Something in her tone sent swift alarm into the twins’ faces.
“Oh, they’re quite well—don’t worry,” Miss Dampier said hastily. “Run along to your room and read your letter quietly.”
CHAPTER IV
A LETTER FROM HOME
THE twins did not lose a moment. They edged through the crowd of girls, dodged one or two laughing queries about their bathe, and, gaining the staircase, fled up to their eyrie on the second floor. It was a little room, with a big window, and a deep window-seat from which could be seen the Bay and the big liners going up and down on their way backwards and forwards across the world. The twins loved their window-seat, and generally read their home-letters in it. But when they had read this one they faced each other with eyes wide with dismay.
Father had gone straight to his point. That was like Father: he never wasted time.
“My dear little Girls,—
“I had meant to keep the news I have to give you until you came home. But it occurs to me that it is better to let you know at once.
“This has been a very bad year for me, as you know—not that you have known everything, for Mother and I haven’t believed in worrying you unnecessarily. You’re only kiddies, and we hoped the bad times would pass. But they haven’t passed. The drought has hit me very hard: I bought stock dear last year, and had to sell them for next to nothing this year, because I hadn’t feed for them. The stock I have still are as poor as crows, and I am only keeping them alive by buying feed.
“I might have managed, however, but for an extra bit of bad luck. Before things got very bad I lent an old friend a big sum of money, expecting it to be paid back last month; and the long and the short of it is, that he’s as hard hit as I am, and hasn’t got it to pay back. Goodness knows if he’ll ever be able to pay.
“So I’ve got to retrench, and I only wish I could do it all myself, instead of involving Mother and you children. But that’s just what I can’t do. We shall have to spend just as little money as possible, and it will mean sending away the servants, living very simply, and—I must take you two from school. I hate to say it, but there’s no help for it. School costs me close on £300 a year, and I can’t spare it. Besides, we’ll need your help. I know you’ll save Mother in the house as much as you can, and I think you should be able to teach Billy for a year or so. That will save a governess. Possibly you’ll even give me a hand on the place now and then, for I must do with as little outside labour as I can. I expect I can reckon on you two when I need a couple of extra hands, mustering.”