Tom Gerrard. Becke Louis

all right, chick. Aunt Elizabeth will have nothing to say about it. I’ll settle with her. Now, sit down on that blanket—I daresay you’re hungry, eh?”

      “Please, Uncle Tom, let me go home, Aunt Elizabeth–”

      “We’ll go home, chick, when the bell-birds and the crockets begin to sing. And Aunt Elizabeth won’t say a word to you.” He smiled somewhat grimly to himself, “don’t be afraid of that. You and I are camping out tonight—like two old mates. By-the-way, where do you sleep at Marumbah?”

      “In the little room, just off the saddle-room.”

      “And Jim?”

      “Oh, Aunt Elizabeth doesn’t like him to sleep in the house, so he sleeps in the stockman’s spare room.”

      “How old is he, chick?”

      The child bent her head in thought for a moment or two. “About ten, I think, Uncle Tom. He is really and truly such a good boy—Uncle Westonley says so, but Aunt Elizabeth says he is godless and an ‘incubus.’ What does incubus mean? I am one too.”

      “Nothing, nothing very much, little one,” said Gerrard, as he held the breast of the wild duck he had plucked over the glowing coals of his fire; “you see, your Aunt Elizabeth doesn’t mean to be unkind to you—it’s only her way of saying that you and Jim are troublesome at times. And I don’t think she will call you or Jim ‘incubuses,’ any more after to-morrow. Now, let us have something to eat. See, it is nearly dark.”

      They ate their supper to the murmur of the ever-sounding surf upon the beach, and then Gerrard spreading out his blankets under the shelter of a spreading wild honeysuckle, covered the child over with a sheet of waterproof cloth to keep off the dew.

      “I must say my prayers, Uncle Tom.” “Yes, dear,” he said softly, “but you needn’t get up. Can’t you say them lying down?”

      “Oh, no, Uncle Tom. That would be very wrong, and denotes laziness, Aunt Elizabeth says. Do you say your prayers lying down?”

      “Yes, chick,” was the prompt response, “generally when I’m lying down at night in the bush, looking up at the stars. And I daresay it does ‘denote laziness,’ as Aunt Elizabeth says. But at the same time I think it really doesn’t matter to God whether one is lying down or sitting up, or on one’s knees when we pray to Him.”

      “Oh, Uncle Tom! Are you quite sure?”

      “Dead sure, little woman—as sure as ducks are ducks—especially when little girls are tired.”

      “Then I’ll say my prayers lying down.”

      She clasped her two little sunbrowned hands together and said the Lord’s Prayer, and then paused.

      “Shall I say the extrack?”

      “The extrack?”

      “Yes, the extrack from the Catechism. Aunt Elizabeth composed some of it.”

      “Oh! she composed some of it, did she? Yes, by all means say ‘the extract.’”

      The child closed her eyes again, and began very slowly:

      “‘Before I slumber, O Lord, I comment myself to Thy care and protection, however unworthy and thoughtless my conduct has been during the day now closed.’” (“That’s Aunt Elizabeth,” muttered Gerrard under his breath.) “‘I will try hard to hasten my rebellious spirit,—no not hasten, but chasten—I always say that wrong, Uncle Tom—to reverently submit myself to all my governors, teachers, spiritual pastors and masters: to regulate my conduc’, and demean myself with all humility; to keep my hands from picking and stealing, to recollect that I may be called this night before, Thee to answer for my many sins and transgressions.’ That’s all Uncle Tom.”

      Gerrard listened with the utmost gravity.

      “That’s all right, Mary; but I think it is a bit too long a prayer for very little girls. Now, by and by, I’ll teach you a new prayer.”

      “A new prayer! Oh, that will be nice! Sometimes Uncle Westonley let’s me pray for Bunny.”

      “Who is Bunny?”

      “My native bear. I’ll show him to you to-morrow. You see, when Uncle Westonley comes to see me at night, after Aunt Elizabeth has heard me say the Lord’s Prayer, and the extrack, he lets me pray for Bunny because he is full of ticks, and Jim says hell die. I say ‘dear God, don’t let Bunny die, freshen and preserve him in Thy sight, and make him whole.’ I got that out of a book, and Uncle Westonley says it will do very nicely.”

      “Couldn’t be better, little woman. I think it’s a grand prayer.”

      “But, Uncle Tom, Bunny has been sicker an’ sicker, and won’t eat anything but the very youngest, weeniest gum leaves, and Aunt Elizabeth says he’s a hideous little beast. And Jim and me love him to death.”

      “Don’t worry about what Aunt Elizabeth says,” and Gerrard bent down and kissed her. “I’ll try and cure Bunny for you. I know a heap of things about native bears and ticks, and know exactly what to do.”

      The child smiled delightedly into his face,* “Oh! Uncle Tom, you are as kind as Uncle Westonley, good-night.”

      “Good-night, little woman,” and then the man laid himself down upon the sandy ground beside her, with a certain resolve in his mind.

      At six o’clock in the morning, he rode up to Marumbah Station with little Mary held in front of him. Mrs Westonley, pale-faced, austere, and much agitated, met him as he dismounted.

      “Oh, dear, Thomas! Just fancy you finding the child and bringing her home! I sent out Toby, the black boy, to look for her, and I suppose he is looking for her still—the naughty–”

      “That’s all right, Lizzie, don’t get into a fluster,” said Gerrard placidly, as he dismounted and kissed his sister, “Toby did find her—that is, he found her and me comfortably camped for the night. He’s coming along presently with my packhorse.”

      Mrs Westonley turned angrily upon the child, and was about to deliver a lecture, when her brother placed his hand upon her arm and drew her aside.

      “Look here, Lizzie, I’m your guest, and I’m also your brother; but if you bully that unfortunate youngster, I’ll just get into my saddle again, and ride off without putting my foot over your threshold.”

      Mrs Westonley’s pale, clear-cut face flushed deeply. “I never expected such a remark as this from you, Thomas.”

      “And I never expected that you would have treated your own sister’s child as you have done,” was the stern reply; “I found her five miles from here, wandering alone. Have you no love or sympathy in your heart, or compassion for children, because you have none yourself?” and the grey eyes flashed.

      Mrs Westonley gazed at him in astonishment, and twined her hands together in mingled anger and fear that this brother—fifteen years younger than herself—should so dare to speak to her.

      “The child is a great trial–”

      “Aye, an ‘incubus,’ you call her, the poor little mite. But I hardly thought you read novels.”

      “I read novels! Never! What do you mean?”

      Gerrard drew her inside the house, and patted her cheek, ready to forgive.

      “Oh, I did read a book somewhere about a stepmother or an aunt or something of the kind, who was always talking about some unfortunate child committed to her care, as an ‘incubus.’ Now, that’s all I have to say. I love the kid already. She has Mary’s eyes and Mary’s voice, and, if you don’t want her I do. When will breakfast be ready, old girl?”

      “Eight o’clock,” said Mrs Westonley faintly, wondering if she were awake or dreaming. Who but this handsome, sunburnt brother would dare to lecture her, and then wind up by addressing her as “old girl”!

      CHAPTER