“My native bear. I'll show him to you to-morrow. You see, when Uncle Westonley comes to see me at night, after Aunt Elizabeth has heard me say the Lord's Prayer, and the extrack, he lets me pray for Bunny because he is full of ticks, and Jim says hell die. I say 'dear God, don't let Bunny die, freshen and preserve him in Thy sight, and make him whole.' I got that out of a book, and Uncle Westonley says it will do very nicely.”
“Couldn't be better, little woman. I think it's a grand prayer.”
“But, Uncle Tom, Bunny has been sicker an' sicker, and won't eat anything but the very youngest, weeniest gum leaves, and Aunt Elizabeth says he's a hideous little beast. And Jim and me love him to death.”
“Don't worry about what Aunt Elizabeth says,” and Gerrard bent down and kissed her. “I'll try and cure Bunny for you. I know a heap of things about native bears and ticks, and know exactly what to do.”
The child smiled delightedly into his face,* “Oh! Uncle Tom, you are as kind as Uncle Westonley, good-night.”
“Good-night, little woman,” and then the man laid himself down upon the sandy ground beside her, with a certain resolve in his mind.
At six o'clock in the morning, he rode up to Marumbah Station with little Mary held in front of him. Mrs Westonley, pale-faced, austere, and much agitated, met him as he dismounted.
“Oh, dear, Thomas! Just fancy you finding the child and bringing her home! I sent out Toby, the black boy, to look for her, and I suppose he is looking for her still—the naughty——”
“That's all right, Lizzie, don't get into a fluster,” said Gerrard placidly, as he dismounted and kissed his sister, “Toby did find her—that is, he found her and me comfortably camped for the night. He's coming along presently with my packhorse.”
Mrs Westonley turned angrily upon the child, and was about to deliver a lecture, when her brother placed his hand upon her arm and drew her aside.