"Father! Father!"
From the depths of an easy chair whose back was to her there rose the tall bent figure of an old man.
Betty had arranged to "rend the air with wail upon wail"—to "press her pinched white face, and her little one's, time after time upon the window pane," but opportunity interfered, the window flew up, and Betty crouched on the floor in terror.
In the banana grove Cyril fled from tree to tree, crying dismally. The darkness, the screams, the chain, the opening of the window, had each and all terrified him almost past endurance. Now he felt convinced his grandfather was chasing him with the emus.
Meanwhile Betty on the verandah was also quaking. A stern voice from the open window demanded "Who is there?" but her fortitude was not equal to a wail.
"I heard some one say 'Father, Father,' I'll swear," said a somewhat familiar boyish voice.
"I saw a face," said the old man.
And then Baby began to whimper piteously, and Betty's heart sank into her shabby small shoes.
Footsteps were coming her way; the inevitable was at hand and she recognized it, and with an effort stood upright cuddling the baby close.
The old man put his hand on her shoulder, and with a "I'll just trouble you—this way please," and not so much as a quaver in his voice, led her into the brightly-lighted study.