Betty of the Wilderness

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVI, Issue 23, 9 June 1906, Page 55

Betty of the Wilderness

By

Litian Turner (Mrs. F. Linday Thompson)

Author of “An Australian Lassie,” “ Sights of Sydney,” etc.

DEDICATION: To my Husband.

CHAPTER XII. IN THE GLORY OF THE GARRET. IT was late afternoon when Betty reached her new home. She wore a grey cambric blouse (a faithful chronicler would state that it was faded and out of date—a kind one that it was fresh and pretty), a black serge skirt (rather short), a straw hat with a black band around it, and darned cotton gloves. And she carried a parcel, a. dress basket, and a tiny box with a perforated lid. The pareel contained stories, and again stories—maybe half a score of them in various stages of incompleteness; the dress-basket, some articles of clothing she had forgotten to put in her trunk; and the tiny box, the only comrade she had to face the world with —her canary. She knocked at the door of the high house in town, was received by the same maid who used the speaking-tube as before, and sent her upstairs. On the landing MPs Thornton met her, stiffly as upon the first occasion. “Your things came,” she said; “I had them taken to your room. 1 did not go up —I suppose they will be right?” “Oh, yes, thank you,” said Betty cheerfully. “There was a bird-cage which was empty, 1 think.” “Yes; I brought my bird with me,” said Betty. Mrs Thornton advanced and put her face close to the perforations. "A canary!” she said. “Poor little thing. It is frightened.” • ’ “Not when he hears me,” said Betty, arid she spoke a few caressing words to her pet. Mrs Thornton's eyes rested more kindly oh the girl. “I will go up and get to work.” said Betty. “A mansion like mine will take some putting in order.” “I have had it well scrubbed,” said Mrs Thornton.

“Thank you,” said Betty, and ran up her last flight of stairs. All her worldly goods had been placed in the centre of the room. Around was a wide, long space of white floor—very white floor. The windows at both ends of the room stood open, and the sweet elean air of heaven swept through. There are girls in the world.in plenty who would have shuddered to have stood where Betty stood that day. Girls who love jewellery, dress, gaiety, pleasure. To them the song of gladness that burst to Betty’s lips as she walked round and round her kingdom would have been simply incomprehensible.

For a few brief minutes, overcome with gratitude that she was where she was, she knelt at her window and looked into the grey blue sky that seemed so near to -Iter, to offer up thanks that her little patch in Life’s Garden was so very, fair. Then she began to work, having first restored her bird to his home, given: him water and seed, and hung him up in the window. . -

She had no artistic deceptive bed likeMrs Thornton. Pounds, shillings and pence, she had decided, were too precious, to be wasted" on such" luxuries. Her. bed. was a wire stretcher, and; she had sawn several inches off tire legs to make it the height of a sofa.She called it her “trundle bed,” ami stood it across" a corner of the room. When neatly made and spread with a Japanese rug, it certainly would have, deluded itn'Wlolder into the belief that it was a sitting room sofa atul nothing more. For her pillows she had made two cushion covers, which, buttoned over the -white pillow-slips by day would still furtliisr help on the? delusion. Under her front window she stood her yi and no sooner had she put it info jmsitiori' than She must begin unpacking her biscuit tins to bring out pens, ink, etc.

And in the corner of a biscuit tin was the second chapter of a short story she had commenced about a month ago. She sat down on the floor to read it, leaning back against a table leg. When she had read it through a new idea for the tliird and last chapter occurred to her. At the time of writing the second chapter it had seemed to her impossible to tell her story in anything under six thousand words, ana that was three thousand too many. Now, after a month's forgetfulness, a way of telling it in half the number of words came to her.

She sprang up, drew a ehair to the table with one foot, and began to write. And her pen flew. She was almost unconscious of her words, but her pen seemed to know the secret.

And daylight died, and a soft halflight came into the attie, and the canary tueked his head under his wing and slept the sleep of the weary wayfarer. Betty could hardly see to write her few last words—the artistic ending to her story, that, in a few lines made its incompleteness so complete. A third knock earne to her door. To the other two she. had been deaf. “Well?” she called dreamily, and writ ing on. Of course she expected the little home band to burst in upon her, demanding various attentions. “I was wondering about your tea,” said Mrs Thornton, opening the door, and delicately avoiding even glancing into Betty’s home. “My tea?” repeated Betty. She ■ raised her - head, and stared through the surrounding dusk to the dooT. “Oh, I forgot. I quite-forgot. Thank yotf.” . f.-f-“I do not know at what time you have your tea, but it is after seven, and—’’ “After seven!” exclaimed Betty, and her thoughts flew to the baby at home, who should be bathed and fed. to Dick and Pepper and Joan. “After seven!” “And the kettle is boiling.” “Oh,” said Betty; “thank you. I will come.” She looked down at her writing, but having raised her eyes from it, could not distinguish it in the half-light. “I’ve brought you a tray,” faltered Mrs Thornton, “I thought perhaps you would not mind —your first night, and—” “Oh, thank you,” said Betty; “how very kind.” She went to the door. “Let me carry it in,” she said. “I know where I put the table, then I’ll get a light. ’ “You have no matches. I will fetch them from the bathroom.” Soon a yellow gas jet was burning, and showing to Betty’s pleased eyes a most daintily-set tea tray—a snow white beautifully iron tray doth, white ehina, white tea-pot, a frail green crumpled glass plate, with little rolls of yellow butter on it; a bread plate holding a portion of a crisp French roll, and a white coalport ehina plate holding rubycoloured' jam. > “How tempting it looks!” said the. girl, who had never liad sudi a tray put before her in her life before.

Mrs Thornton’s eyes, of necessity, and shamefacedly, took in the room. She felt afraid: the young 'girl would; resent Iler intrusion. • But,-she could net but see 'the small untidy Array of- goods, inthe -centre of the room, the “trundle” bed, and the table. She moved to the door pretending she had seen nothing. “1 forgot I- was removing,” laughed Betty'. ”1 have just been writing a bit. Won’t you sit down? I have a second chair.”

"1 am busy. I must go,” - said- Mrs. Thornton. But she sat down nevertheless, and openly looked round the room.

Had Dot been the owner of that room, and itfi goods, she would have blushed and been deadly ashamed. Not so ~w; She wap as pjou<J. of her attic" as a queen of her castle.

"Do you see my trundle bed?” she asked. “I -think it’s an excellent make-

shift, don't you? Any one would believe it was a sofa only.” ? “Ye-es,” said Mrs. ’ihcjrirton, and longed to tell the girl that her pillow covers were ugly anti badly made.

“I’Ve not quite dWided what to do with my 'floor yet?’ said Betty? “How would' a (tainted floor dot”'' “Very well indeed, if you get the right colour. A dull green would look well—or. you “Stain a border round and put down a carpet square.” “Er-um,” said Betty. "I fancy I’ll paint it. 1 would leave it‘as’it' is for the boards look so nice and white, but it would show footmarks too much.” “You’ll use the bathroom for dress-ing-table and washstand, 1 suppose!” “Oh, yes,” said ’Betty, commencing hungrily upon her 10H and butter; “and I’ll buy a screen to keep all my, untidiness behind — dresses, boots, boxes, etc.” Mrs. Thornton made a movement to go. “I am down in the basement generally,” she said; “if you want me for anything, eall down the tube.” “Thank you,” said Betty, “but I shan’t. 1 have so much to do. 1 really ought to unpack.” But when at last she was alone, she went on leisurely nibbling her bread and butter, and reading through ilia chapter she had written. When she had quite finished—which was somewhere about eight o'clock—she bethought herself of tl.e washingup. and, carrying her tray, went diffidently downstairs. A low light burned in the sitting--room, the door stood ajar, and silence reigned. ■<. In the kitchen the light was a trifle higher, and all was clean, tidy, and deserted.- ' Betty quickly washed up. re placed the tea-things on the tiayi and was very careful to leave all as neat as sire had found it. ‘ ' ■ < Returning to her attic tor one inquisitive minute, she ’’ leaned over the bannisters and looked into the abyss' Wow. All was dark as midnight. Dark arid absolutely silent! “I wonder what on earth she can want in the basement,”' said Betty;' “it’s the. last place' I*if trbuble.” ' She ran lightly ’ upstairs.*'" '’We’no' f&r enough "apart? gobdrieris knows;” she said. "If we were deadly eneiHics even' the distance diqiht to satisfy‘iis.” She reached her robin Kgaiii'and shut the door. “I must get tidy,” she said. “I will prepare things for to-morrow, and make my list.” The biscuit' tins she stored for the most part under her writing-table, pro-' mining herself that upon some to-mor-row she would put a floiince around the legs, to hide the unsightliness of whatever she might choose to place there. Then she attacked the box of groceries. emptied it, carried it to a corner, and turned its back to the room. She then regarded it as a cupboard. “I might paint its back—or something,” she told herself. Next she unpacked her kerosene box, and made another cupboard of it, beside the grocery one. and she arranged on it her two small saucepans, four ehina plates, two cups and saucers, her small assortment of knives, forks, and" spoons, tea-pot, sugar basin, and two jugs.

By then, however, she was tired of her housewifery, ami her mind would return to the - list she .was longing to. So she was soon at her; table again, under the gas jet. She found a clean sheet of paper and-wrote:-—"One Pound a Week” for a heading.' Then underneath: “Rejjt alid gas. 4/; food—.” She liad at this* -stage .to, find another' pie»x> of paper and work out a separate sum. “Bread—How-many -leave,s'a week do I eat? Of bread like that .to-night,, 1' suppose, seven. Of those hideous tin. loaves, like those at home, say one. Still. I won't stint in bread, as it’s the staff of life. I'll allow myself three loaves a week. Three loaves at 3}d a loaf—U>id; say a shilling.”,.. . “Meat I’ll buy ready, cooked; say Myo shillings a week for meat. Butter—say., sixpence. 1 won't have vegetables. They’re silly things. ' Groceries —t\yp shillings a week. What is that? Fl.ye shillings’ mid sixpence. Pooh!' Too much. 1 must cut down! - jnrmewhOTk." Meat. That'll do. That bring® it He five, shillings.”

She turned back to her, list. “Riint and gas, 4/; food, 5/; dress, 5/*

travelling, 1/; to send home. 2/; paper, books, furniture, etc., 3/; total, £l. ‘•There ia no roo«t for luxuries/' ahe •aid. “It will be a tight fit. Still I can economise in food, i’ll study some other way of living. It’s eating and dress that cost the most; so in both I must just cut down.” So saying she put her list away. And •itting down again to her table, copied out the story she had written. It was midnight when she sought her trundle bed. CHAPTER NX 111. PRACTICAL JOURNALISM. In the morning—she was not up till Jiearly nine o’clock- she had coffee with condensed milk in it for her breakfast, and bread and butter. Not French roll bread, but just a slice off the tin loaf she had brought from home. Then she made her bed. put on hat and gloves, took her neatly tied up MS. into her hand, and ran downstairs and out into the street. She was at the Sydney “Times” Office by ten o’clock, climbing the long flight of •tairs. lightly and happily. At the head of the stairs, she almost ran into the arms of a lady just about to descend. A florid, stout lady of middle age. The girl and the woman looked at each other for one swift minute, and then passed on. “One of the many besiegers of editors, I suppose,” said Betty to herself, hurrying on. She readied the editor's door and knocked, trembling almost as violently Sis upon the first occasion. There was no reply, so she waited politely. The fate of some story might be trembling in the balance, she told herself, and an interruption might turn the Bea le unfa vourably. And if it were her own’. Tn five minutes she knocked again—and •gain waited. By this time her trembling had. if possible, become more violent, so she waited another live minutes. Then she fancied she heard other steps on the stairs, and her imagination showed tier a i**vy of middle-age ladies, carrying MSS.—so she knocked again sharply. This time the door was flung open, and live editor, looking irate, faced her. The sight of her white face calmed him. “I’ve been calling out "Com? in,’ for •bout an hour,” he said. “Come in. Conic in. It’s Miss Bruce, isn’t it? Find a seat—sit down —excuse me five Ciinutes.” - He returned to his table, and went on Writing, in a furious kind of way. And Betty found a chair, all piled up I’With books and papers—ami she sat down on the extreme edge of it. keeping Tierself in position by pressing her feet firmly pn the floor. Presently the door opened again, and a young grave-looking man entered. He gave Hetty a cursory glance., put his hat down on an upturned box, and sitting down in front of a typewriter, began to click away in spasms. Now a rush of clicks, now a silence, now another rush, flow another silence. The editor, without raising his head, said —as if he were addressing his ink pot:—• “(.let out. Mrs. Swanson’s papers. Ferguson. (»ive ’em to Miss Bruce, and went on writing again. ;So the young man left his machine, Went to some pigeon holes, extracted a •big roll of papers, and looked at Betty Again. “ Will you have them done up? he Asked shyly. •Betty flushed ami paled. “If * you please,” she said. “No *-d.hank you. I mean —I don't know.” The editor put down his pen. “Toss them here. Ferguson.” he said. And Ferguson laid them down, and went back to his machine. Then Betty fell the eyes of the great •man on her, and she began to tremble fi gain. “ You’ve got a very uncomfortable chair,” he said, kindly. “ Take mine—lie re.” “ Oh, no!” said the girl, nervously. “ I’ll sit here,” said the editor, and he Awung himself lightly on to his table, which put Betty a trifle more at her “ Mrs. Swanson was here just Indore you.” said the editor smiling. “She laid down her crown and sceptre: here they arc for you to take up.” He g>asse(J two keys over to her. “That is the key to your room, that to your desk. Come along, 1*1! show you,*

He led the way from his room, down the passage to Another door. “This room,” he said, “belongs to you and' the fashion writer, jhiifarJonr*. That’s your desk—that's hers. When-, ever you feel inclined to turn in here, you can. Theres a letter-box on the door. Your correspondence is put in there. . . . You must l>e sure of

your facts, you know. No bogus marriages, or anything of that sort, to get us into hot water. Put in only affairs of importance and interest, and give the rest to Miss Jones for her Saturday’s letter. . . . Come along, we’ll get Air. Ferguson to roll up your papers. You’d better look in daily if convenient. • . . Invitations, cards, etc.” He led the way back to his own room. “ Parcel up the papers. Ferguson,” he said. Then his eyes fell on the MS. in Betty’s hand. “is that one?” he asked. “Toss it over.” “ N—no,” said Betty, “ it’s—it’s only a story.” and of course she flushed and paled and flushed most rapidly. “For me?” said the editor kindly, and perceiving her embarrassment. “ I didn't know you went in for that sort of thing. I'll have a look at it to-day, or to-morrow.” Betty had intended 'icr story for another magazine, but she was far too overpowered by the magnitude of the man before her to say so. She carried her bundle of papers home, and mounted to her attic once more. She had a week in which to write her letter, but she decided to commence it, if possible, to-day. So she opened her bundle. There was an account of a ‘'social” at Redfern, at which Miss McQuade had worn a beautiful costume of sky blue silk, and Airs McQuade, a splendid dress of eau-dc-nil satin. An account of an “At Home,” at Bondi, at which Airs. Harry Behairs had worn daffodil chene de soic, and a berth*? of lilies of the valley, and Air. Harry Behairs had made an imposing master of ceremonies. There were four letters descriptive of weddings, each on a pattern with the other:—“The bride looked lovely in a gown of pure white silk, and wore a veil, and carried a shower bouquet-, the present of the bridegroom. The mother of the bride wore . And the sisters and the cousins and the aunts. And the presents were numerous and handsome. And after the breakfasts, the happy couples went to the coast, or the mountains.”

There was a letter describing the com-ing-of-age party given to Air. Harold Smith’s son John; and another describing the golden wedding party of Air. and Airs. Samuel Jones, of Kangaroo Gullv. <-

“1 don’t think any of them are important. or very interesting,” said Betty. “1 think I'll give them to Aliss Jones. What's this—a card for an evening at Elizabeth Bay to-morrow. 1 know Elizabeth Bay is a fashionable place. Mrs. Duncan Robertson! Important. I think I’ve heard of her. And what’s this? The Alayoress’ reception on the fifteenth—and two tickets for the pantomine!” After much cogitating she decided to ring Cyril up and ask him to escort her to Elizabeth Bay. So she went downstairs to the telephone. Airs Thornton, in a big cooking apron, came out of the kitchen and nodded and smiled at her as she rang up. To tell the truth, she was pleased to see the girl's bright face on her third-storey kingdom. “Is that you, Cyril?” asked Betty. “Would you do something to oblige me very much? Promise before I tell you! You won’t! Well, will you take me to an evening at Elizabeth Bay to-morrow? Oh. I don’t know the people—it's only in the interests of my work I’ve to go. Oh. do go with me. Cyril, there’s a dear! Oh, please do! I'd do more than that for you. E\oiling dress? Oh. it doesn’t matter. No one will look twice at us. You won’t! A’ery well. Cyril Bruce, wait till 1 ask you again.” She put down the receiver and was turning back to her attic, stormily, when Mrs Thornton came to the doorway again. “You don’t seem to bo thinking about your dinner.” she said. “Surely it’s not time?” said Bet tv. “It's half-past twelve.” “Oh, dear! What a nuisance food is, T’ll have dinner to-night, and just lunch now.” “Lunch with me.” said Mrs Thornton, eagerly. “Do. unless you are too proud to have it in the kitchen.” So they

lunched together on the white kitchen table. Hetty sat near the mangle, ami Mrs Thornton near the gas-stove, and Hwy had fried eggs and- bacon, and delicious cotfee with eream in it. Ami they talked! .

In an hour Mrs Thornton knew the name and age of the members of Betty’s family from Dot down to the baby. She knew the motlwr was dead, and she had a fair idea of the way the wheels ran at home. And Betty knew that her hostess could use a hammer and a chisel and a plane; that she had made most of the furniture in her sit-ting-room, and the drawers and cupboards in her kitchen; that she was fond of carving and modelling, and that her workroom was down in the basement. They left the kitchen to inspect the furniture in the sitting-room. "This table,” said Mrs Thornton, shyly, giving a dainty little table a tap — "Oh, no; it’s not good. It is full of faults. The polishing is bad ” "You didn’t polish it!” exclaimed Betty. "It did not polish itself. Now, this desk—when I stained that ” “You didn't make that!” exclaimed Betty, breathlessly. "I did. Oh, it isn’t good. It is very bad indeed.” "It’s absolutely perfect.” said Betty. "I never saw anything more perfect in my life. It’s—it’s simply wonderful! Fancy a woman making it! Who taught you ?” “No one,” said Mrs Thornton, simply. "1 never had a lesson in my life. Anyone could do it.” “I couldn’t, if I lived to be a hundred.” ‘‘At a hundred hand would probably be too shaky, and your back troublesome.” They went back to the kitchen, and Betty suggested they should wash up. "I will do it later on,” said her hostess. But the girl rolled up her sleeves and found the tin bowl. "Let’s get it done with,” she said; "the more we think of it the worse it grows. I suppose you’re really aching to get back to your hammer. Are you making furniture now?” "Only an overmantel,” said Mrs Thornton. Betty dipped the silver in the water, and twirled it with a mop. And someway. Itefore they had progressed to the plates Betty had confided in her hostess the sort of-writing she was engaged on for the "Sydney Times,” and Mrs Thornton had stated that she knew Mrs Swanson, the late writer, by sight, very well. And before they had finished they had arranged to go together to the pantomime on Saturday night. Then the telephone demanded attention, and Mrs Thornton answered it, and called Betty. "Yes,” said Betty. "It’s only me.” said Cyril. “Look here, if you’ll answer for it that no one shall look at us, I’ll take you to-morrow night.” “Oh, Cyril, you angel!” said Betty, rapturously. "What time shall I fetch you?” asked Cyril. "Seven,” said Betty. "Let us get there before the crush, and find a secluded corner. Cyril, you’re—you’re a sparkling demi-god!” "It’s the blessed evening-suit that bothers me. Good-bye.” “ That’s just like Cyril,” said Betty, running back to the kitchen. “He must have his growl first. I'll have to look up a dress —and then no more thought for gaiety.” “ Well, I’m going down,” said Mrs. Thornton; "I'm busy with the glue-pot to-day. Oh. 1 meant to tell you! I’ve a tin of green paint you can have for your floor, if you like. Oh. it’s tne right green, you need not look doubtful ! ” “It wasn’t the shade of green I was thinking of.” said Betty. “ it was only—--1 don’t see why I should rob you.” “ Nay, I shall never use it. I got it to do a floor and then changed my mind. Besides, you need not rob me. You can leave it on the floor.” “ Then T’ll do it now,” said Betty with enthusiasm. “ You can move your bed into the next room for a night or two,” said Mrs. Thornton. “ You go, and I will bring the paint up to you.” It was a back-breaking piece of work Betty found, but she was liberally endowed with energy and endurance.

Tn the beginning of the afternoon she sang and worked, and when darkneM eame it found her working without ainging. But the first coat was on l»er floor—* all over it. “ I’ll finish it to-morrow,” she said a* site crept into her trundle bed at nine o'clock, aching and tired, “ then I can impress Cyril with my attic. But, oh, what a pity things want a second coat in this life!” •She finished by twelve o’clock the next morning, for the second coat went on, she found, more easily than the first. Then she dressed and went to the office again. No correspondence awaiting her, she was leaving again, when she ran into Mr. Ferguson iu the passage. “Oh. Miss Bruce!” he said, “I’m so glad to see you. Would you think me a nuisance? Would you help me over a difficulty?” “ If I can,” said Betty, diffidently. “ Who—who cuts the wedding cake—• the bride, the bridegroom, or the best man?” “ The bride,” said Betty emphatically. “Oh, thank you!” said Mr. Ferguson, and immediately darted back into his room. “ What a funny young man.” said Betty to herself, continuing her way downstairs; "I suppose he’s going to be married.” On the staircase she met the editor. “ About that story of yours,” was his greeting, and no hand-shake or “ Good morning;” “ it’s first-rate. I've passed the account. I ean just get it into the Christmas number. Ask at the counter for your money on Friday.” He went on upstairs. “Oh!” said Betty. "Oh! Oh! Oh!” and she only just managed not to sit on the step behind her with amazement. “Oh. dear! Oh. dear! Sure this is non* of I!” CHAPTER XXIV. A SOCIAL REPORTER. At seven o’clock that night Cyril rang the bell of the tall house in which Bettylived. It was in darkness, except for a light in a front attic window’, he not iced. Betty herself opened the door. She was wonderfully glad to see her twin again, and as soon as he was in the hall and the front door was closed she embraced him most lovingly. “ Here, lot me go; you don’t know who’s looking,” said Cyril, disengaging her arms from his neck and looking nervously around him. “ There’s no one to look," said Betty laughing. “ Come upstairs, I must show you my mansion. Isn’t this a beautiful house.” “ Can’t say I’m much struck yet,” said Cyril, following her upstairs. “ It’s so wonderfully convenient. There’s a speaking tube, and if you stayed here and I ran to the top storey we could talk to each other quite easily, in nearly a whisper, through it.” “Don't I know the blessed things! We’ve one in our office.” “ Oh, I think they’re lovely. And there's a telephone.” “ I wish to goodness telephones had. never been invented,” said Cyril. “ I’d get lots more trips out of our office, I can tell you. running messages, if it weren’t for the telephone.” “Come back, con.e back,” laughed Betty, “that’s Dr. Shrover’s room, and thats the dentist’s.” “However much higher!” growled. Cyril. They reached the next storey. “No. that’s the kitchen,” said Betty, laughing. “ Higher still and higher.” She ran up thz next flight of stairs, followed by Cyril. ‘'There ought to lie a lift,” he said; “it’s perfectly preposterous!” Betty pushed open her door. The floor looked remarkably well. The so.fa cushions were shaken up and

tidy; the writing table was in glorious confusion; the “household” corner seemed just a collection of kerosene boxes turning their backs on the world. Betty stood in the middle of the room, looking radiant, glowing eyes, scarlet lips and cheeks. She was in evening costume, or, to be correct, she wore an evening blouse Dot had sent to her eighteen months before —a white silk one, with white lace and soft ruchings upon it—and a dark walking skirt. “Isn’t it a splendid room!” she said. “ Right up at the top of the house, away from everyone! Look at my floor, isn’t it pretty?” “ Um,” said Cyril—“ only paint.” Betty’s face fell a little." just a little. She was brave and bright, but a word or two in praise of her house and new life would have filled her heart to overflowing. Then her eyes opened widely. “Where did you get your coat?” she asked. “ I borrowed another fellows—Chalmers’. It fits alright, doesn’t it?” “Yes,” said Betty slowly, and added. “I wish though you had your own.” Cyril strutted across the room. “Where’s your glass?” he inquired. “In the bathroom,” said Betty; “but you don’t want it. I never saw vou look so niee in your life.” She spoke in all sincerity. She turned out the gas, and they went downstairs. Mrs Thornton came out of her sitting-room, and was introduced to the good looking youth by his proud sister. And after they had left her and slammed the front door she went to her balcony to watch them go up the street. How young they were! All life seemed to open up beneath their feet! How blithe, how bonnie they looked! The best of the earth was theirs—all possibilities were their own, she thought. But—how poor, how undisguisedly poor! They took the tram to Elizabeth Bay, and Betty smuggled into Cyril’s hand the money for their fares. They had a short walk when they got out, and a little difficulty in finding the house, but at last they stood before it—a many-windowed, brilliantly lighted mansion. Quite a stream of people from carriages was entering the front door. “I daren’t go in,” said Betty, and pressed her hand suddenly to her heart. Cyril was nervous too. “Let’s go back,” he said; “it’s an awfully silly game. Let’s go back.” Then his twin perceived he needed some of that courage she had so frequently to instil. She laughed. “One to be ready, two to be steady, three to be off and away,” she said, and marched in the doorway in the wake of a portly lady ind Cyril had perforce to follow. A white-cappid maid led her to the difrssing-room. in 1 looking over her shoulder she beheld the nervous Cyril following other swallow-tails in an opposite direction. They met again in the hall, and before they could consider whither to direct their steps, a stately man servant met them, indicated that they were to follow him, and near the doorway of a hand some room, inclined his ear to Betty’s mouth. She coughed, but he did not move; so she coughed again; he still waited. Then book knowledge came to her rescue, and crimsoning to the tips of her ears, she said—- “ Miss Bruce.” The next moment the sound of her name seemed to fill space. From every corner of the room came back the echo of the man’s loud announcement —“Miss Bruce!” Then “Mi Bruce!” even louder. And the two white young things glided into that, to them, most dreadful room. A lady with very kind but puzzled eyes took Betty’s hand. “So very pleased,” she murmured. Still she seemed to be waiting—like all the rest of the world. “For the ‘Sydney Times,’ ” said Betty, and pathos was in her eyes. ' “Oh,” said the lady. “Oh, I was looking for Mrs Swanson.” “I am Mrs Swanson,” said the girl.. “I—l mean, I and my brother are instead of her.” "I see. 1 am very glad to meet you. Do find a comfortable seat. A lovely night, is it not?” , “Sir James and Lady Mclntosh.’ shouted the servant, and an ancient

looking couple followed the boy and girl into the room.

“.e. very one’s looking at us,” said Cyril. "Bet mem: ” said Betty defiantly. “Let's get out of that verandah door, and cut home,” said Cyril as they readied a side of the room. "1 won’t,” said Betty. "imagine we re war correspondents and have just got to the front. We wouldn t nin away again as soon as we saw smoke, isn't tins a beautiful window seat? x.eau back and imagine you're a juuge, aim i m your old maiden sister.’ - nut Cyril was far too wretched to allow Ins imagination to play. xxe sat down next to ixitty, and tuggeu at his upper lip, which was as guiltless ol any signs of moustache as netty's own. "it s all very well for you,’ he said, "out 1 nate being stared at. My coat uoesn t nt on the shoulder, and i m the omy lellow not in proper evening dress.” "nook at that pretty girl over there,” saiu Betty; "isn't she a picture! I wonder who she is? tier name is Pearl. "Lets get out on the verandah,” whispered Cyril. "juon t be so silly,” said Betty. “It wouiu oe a great deal worse coming in again, x was getting on very well as your i.orsnips sister. Uli, lor goodness sane, let us lorget who we are lor a nine wane, nere s axis, xtobertsnn. X ueneve sue is coming to us. I've got lu notice what ner dress is, etc." cyru broke into a cold perspiration, stood up, and precipitately Hen through me open door to the verandah. .mu Betty sat on alone. She watched ner hostess' progress down the room, admiring intensely ner easy, gracerul carriage and simple manners. But Mrs. rnincan Robertson was lar too busy to notice the lonely girl in me winuow seat. Music struck up in the next room, and she, with three or four other ladies, moved there, presumably to listen. Cyril did not come back —he absolutely lacked the courage, and Betty felt it incumbent on her to leave her sheltered seat. “In the interests of my letter,” she told herself, “1 must try and find out who is who.” So she went round on the edge of the crowd as it were. She lingered in the doorway of the music-room; she got lost in a little crowd in the hall, and she noted the floral decorations of the drawing-room. Then, crossing the hall again, to return to the reception-room, she came upon Cyril hiding, in misery, behind a pillar in the hall. “Betty!” he whispered. She saw his face. “We’ll go if you like!” she said. “Oh!” he said gratefully. “Come on.” So they sought each their respective cloak-room. They had been there, in all, perhaps an hour and a-half, and no one in all that happy seeming throng had given them a kindly smile or word. They had been as unnoticed as the flies on the high-art ceilings. Betty saw happy girls under their mothers’ wings—gay mothers, proud mothers. And for some reason her heart was stirred. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. Only no one had even a halfsmile for Betty or Cyril. As they left the hall, to step into the night, a singer’s passionate voiee was pleading:— “Oro pro nobis. Ora pro nobis!” And a great wave of emotion passed over sensitive Betty, to whom few beautiful songs ever came. The house, the lights, the beautiful dresses, and jewellery, and the song, all played upon feelings she knew not that she possessed. • She caught Cyril’s arm. “How beautiful!” she said. “What?” asked Cyril. “Something—somewhere. I —l don’t know what.” She looke dat the stars, and they walked on down the quiet street. “I never felt such a stuffed monkey in my life,” said Cyril. “Let us take an omnibus,” said Betty wearily. “Let us get home.” She was too young to analyse her feelings, but as they stepped into the omnibus she said wistfully to Cyril:— “Now I know what it is to feel an outcast. Don’t you?” (To be Continued.)