Page 25 - An Australian Lassie

She carried her baby away, kissing her neck and cheeks and hands, and telling her, as she had told them all,
from Dorothy downwards, that there never had been such a baby in the world before.

And she slipped her into the much used hammock under the old apple tree, and left her to play with her toes
and fingers, whilst she went back to her violets and roses singing--

"Rock-a-bye, Baby on a tree top, There you are put, there you must stop."

and trying to be rid of that uncomfortable feeling, of having done what she wanted and not what she ought.

Tn the study Mr. Bruce sat before a paper-strewn table. Most of the papers related to his beloved book--which
was almost half-completed. Tt had reached that stage several times before, and what had been written
thereafter had been consigned to the kitchen fire.

Now it was necessary that he should put it away, even out of thought, and turn his attention towards
something that would bring in a quick return. For Dot's school fees would be due very shortly, and he
remembered, with a smile-lit sigh, that this quarter she had taken up two extras, singing and dancing.

His income would not admit of extras--and yet, as Mrs. Bruce frequently put it, Dot was the eldest and was
very pretty. She certainly must be able to dance and sing!

He gathered up a few stray leaves of his manuscript, rolled them up with the bulk, and heroically put them
away.

But, as he returned to his seat, he caught a glimpse of his wife, kneeling on the path, and making a little trench
with a trowel in the bed outside his window.

"Well, little mother!" he called, and felt blithe as he said it, and young and fresh hearted, just because of the
bright face in the poppy-trimmed hat.

"T ought to be in the kitchen making a pudding," she said, screwing up her face into a grimace.

"You are far better where you are," he said fondly.

"Yes. But, oh, dear! T wish T had a cook, and laundress, and a housemaid. Oh, and a nursemaid, too! Tt is
dreadful to be poor, isn't it, daddie?"

She went on with her gardening, just as happy as before, but the face that the little author took to his
work-table had grown grave in a minute.

"She was born to have servants," he said, "servants and ease. T must work harder."

Cyril's voice broke into his reverie. He had come beneath the study windows to interview his mother.

"Can't T be raised to twopence a week now T'm going on for thirteen," he said. "Bert Davis gets threepence,
and he's only nine."

Mr. Brace did not catch the reply. But he told himself that most men would have been more liberal in the
matter of £. s. d. to their only son.

He began to pace round and round his study.