Page 12 - An Australian Lassie

The living-room was a low-ceiled room with French windows leading to the verandah. Tt had a centre table,
several cane chairs, a small piano, a rocking-chair and a dilapidated sofa. Tts floor was oilclothed and its
windows uncurtained--only Dorothea had arrived at the stage that sighed for prettinesses.

Betty was quite happy when she had swept the floor, shaken the cloth, put all the chairs with their backs to the
wall, and polished the piano.

She was surveying the room with pride when Dorothea walked in. Dorothea in the frock she had worn for five
mornings during the week, and which was still clean and fresh; with her wonderful hair in a shining mass
down her back, and a serviette in her hand (an extempore duster). Tt always took her the better part of
Saturday to even find her own niche in the home.

"T was going to dust this room, Betty," she said--"someway, everything T am going to do, T find you've done."

Elizabeth smiled drily. She could not even sweep a room and be just Elizabeth Bruce. Saturdays usually found
her in imagination Cinderella; and consequently harsh words from Dorothea, who in her eyes was a cruel
step-sister, would have found more favour with her than kind ones.

"There is the kitchen to be swept," said Betty; "the ashes are thick on the hearth and the breakfast things are
not washed up."

Dorothea looked startled. Betty's voice sounded tired and resigned.

"Oh dear!" said Dorothea, "T do so hate doing kitchen work. Tt makes my hands so red and rough, and just
spoils my dress."

"The work is there and must be done," remarked Betty.

Mrs. Bruce looked in at the door. Her face was just Dorothea's grown older, and without its roses; her hair was
Dorothea's with its gold grown dull; her very voice and dimples were Dorothea's. A large poppy-trimmed hat
adorned her head, and a basket with an old pair of scissors in it was swung over her arm.

"Of course you'll not do kitchen work, my chicken," she said gaily; "slip on your hat and come and gather
roses with me. Tt's little enough of you home your get--that little shall not be spoilt by ashes and dust.

"Tt's Mary's work, and Betty can see that she does it well."

Betty stalked into the kitchen and regarded the fireplace in gleeful gloom, sitting down in front of it and
staring into the heart of the small wood fire.

Mary, the maid-of-all-work, took her duties in a very haphazard way. She had no particular time for doing
anything, and no particular place for keeping anything. And alas! it is to be regretted her mistress was the last
woman in the world to train her in the way she should go.

To-day she had taken it into her head to try the effect of a few bows of blue ribbon upon her cherry-coloured
straw hat, before the breakfast things were washed or the sweeping and scrubbing done. But the washing-up
belonged to Betty.

Outside in the garden Mrs. Bruce was drawing Dorothea's attention to the scent of the violets and mignonette,
and her gay voice caused Betty to sigh heavily.

"Tf my own mother had lived," she said gloomily, "T too might gather flowers. But what am T?--the family