own heads.”
For a moment she stood smiling at them all in turn; and not a soul of them saw her next going without thinking of this one. The low sun struck full upon the heavy red fringe, and on the pale face and the devil-may-care smile which it over-hung just then. At the back of that smile there was a something which seemed to be coming up swiftly like a squall at sea; but only for one moment; the next, she had kissed the women, shaken hands with the young man, mounted into the buggy beside Mr. Teesdale, and the two of them were driving slowly down the slope.
“I think, John William,” said his mother, “that you might have driven in this time, instead o’ letting your father go twice.”
“Didn’t I want to?” replied John William, in a bellow which made Missy turn her head at thirty yards. “He was bent on going. He’s the most pig-headed old man in the Colony. He wouldn’t even answer me when I spoke to him about it just now.”
He turned on his heel, and mother and daughter were at last alone, and free to criticise.
“For a young lady fresh from England,” began the former, “I must say I thought it was a shabby dress – didn’t you?”
“Shabby isn’t the word,” said Arabella; “if you ask me, I call her whole style flashy – as flashy as it can stick.”
CHAPTER IV. – A MATTER OF TWENTY POUNDS
This is jolly!” exclaimed Missy, settling herself comfortably at the old man’s side as she handed him back the reins. They had just jogged out of the lowest paddock, and Mr. Teesdale had been down to remove the slip-rails and to replace them after Missy had driven through.
“Very nicely done,” the farmer said, in his playful, kindly fashion. “I see you’ve handled the ribbons before.”
“Never in my life!”
“Indeed? I should have thought that with all them horses and carriages every one of you would have learnt to ride and drive.”
“Yes, you would think so,” Missy said, after a pause; “but in my case you’d think wrong. I can’t bear horses, so I tell you straight. One flew at me when I was a little girl, and I’ve never gone near ‘em since.”
“Flew at you!” exclaimed Mr. Teesdale. “Nay, come!”
“Well, you know what I mean. I’d show you the bite – ”
“Oh, it bit you? Now I see, now I see.”
“You saw all along!”
“No, it was such a funny way of putting it.”
“You knew what I meant,” persisted Missy. “If you’re going to make game of me, I’ll get down and walk. Shall we be back in Melbourne by seven?”
Mr. Teesdale drew out his watch with a proud smile and a tender hand. He loved consulting it before anybody, but Missy’s presence gave the act a special charm. He shook his head, however, in answer to her question.
“We’ll not do it,” said he; “it’s ten past six already.”
“Then how long is it going to take us?”
“Well, not much under the hour; you see – ”
A groan at his side made Mr. Teesdale look quickly round; and there was trouble under the heavy fringe.
“I must be there soon after seven!” cried the girl petulantly.
“Ay, but where, Missy? I’ll do my best,” said David, snatching up the whip, “if you’ll tell me where it is you want to be.”
“It’s the Bijou Theatre – I’m supposed to be there by seven – to meet the people I’m staying with, you know.”
David had begun to use the whip vigorously, but now he hesitated and looked pained. “I am sorry to hear it’s a theatre you want to get to,” said he gravely.
“Why, do you think them such sinks of iniquity – is that it?” asked the girl, laughing.
“I never was in a theatre in my life, Missy; I don’t approve of them, my dear.”
“No more do I – no more do I! But when you’re staying with people you can’t always be your own boss, now can you?”
“You could with us, Missy.”
“Well, that’s bully; but I can’t with these folks. They’re regular terrors for the theatre, the folks I’m staying with now, and I don’t know what they’ll say if I keep ‘em waiting long. Think you can do it?”
“Not by seven; but I think we might get there between five and ten minutes past.”
“Thank God!”
Mr. Teesdale wrinkled his forehead, but said nothing. Evidently it was of the first importance that Missy should not keep her friends waiting. Of these people, however, she had already spoken so lightly that David was pleased to fancy her as not caring very much about them. He was pleased, not only because they took her to the theatre, but because he wanted no rival Australian friends for his old friend’s child; the farm, if possible, must be her only home so long as she remained in the Colony. When, therefore, the girl herself confirmed his hopes the very next time she opened her mouth, the old man beamed with satisfaction.
“These folks I’m staying with,” said Missy – “I’m not what you call dead nuts on ‘em, as I said before.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” chuckled David, “because we want you all to ourselves, my dear.”
“So you think! Some day you’ll be sorry you spoke.”
“Nonsense, child. What makes you talk such rubbish? You’ve got to come and make your home with us until you’re tired of us, as I’ve told you already. Where is it they live, these friends of yours?”
“Where do they live?” repeated Missy. “Oh, in Kew.”
“Ah – Kew.”
The name was spoken in a queer, noticeable tone, as of philosophic reflection. Then the farmer smiled and went on driving in silence; they were progressing at a good speed now. But Missy had looked up anxiously.
“What do you know about Kew?” said she.
“Not much,” replied David, with a laugh; “only once upon a time I had a chance of buying it – and had the money too!”
“You had the money to buy Kew?”
“Yes, I had it. There was a man who took me on to a hill and showed me a hollow full of scrub and offered to get me the refusal of it for an old song. I had the money and all, as it happened, but I wasn’t going to throw it away. The place looked a howling wilderness; but it is now the suburb of Kew.”
“Think of that. Aren’t you sorry you didn’t buy it?”
“Oh, it makes no difference.”
“But you’d be so rich if you had!”
“I should be a millionaire twice
