Page 49 - An Australian Lassie

her feet within his grandfather's library.

"You can come and take your pick," he said.

At this period of her life Betty was not troubled with pride--the pride of the slighted and poor relation.

She accepted his offer rapturously, only adding, "You'd better keep my grandfather out of the way when T
come."

"Come when he's having his afternoon sleep," said John.

So Betty was smuggled into her grandfather's library.

Tt was Saturday afternoon when she went to the great house. She had to slip away from Dot, who was making
elaborate alterations to a pretty blue muslin frock (she was invited to spend the next Saturday and Sunday with
Alma Montague, the doctor's daughter); her mother was calling "Betty, come here," in the front garden as she
reached the track through the bush, and Cyril and Nancy had implored her to "come and play something."

But Betty had a "career" to think of. She ran through the bush and arrived breathless at that part of her
grandfather's fence which ran past their coral islands. At a certain hour every afternoon, John said, his
grandfather went to sleep. Tt was during this sleep time that Betty was to search the shelves of his library for a
book that should enlighten her as to the best way to become a "self-made woman."

She slipped under the fence, and into the little belt of bush that bounded the emu run, and where she, as a
ghost, had waited.

John's signal came very soon, and Betty immediately took off her bonnet and rolled it up under her arm--the
better to hear--and marched boldly across the gravel paths to the library window where John stood.

"Where is he?" asked Betty.

"Asleep on the little verandah," said John; "he always sleeps a long time after dinner."

Betty stepped into the room and looked around her curiously.

Tt was such a room as she had never seen yet, and it pleased her greatly. Two enormous bookcases full of
books stood side by side against one wall. Another wall was book-lined for about eight feet of its height and
ten of its length. The centre-table had a dark blue cloth upon it and bore magazines, books and newspapers
and writing materials.

Betty's feet rested pleasurably on the thick rich carpet and her eyes went from easy chair to easy chair.

"My father ought to have this room," she said, "he writes the most beautiful books, and T know he'd write ever
so many more if he lived here."

"Here's the book T got myself from," said John, advancing to a bookcase.

But Betty was oblivious of her errand. She lingered by the table, turning over the covers of the magazines, and
picture after picture caught her eye.

One in particular she lingered over. Tt represented a bric-a-brac strewn room.