the third place the neighbourhood was noisy and unpleasing. The fourth was central. It was in one of Sydney’s main streets, and faced a park. A high three-storey house, in a long terrace of high three-storey houses. There was an iron railing in front, and three steps, and at the side of the door three brass plates bearing the names of two doctors and one dentist. "The wrong place, of course.” said Betty. “Doctors don't let rooms to scribes.” Nevertheless she pressed the bell and put her inquiry to the maid who answered it, whether a Airs Thornton lived there. "Third floor,” said the maid. “Wait a moment, please.” She put her mouth to a speaking-tube on the wall and whistled. An answering whistle came down again. “A young lady to see Mrs Thornton,” said the maid. "Will you ask her to come up,” said the replying voice. And Betty mounted the stairs deeply impressed. She had heard nothing like that before in her life. I'p she went, higher, higher. Through an open door on the second floor she saw a luxurious room with a luxurious red plush chair in it, and a glittering machine beside it. Betty had never been to a dentist’s in her life. She had had one tooth only extracted, and that by the local chemist. she went on, upwards and upwards, like Excelsior, and when she stood on the third storey she saw yet another flight of stairs running skywards. she stood on a square landing with two doors facing her. One was closed, one stood open. Out of the open doorway came a woman. Betty scanned her face eagerly for signs of middle-age: but it bore no mark that warranted one in supposing it had looked on more than three and thirty years of life. The woman scanned Betty just as eagerly, and bade her come in and sit down, somewhat abruptly. She was a tall, thin woman, blue-eyed, goldenhaired. Her complexion held the glow, given by colder climes than Australia. “I came about a room,’ said Betty, shyly. She felt so very small, so very girlish, so very insignificant all at once. "Yes. I saw you wanted one without furniture.” Then they looked at each other. It seemed to Betty that the woman suddenly grew antagonistic to her. “I do not know,” she said, brusquely, “why I wrote to you. NVhat do you want the room for?” "To live in,” said Betty. “I write—■ and I want to be quiet.” "To write in?” asked Mrs Thornton. “You would not then want to eat there, or sleep there?” Betty’s eyes widened. "It was stupid of me to forget,” she said. “I ought to have said ’with use of kitchen.’ ” “Oh,” said the woman, and looked more than ever antagonistic. "I dont think you would find me much in the way in the kitchen,” said Betty. I was hoping she hesitated. "Yes?” “I was hoping for an attic room.” said the girl, and her eyes were eloquent. "It is what you would call an attic.” said the woman, less brusquely. “Would you like to come up?” "Oh, yes,” said Betty, with alacrity. It was the first attic she had been asked to view. They went up the fourth flight of

frtair> and reached another landing. Here were three doors. ••'this is the room.” said Mrs Thornton. pushing open a door. Bet tv entered. The room was long and narrow. Tt ran from the front of the house to the Iwick. and had an at tie window at each end. The ceiling sloped, or was ‘‘bonnet ted.” after (he manner of attics. 1 he walls* were white and clean plastered; the th.or bare; there was no tireplace. Betty ran across the floor to the fiont window. It showed her green tree tops and a sky-world all soft blue, and billowy clouds. ••Oh!” said Betty. Iler eyes fell. She suv the lower earth -trainvars far below. rah<. little people walking: how little they looked, how blissfully far ••Perfect!” she said, and ran to the Lack window. Here was blue and white sky-world, too. Lower, chimneytops ami chimney-tops; lower again, little cells of back yards. “Oh!” exclaimed Betty, again. “Perfect, perfect!” She turned round. Mrs Thornion was regarding her with a pleased smile. ‘’Ton could have quiet,” she said. “Yes.” said Betty -“up your pair of stair-.” with a thought to her father’s quotation. “tome down.” said Mrs Thornton, ami led the way again. Going down the stairs. Betty bethought herself of shillings ami pence. She must be practical. and not forget orthodox inquiries. “People generally ask after drains and stoves when they look at house-.” she told herself, “and neither matter to me up here—only rent.” She sat down on the sofa edge again. “About rent.” she began. Her hostess looked nonplussed—and annoyed. “Yes,” she said. ‘ About rent.” repeated Betty, earnestly. They both flushed, and regarded each other shamefacedly. “I do not know anything about such things.” said Airs Thornton. “I had Il of thought of it.” “I don’t know anything.” said Betty. •‘l’ve never engaged a room befor They si a red at each other again and shuffled uncomfortably. •’Won’t you think?” said Betty. “It’s like this.” said Mrs Thornton, “my husband is a doctor, and has gone to the Continent and London. He may he two years away. He has left another man in his place, and we have let the other rooms. There are two doctors and one dentist, and they all go home at night. lam lonely. The servant goes homo. There is no one in the house but me. 1 thought—if there xvas someone else ” “Oh.” exclaimed Betty, “it is just as T wanted it to be. I longed for an attic, and for either a widow lady, or an old maid, and you’re as good as Loth!” Then she stopped, gasped, grew scarlet, then white. '1 he next minute Airs Thornton laughed— a laugh of deep enjoyment. The colour came slowly back to Betty- face: she managed to raise her eyes again. •’When would you wish to come?’’ a*ked Mrs Thornton. “At once.” said Betty: “next week.’’ “1 didn’t show you the bathroom is the room next to yours, the third room is a lumber room. I live in this room. If you will come I will show you the kit ehen.” I hey returned to the landing, and Airs Thornton opened the other door there. Betty thought she bad never seen such a kitchen. The floor wore linoleum. there was a snow-white table, a white enamelled gas stove. A long white dresser, with arrays of cups, white and quaint-shaped, of picturesque looking jugs, of white plates of all sizes. There were two big drawers to the dresser, each, with peculiar shining brass handles. There was a sink in one corner, and hanging neatly over it Lru-h« ■- of all -orts. from the large fc>vrul»bing brush to the bottle-brush. 1 hen. on a higher level, but still upon the wall, a long low of scrupulously clean enamel saucepans. Above the table was a green painted board, and hanging to this, on gilt -crews, all kinds of household necessities—corkscrew, tin Opener. <•_!_; whisk, chopping knife, scissors. etc. Behind the door was a mangle. Everything was neat, natty, scrupulously clean anti in some way uncommon. most kitchens possessed such furniture and yet but few looked like this one. *VVhat a beautiful kitchen/’ said Bet-

ty enthusiastically: “even cooking would be a pleasure here.” “You can use it as you like,” said Mrs. Thornton. “1 do little cooking. In the basement I have my laundry—you can use that, too.” “Thank you.” said Betty; “and I will have to think about my furniture. I have never furnished before. It is like being married.” •’Have you anyone belonging to you?” asked Mrs. Thornton abruptly. “Oh. lots,” said Betty. “\Ve are nine in family altogether. I am the second eldest. My father is the editor of “The Mirror.’ 1 want to make my own way in the world, and this is my plan.” They were still standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘•Perhaps.” said Mrs. Thornton, giving the girl a kindly glance, “you will like to do as I have done—to hide the bedroom part of your room.” “I didn’t notice,” said Betty—“a curtain?” Mrs. Thornton led the way back to the front room, and Betty looked round bewildered. It was a square, lofty room, with two pairs of French windows opening on to a balcony. There was an Axminster carpet square on the floor of soft sage green, and a surround of the same coloured linoleum. Near the fireplace was an elegant cosy corner: across one corner a combination of desk and bookcase: across another, a wide-seated, many cushioned sofa. There were a few easy, comfortable chairs, a small table or two. and a screen. Little eLe. “Bedroom?” echoed Betty. “This is my drawing-room, diningroom. and bed-room,” said her hostess. Then she smiled at the bewilderment in the young face. She gave a few touches to the sofa—and it became a bed! “’I make it up each night,” said Mrs. Thornton, “for I do believe in having icom/ort. I make the ba.throom my ■washstand, and have a shelf there for a dressing-table.” She pointed to the landing whereon stood an old-fashioned press. “That holds most of my clothes,” she said. “What a splendid idea,” said Betty enthusiastically—“what a splendid idea. I don't want a drawing-room, though—l only want a study. And can you buy beds like that, or was it made to order ?” “You can get them at Knox’s at one pound nineteen and six each,” said Mrs. Thornton. The mention of money recalled Betty. She grew scarlet and began to stammer. “We—we did not finish about rent,” she said. Airs. Thornton immediately put on her antagonistic look again. •’Eight shillings a week?” queried the girl. “For an unfurnished room,” said Mrs. Thornton. “I am not your Shvlock.” “Then six,” said Betty—“or six-and-sixpence.” “Six and six—and for an attic! T do not make my bread out of young girls.” “Then five.” said Betty—“there are so many conveniences.” “No. no. There are four lots of stairs. It is a bad room, though I could live in it. We will say three shillings.” “But gas,” said Betty—“and water.” “We will say three shillings. No more. J should be uncomfortable. It is my arrangement to get away from loneliness. It is not talk I want. But it's good to know there, is someone else, even up at the roof—when one is lone-

, “Let us say four,” begged Betty. “Then I ean boil by kettle with a happier mind. If you don’t say four, I shall be reduced to cold water.” “Then—four,” said Mrs. Thornton, grudgingly. “I don’t like it. and my husband would be vexed. What day will you come’” “I’ll write,” said Betty, making her way to the staircase head. “The room is there,” said Mrs. Thornton. “You can just come. Or you can ring up—there is the telephone.” “Very well,” said Betty, and held out her hand. Mrs. Thornton gave her a limp handshake. “I’m not sociable,” she said. “I don’t like much talk. I like myself. Some days you may not see me at all.” “I’m like that,” said Betty, and laughed. “We could each have caps,” she added, “and just put them on when we want to be let alone.” She passed down the stairway, laughing. happy-eyed. “How perfectly beautiful life is,” she said to herself on the second floor landing. She ran down the next flight and paused again. “Four pairs of stairs—five to my attic,” she said, and looked up again to smile at the banisters. She passed out of the street door, still smiling, still happy. CHAPTER XXL THE BISCUIT TIN GOES FORTH. It was a fortnight after Captain Carew’s conversation with John concerning a profession. There was on John’s mind a trouble, and it seemed to grow darker every day. It had nothing whatever to do with the question of being solicitor, surgeon—or even champion cricketer of the world. Yesterday that had happened which had precipitated matters. For perhaps three years John had recognised his own position in the captain's good books and household with an easy mind. He had been adopted, he knew, for some good reasons connected with the captain’s will and convenience. Previously, being a boy of inventive mind, he had satisfactorily arranged the reason for his sudden translation from a rough bush home to this comfortable suburban one. He was a boy of thirteen when this translation took place, and his new life speedily brought him into communication with the young Bruces. He learned that they, too, belonged to the captain. Then, that the captain regarded them with shut eyes. So he arranged a sort of genealogical tree, in which he figured as heir presumptive to the Carew estate, stating that he was only son to Captain Carew’s only son—• while the Bruces were only the descendants of a mere daughter. And that romance satisfied him for more than three years. Then someone in the world of facts enlightened him. and proved to him quite conclusively that he was no relation at all to his supposed grandfather. Even the captain, when severely exammed by the boy, owned there was no bond of blood between them. John was 16, but it was not the age of chivalry with him then. He was in a sort of somnambulistic stage, and not afire to be or do anything in particular. He liked to-day very well, and dreamed about to-morrow.

■But the lethargic stage passed to®. Something very near akin to chivalry and romance stirred in his veins.

Nobler impulses came to him. He longed to be a kniglit-crrant. to do and to dare, not necessarily for a fair ladye, but for a fair cause. Two roads in life seemed to stretch’ before him. The one looked easy, level, pleasant-faring. just such a road, in fact, as seems to await the feet of most wealthy gentlemen’s only sons. He had only to go straight on. and in due time he would find himself well along the road, walking shoulder to shoulder with comrades, who. like himself, had never conjugated the verb “to want,” never tasted the bitterness of money-frustrations, never known the terrors of looking into the face of Life alone—absolutely alone! But the other road: he could see only the stony beginning of it, but he knew it went over the rocks of the world; he know they who walked there had blistered feet, and aching hearts, and he longed to walk among them. He wanted to take life for himself. To fight his own fight. To get over and live down that, (now), to him, so terrible indignity—being adopted! Then Yesterday happened upon the Scroll of Ages. He had come out of his grandfather’s gate, and was just about to turn his feet towards the post office corner, when there passed him in the roadway a eart. It was travelling slowly, the driver looking half-asleep, and the horse well content that he should be so. Then, through the still air came a cry—something like a coo-ee, and John, looking backwards, saw Betty Bruce, running down that bush-track from her home. She saw John and waved to the cart, crying, “Stop him! Stop him!” So John promptly stopped the driver of the cart. Breathlessly Betty came up. She carried a biseuit-tin, large size, and a bird cage. She went round to the. side of the cart. “You left these!” she panted. “They art: —very important. I’d —have got there—to-night with .the bird—and there’d have been no cage? The tin is very important, too. Take care of it. please.”

John handed the well-corded tin and the empty cage up to the driver, and

took a quick look at the contents of the cart.

There were two chairs, rather old, cane-seated ones, a roll of pillows and bedding, a small table, a kerosene box (out of which protruded two saucepan handles and a pink and white cup), a portmanteau, a tin trunk, several other biscuit tins, and a small bamboo table. “Goo’ day,” said the man. “Gee-up, there, my lass; git along.” Betty and John faced each other, and the cart rambled on down the red country road. Betty was hatless; she wore a pink cotton dress, old and well-washed. Pink was in her cheeks, scarlet in her lips, and a wonderful light in her brown eyes. “Going to do a camp, any of you?” asked John, who was always ready for vagaries on the part of the Bruce family. Betty laughed, a laugh of intense enjoyment. “Do you remember, John?” she said, “when you and I went out into the world to make our fortune?” “Don’t I?” said John, with energy. “We were ragged,” said Betty. “And barefoot,” said John. “I’d got a few pence, tied up in my handkerchief, I think,” said Betty. “I believe I had a shilling,” said John. “And I sang songs at street corners, and made about a shilling an hour, and you ” “I made threepence in the day, I think,” said John. Betty looked after the cart, and her eyes glowed. “I’m better equipped to-day,” she said; “a little better. I’ve a box of groceries, and a pillow to rest my head on. But I’m off again, just as I was then, and ” “What!” exclaimed John, almost leaping in the air with surprise. “It’s true, most beautifully and wonderfully true,” said the girl. “I’m going out into the world to earn my own living. No. not to stand at street corners and sing, but to live in an attic, and write, write, write.” “But the children —your father ” said John. “Dot’s come home.” said Betty. “That's all right.” The iron gate behind John clicked, and both young people turned and faced the captain. All three flushed. The captain, because he knew that impudent madcap girl again, even though she was seventeen. John, because it was a predicament, and so awkward. Betty, because she always flushed at meeting the old man. “Are you coming, John?” asked the captain. “Not yet, sir,” said John, politely. “Good-bye,” said Betty, with a head toss. ■John turned and walked beside her. “I’ll go with you to the gate.” he said. Then, over his shoulder to the captain. “I’ll catch you up. sir. The captain fumed along alone. He had wisely ignored the friendship between John and his disowned grandchildren. although knowing it existed. “That girl again!” he said. “The hoity-toity madam!” * “You’re" not going alone?” said John to Betty; “it is such madness.” “Alone,” said Betty. “You’ve more than a shilling?” said John, laughing, nervously. “You re so mad. Betty!” "A box of groceries,” said Betty. “Truly, truly, instead of the usual halfcrown or shilling, a few chairs, and a table, and a box of groceries! Wish me luck.” “I won’t,” said John, hotly. "It’s the greatest madness I ever heard of. Whv doesn't Cyril go! Why. you a girl - ! It ought to be stopped!” But Betty laughed, again and again, and then ran along the track away from him home. John did not catch his grandfather up. : ' For one thing, the captain had gone striding along angrily, caught his Irani, and gone citywards. For another, John went walking off across the conn try, through the bush, alone and angry. He saw the thing, quite clearly now. or thought he did. Betty was brave; she always had been. Cyril, her twin, was the coward.

Betty was the one to do—Cyril to blame 'whatever was done! There was that terrible incubus —the Family Poverty. John of course knew

all about it. Knew uo» poor pretty Mrs. Bruce had married against her fatlier's will, had never been forgiven—and had died, poor, pretty, faded and worn.

He knew how Betty had striven to raise the family fortunes by trying to reconcile her irate grandfather, and had gone to his window one night moaning and pretending to be a ghost—all to bring about a reconcilement, and to, perhaps, get Cyril adopted. He remembered how she had gone into the world a street singer, to raise the family fortunes, at eleven or twelve years old. And now, here she was again, ready to face the world for the others. Alone! A girl! John tramped across the bush-world, and reached the tramway road. It occurred to him that he would never go home any more. That he would go anywhere, over the harbour waters and take up life in the city. He would be no longer, he told himself. that blot on creation—an adopted man. Bitterly he took himself to task for his years of dependence. "1 have been in their place!” he told himself—“in Cyril’s, in Betty’s. I've no right there —they have every right. They should have the life of plenty and cash —I the struggle and the fight!” Then the uselessness of just going away struck hint. He must go back again and face the captain, and show him clearly wherein his duty lay—and that he, John, could no longer occupy what he felt to be their shoes. So he took the road home again, and he strode up and down the verandahs, and through the lower floor rooms, and about the grounds. And he rehearsed grandiloquent speeches after the manner of youth on fire—and he tried to see a little way down the stoney road he was planning to tread. At noon the old man came home again — tired from his journey to town, somewhat worried over business, somewhat annoyed still with John. if John had known anything about diplomacy iie would have postponed matters till after luncheon. But lie knew nothing of it. he was very young, his blood was on fire, and he was burning to “right the wrong.” He went to his grandfather's study before the old man had even put down the packet he had carried irom town - and he began at once. “If you will give me a few minutes private conversation, sir. I shall be very glad.” “Hem!” said Captain Carew testily. “A little while ago,” said John, beginning to pace the room, “you asked me to decide what I was going to be, doctor, lawyer, or what ” “Hem!” said the captain more testily. “And J didn’t know,” said John —“or rather I didn't say. For a long time now” (it might have been a month). “1 have been ashamed of myself for being here at all. What right have I sponging on you? Why am I here, where—where others ought to be.” The old man’s eyes blazed. "That girl’s been at her games again,” he said. “Does she want me to adopt her?” "Pooh!” said John, “she never mentioned your name. I don’t believe she would be adopted. What do you think she's doing—going to do?” John wheeled round and faced the captain. "She’s going out into the world to work for her family. She’s seventeen! A girl! Do you think 1 ean stand it. I to stay here, where she ought to be—and she to go out working, and probably half starving!” "Do you want to go too?” asked the Captain. and a peculiar light of anger danced in his eyes. "I'm going!” said John. "Very good.” said the old man. “I'm going to take myself on my own shoulders,” said John. "Very good.” said the old man again. “And you’ll let those be here—who should be here?” begged John. “I’ve worn their shoes long enough. I step out—let them step in!” "Look here,” said the old man. bursting with anger, “you’ve worn the shoes very comfortably for a good number of years, how you’re taking them off you needn't throw them at me. Go! —go out of my room. At once, sir.” (To be Continued.)