Her father stared at her.
"You can't leave a boy of Dick's age to a kid like Bobby," he said. "Whatever is the matter with you? One would think you would be only too glad of the chance of a mate. Behave yourself, and remember the boy is our guest."
A black boy called from the gate.
"Horses ready, boss!"
"All right. Now, mind what I told you, Merle." He strode away across the garden.
Merle stood watching his retreating form, her heart seething with rebellion. She had not wanted Dick; she did not like him. Why should she be saddled with his entertainment? She had kept out of the way the night before, and her absence had not been noticed in the excitement of their arrival. To-day she had planned to climb up a favourite tree with a book and remain there until they were all out—she was sure her father meant to take them on a tour of the place. To have this cheerful plan frustrated, and to find herself responsible for Dick, was a heavy blow. She made her way inside, her scowl darker than ever.
Dick was with his mother, watching Mrs. Warner ordering her household for the day. Her cook was a middle-aged Scotchwoman, whose husband was storekeeper to the station; but all her other maids were black gins, and, with a native, nothing can be indefinite—orders have to be repeated daily, supplies doled out as they are needed, and only constant watchfulness ensures any comfort. She was at the moment interviewing the laundress, a big lubra, whose scanty attire was already soaked from splashing in the tubs.
"But I gave you plenty soap last night, Julia."
Julia rolled her great eyes wildly.
"Not this pfeller, missis. Mine thinkit that very little picaninny soap you bin gib. All bin tumble down (die) in water."