“I hope he don’t send us to gaol,” said Eva, and Doris burst into tears.
“I wish we never wrote the ole letter; I wish we never had an ole uncle.”
“Oh, he might never get it!” said Eileen, hopefully.
“Oh, I hope he does!” answered Mollie, quickly, who was beginning to get over her misgivings. “Now, no more crying; let’s laugh instead, and—remember—not one word about this! Let’s try and forget it for a week, whatever.”
“Yes, mum’s the word,” said Eileen, solemnly.
“Yes, mum’s the word,” declared Eva.
And then, led by Mollie, they all went back home, singing and laughing.
In a big private office, with oak fittings and crimson carpets, in the suite of offices of Langdon and Ross, Melbourne, a tall man, with iron-grey hair and keen, dark eyes, read the letter a fortnight later.
“Bless their hearts! Little Bush Nieces! Want a loan! Pay back every penny when they grow up! Keep our secret! Try and make me happy! Come and see us soon! By Jove! they’re original, right enough. Bless the children! Robert’s five little girls, and they’re lonely—and they think I don’t know what loneliness is, because I’ve got plenty of money and have travelled a lot. Ah! little girls, you have yet to learn that money and travel can’t always banish loneliness. Five little Bush girls!” he mused, laying down the letter, and leaning his head on his hands.
Then that very keen business man who had only just returned from the Continent, and was preparing to go off again very soon, did something very unusual for him. He sat for a whole hour, thinking! and then seized pen and paper and wrote for the rest of the morning, and his private secretary and clerk wondered what on earth had come to the head of the firm; and when the letter was finished, he sealed and stamped it, and marched down to the Post Office and posted it himself, and the big office with the oak fittings and crimson carpets saw no more of him that day, and his big sheaf of correspondence was left till the following morning.