“Kangaroo rat and wallaby, most likely,” Jim remarked; “varied with fish, in various stages of preservation, and nice succulent tree-grubs!”
“Be quiet, you disgusting creature!” said Wally, in extreme horror. “You spoil my appetite.” He helped himself to a mammoth slice of cake.
“Looks like it!” Jim grinned. “Well, Babs can’t furnish you with details of her late guardian’s menu, I suppose; but I wouldn’t mind betting it didn’t vary much from my ideas.”
“Bless her!” said Norah, fatuously. “We’ll give her everything we’ve got that’s nice now to make up.” She tempted Babs with a chocolate, and Babs swiftly fell before the temptation.
“I think you’d better call a halt,” observed Mr. Linton. “That child has eaten as much as any two of the party—and she’ll be asleep in about a minute. You ought to put her to bed, Norah—we shall want to make an early start for Atholton.”
Babs was nearly asleep by the time Norah had tucked her into her bunk. She clung to her finger still, and drowsily put her face up to be kissed—a forgotten instinct, coming back as consciousness slipped away. And all through the night she nestled to her closely, one little hand clinging to her sleeve. Norah did not sleep much. She did not want to; it seemed to her that she dare not cease protecting the tiny dreaming mite for this last night—to keep her safe for the morrow, that meant such bewilderment of joy for the forlorn hearts in the little cottage by Atholton. At the thought she thrilled with an eagerness that left her almost trembling. Even the short few hours seemed long to wait—thinking of Babs Archdale’s mother.
“But it’s only one more night!” she whispered. “You’ll know soon.” She smiled in the moonlight, raising herself a trifle to watch the little face nestling near her.
David Linton slept across the tent doorway this night.
“Just as well,” he said. “I wouldn’t risk to-morrow for the Archdales for all Billabong!”
And out in the gloom of the scrub, where the moonlight scarcely filtered through the tracery of boughs to the boulder-strewn ground, a woman crouched, lonely, in her ruined wurley among the rocks. Sometimes she muttered angrily; sometimes her wild eyes, fiercely stupid, closed in sleep, and then her hands moved restlessly, seeking for a little body that no longer lay against her breast. She was outcast, loathsome, a pariah; every man’s hand would be against her, and only the wild hills left to her for refuge. But perhaps the calm stars, that see so many lonely mothers, looked down pityingly upon this black mother, who had been lonely, too.