Page 33 - An Australian Lassie

A sense of foreboding swept over Betty as she followed Cyril into the house. Her imagination showed her
willows and the "coral islands," and only John Brown--big square John Brown--there. She knew the story that
would soon be all over the school--all over the neighbourhood--that Cyril had been afraid to fight. Of course
she, Betty, his own twin sister, knew there would not be a grain of truth in it. She knew he was shy and
delicate, and had hurt his leg. But for all that, she wished eagerly that he were not shy and delicate, and did
not always have some bodily ill when fighting time came. And more than one sob shook her, for she beheld
the honour of the Bruces being trampled under John Brown's big boots.

She set the table and went about her usual household tasks in a very half-hearted way. Cyril would not look at
her, and crept off to bed at six o'clock, complaining of the pain in his leg. Tea was over by then, and Betty,
with her woeful look still on her face was helping "wash up" in the kitchen.

Cyril in his bedroom turned down his stocking and examined the little blue bruise near his knee. That there
was some outward and visible sign of his hurt he was very thankful. Tt raised his self-respect and brought tears
of self-pity to his eyes, that Betty should have expected him to fight under such circumstances! So much did
the sight of his wound upset him that he only went on one leg while undressing, though it must be confessed it
was not always the same leg that did the hopping.

Presently, after he had been lying in bed for some little time and commiserating with himself over his sad fate,
the door opened and Betty, with the wistfulness quite gone from her face, came in. And such a Betty! Her
brown hair was bundled away under one of Cyril's battered straw hats, and thankful indeed had she been that
she had so little hair to bundle. She wore one of Cyril's sailor jackets, and a pair of his serge knickers, and few
looking at her casually, would have insulted her with the supposition that she was a mere girl.

Her face was alight with eagerness as she besought her brother to "just see if he'd know her!"

"Tt'll be almost dark when T get there," she said, "and he'll never dweam T'm not you."

"But what'll you do when you get there?" asked Cyril, sitting up in bed; "perhaps a challenge does mean a
fight!"

"Fight him!" said Betty stoutly; "T've been wanting to ever since he went above me."

"You can't fight," said Cyril disgustedly. "You're only a girl."

Betty's face positively flamed with eagerness.

"Can't fight!" she said. "Why Fred Jones taught me. He says T've got the knack, but not very much strength.
Anyway, T fought that Barry kid the other day, I can promise you!"

"But John Brown is three times as big as Ces Barry."

"T know!" she sighed dismally. "Anyway, it's better to be beaten than not to fight at all. And if you don't fight,
they--they might say you were afraid." Her face grew scarlet as she put the horrid thought into words.

When the door was shut, Cyril jumped out of bed to watch her go, and so occupied was he over her danger,
that he forget his own hurt and did not limp at all.

Up and down the garden paths his mother and father were walking, his mother's arm through his father's, and
a happy peaceful look on her face. The thought ran through the boy's mind, how little grown up ones know of
the troubles of childhood. Nancy was rolling with baby on the little lawn, singing--