“Keep mine hot, Sarah.”
Away went Archie out into the night, out under the stars, out in the falling dew, and his kangaroo went jumping and hopping after him.
The sky was very bright and clear to-night, though fleece-shaped, snow-white clouds lay low on the horizon, and the moon was rising through the distant woods, giving the appearance of some gigantic fire as its beams glared red among the topmost branches.
There was the distant howling or yelling of dingoes, and the low, half-frightened bleat of sheep, and there was the rippling murmur of the stream not far off, but all else was still.
It was two hours before Archie found his way back. The kangaroo saw him to the door, then went off to curl up in the shed till the hot beams of the morning sun should lure him forth to breakfast.
And all alone sat Archie, by the kitchen table, writing a letter home by the light of candles made on the steading.
It was very still now in the house—only the ticking of the clock, the occasional whirr of some insect flying against the window, anxious to come into the light and warmth and scratching of the young man’s pen.
Surely the dog knew that Archie was writing home, for presently he got slowly up from his corner and came and leant his head on his master’s knee, in that wise and kindly way collies have of showing their thoughts and feelings. Archie must leave off writing for a moment to smooth and pet the honest “bawsent” head.
Now it would be very easy for us to peep over Archie’s shoulder and read what he was writing, but that would be rude; anything rather than rudeness and impoliteness. Rather, for instance, let us take a voyage across the wide, terribly wide ocean, to pay a visit to Burley Old Farm, and wait till the letter comes.
“I wonder,” said Elsie with a gentle sigh, and a long look at the fire, “when we may expect to hear from Archie again. Dear me, what a long, long time it is since he went away! Let me see, Rupert, it is going on for six years, isn’t it?”