"Now, Baby," said Craig, handing Etheldene a warm rug, "will you be pleased to retire?"
"Where is my flat candlestick?" she answered.
Gentleman Craig pointed to the Southern Cross.
"Yonder," he said. "Is it not a lovely one?"
"It puts me in mind of old, old times," said Etheldene with a sigh. "And you're calling me 'Baby' too. Do you remember, ever so long ago in the Bush, when I was a baby in downright earnest, how you used to sing a lullaby to me outside my wee tent?"
"If you go to bed, and don't speak any more, I may do so again."
"Good-night then. Sound sleep to everybody. What fun!" Then Baby disappeared.
Craig sat himself down near the tent, after replenishing the fire—he was to keep the first watch, then Bill would come on duty—and at once began to sing, or rather 'croon' over, an old, old song. His voice was rich and sweet, and though he sang low it could be heard distinctly enough by all, and it mingled almost mournfully with the soughing of the wind through the tall trees.
"My song is rather a sorrowful ditty," he had half-whispered to Archie before he began; "but it is poor Miss Ethie's favourite." But long before Craig had finished no one around the log fire was awake but himself.
He looked to his rifle and revolvers, placed them handy in case of an attack by blacks, then once more sat down, leaning his back against a tree and giving way to thought.