“It’s a nice Christmassy place!” said Wally, surveying the scene. “Makes you feel no end festive, doesn’t it? If you two girls hold each other’s hands tightly, cling to my coat tails, and utter frequent bleats, it is possible that we shan’t lose you!”
“Just take care that you don’t get lost yourself,” Jim uttered. “A trifle like you straying about in a crowd ought to have a bell on its neck. Take Dad’s arm, won’t you?”
“He’d better not,” said Mr. Linton, hurriedly. “I could employ more arms than I’ve got, as it is.” His eye, roving over the throng, caught sight of a familiar face. “Ah, there’s my porter!” he said, with relief, as that functionary hastened up. “That’s right, Saunders—bring another man with you. Now we needn’t worry—our compartment’s reserved.” He sat down on an empty luggage truck and mopped his brow. “Give me Billabong!”
Then, somehow, they were all on board, the carriage overflowing with miscellaneous bundles; and presently the train was slipping out of the station, and leaving the suburban roofs behind as the wide spaces and green paddocks came in view. Further and further, until the sun went down in a red sky and the short Australian twilight faded to dusk and a star-lit night.
Norah grew a little silent. She leaned back, her shoulder against her father’s, glad of his nearness: all the dear voices of the country calling to her, above the roar and rush of the train. The memory of her long homesickness came over her with a rush. She could scarcely realize that it was over, and Billabong drawing near. Until a year ago Billabong had meant all her world—all that counted. Now she had a wider horizon. But still home and home’s dear ones dwarfed all the rest.
Then it was time to collect parcels hurriedly. The train stopped with a great grinding of brakes, and they all tumbled out upon the Cunjee platform. It was only a little place; the train seemed to pause just to shake itself free of them, and then it puffed away into the darkness; and Norah was pumping the hand of a big sunburnt man with a wide smile of welcome.
“Oh, Murty, I’m so glad to be back!”
“It is Billabong that’s glad to have ye,” said Murty O’Toole, head stockman, and Norah’s friend from her cradle. “Blessed hour! Ye’ve grown into a young lady, so ye have.”
“Indeed I haven’t,” said Norah indignantly. “I’m just the same. Isn’t it true, Jim?”
“She’s worse, Murty,” said her brother, laughing. “No signs of improvement. She’s lost all respect for me. It’s very trying.”