Page 131 - A Little Bush Maid

Jim rolled nearer to Norah.

"Blue, old girl?"

"’M," said a muffled voice.

Jim felt for her hand in the darkness--and found it. The small, brown

fingers closed tightly round his rough paw.

"T know," he said comprehendingly. "T’m awfully sorry, old woman. T do
wish we hadn’t to go."

There was no answer. Jim knew why--and also knowing perfectly well that
tears would mean the deepest shame, he talked on without requiring any

response.

"Beastly hard luck," he said. "We don’t want to go a bit--fancy school after

this! Ugh! But there are three of us, so it isn’t so bad. Tt wouldn’t matter if
Dad was at home, for you. But T must say it’s lowdown to be leaving you all

by your lonely little self."

Norah struggled hard with that abominable lump in her throat, despising

herself heartily.

"Brownie’ll be awfully good to you," went on Jim. "You’ll have to buck up,
you know, old girl, and not let yourself get dull. You practise like one
o’clock; or make jam, or something; or get Brownie to let you do some

cooking. Anything to keep you ’from broodin’ on bein’ a dorg,’ as old David
Harum says. There’s all the pets to look after, you know--you’ve got to keep

young black Billy up to the mark, or he’ll never feed ’em properly, and if
you let him alone he changes the water in the dishes when the last lot’s dry.
And, by George, Norah"--Jim had a bright idea--"Dad told me last night he

meant to shift those new bullocks into the Long Plain. Ten to one he forgot
all about it, going away so suddenly. You’ll have to see to it."

"T’d like that," said Norah, feeling doubtfully for her voice.