They came to a little siding presently, and pulled up for a brief halt. There were no station buildings: the tall timber came almost to the railway line, save for a clearing where a sawmill had established itself, gaunt and hideous, with huge piles of giant logs waiting their turn at the shrieking saw, and great heaps of brown sawdust bearing mute testimony to those which had already met their fate. Now, freshly cut, and still fragrant with resin and gum, they waited for the trucks that should bear them to Melbourne—stacks of smooth timber, among which played the half-wild children of the mill encampment. Here and there were the tents of the workmen; their wives, thin brown women, looking almost like men, came hurrying out to greet the train that made the great event of each day. The guard flung upon the ground beside the line the stores brought from the township: sacks of bread, boxes of groceries, meat in blood-stained bags. The children came running to get them. Robin, leaning out, offered them the remains of the fruit and sweets the girls had packed into her travelling basket that morning—pressing them into grubby brown hands, whose owners hung back, half-shy, wholly longing. Then the engine-whistle made the hills echo, and the little train drew away—to be swallowed up in a moment by the tall trees.
There was a hint of dusk in the evening sky when they drew into the terminus, a tiny station in a more cleared area. Robin had the door open before the train had come to a standstill. There was the tall figure waiting, just as she had dreamed—waiting with her face alight with the joy of welcome. Robin flung herself at her mother, holding her with strong young arms.
“Oh, Mother!—poor old Mother!”
“Oh. I’m glad to have you!” breathed Mrs. Hurst, with a deep sigh. “I had to get you, Robin—I couldn’t wait.”
“I should think not! Has it been very dreadful, Mother, darling?”
“Pretty dreadful.” The tall woman shuddered slightly. “Never mind—I’ve got you now. Let us get home as quickly as we can.”
There were friendly hands to lift Robin’s trunk into the battered old buggy outside the station, and warm, kindly words of welcome; all the farmers about Merri Creek knew Mrs. Hurst and the long-legged, red-haired girl who used to run wild over their paddocks, and their wives had proved Alice Hurst’s kindness in a hundred ways. They looked at her this evening with an added touch of respect and sympathy. Old Donald Hurst’s rough nature had made him an unpopular figure in the district, and the weary life led with him by his sister-in-law was no secret. They knew she had been a drudge, unpaid save for her child’s school-fees; but hard work was the daily portion of most of the women of the bush. They pitied her, not for that, but because of the ceaseless bitterness of the old man’s tongue. It had been no easy thing, to live upon his bounty.
Robin and her mother climbed into the buggy, said “Good-night,” and took the road that wound along the valley. The horse jogged slowly, and Mrs. Hurst let him take his own pace. She drove with one hand resting on Robin’s knee, apparently unwilling to talk, only glad of her nearness; and Robin, after one glance at her worn face, was silent, too. They understood each other very well. When Mother felt that she could talk, Robin would be ready.
When they turned in at the gate of Hill Farm, it was almost dark. Roany jogged more quickly up the track that led to the stable-yard, where a big, awkward lad waited, grinning cheerfully.
“ ’Ullo, Miss Robin! Glad to see y’ back.”