But when they looked more closely, the change was there—in the faces of their mother and father. Mr. Weston’s eyes were deeply sunken, with dark shadows under them, and threads of grey were thickly sown in his crisp dark hair; and there were lines in their mother’s face that were new, and an unfamiliar hint of repression about her mouth. Both tried to talk as though nothing was the matter: there were a hundred questions to be asked and answered, and the revelation that the twins had actually brought home prizes elicited satisfactory expressions of awe and respect on the part of their family. But through all the cheery chatter there was an under-current of something wrong—something kept down. It was like a shadow lurking in a corner of the room.
Sarah came in presently to take away the tea-things. She looked approvingly at an empty plate which had held scones, and with less good-will at others not entirely cleared of cakes. The twins glanced at their mother inquiringly as the door closed behind her. It was not usual for Sarah to appear in the dining-room. Mrs. Weston understood the glance.
“Amy has gone, you know, girls,” she said placidly, taking up her knitting. “She didn’t want to go until after Christmas; but Mrs. Holmes needed a housemaid, and it was too good a place for her to lose: I persuaded her to go.”
“Of course,” said the twins hurriedly. There fell an awkward silence.
“Mother and I have made up our minds that it’s best to let you know just how we stand,” said Mr. Weston, speaking as a man speaks who faces a disagreeable task. “It’s only fair, seeing that you youngsters are so much affected by our bad luck. We’re not going to be permanently ruined, so you needn’t worry too much: unless the drought stretches out indefinitely I’ll pull round all right, once the rain comes. You know, droughts with us generally mean extra good seasons afterwards: the ground has had a rest, and grass and crops come on splendidly.”
Jean and Jo nodded acquiescence. They understood the ways of droughts.
“Well—I’ll be right enough if I don’t have to sacrifice more of my stock. The few I have left on the place ought to be able to scratch up a living: those I’ve sent to Gippsland will be our salvation, if only I can hang on to them. If I am forced to sell, things will be very bad, for of course stock are fetching the very lowest prices. I could have gone on without making any special change in our way of living but for the money I told you about—the sum I lent. I lent it to a good friend—he’d done me more than one good turn years ago—and I don’t regret it. Mother says she doesn’t, either.”
“Then nobody does,” said Jo, and Jean nodded vehemently.
“I knew you’d say so,” said Father, and smiled at them. “Still—that’s our trouble. It leaves me horribly short of ready money. The place is bringing in nothing whatever: the small income I have, apart from it, isn’t nearly enough to pay household expenses, school bills, a governess for Billy, a big wages-list, and a dozen other things. So there was nothing for it but to cut down expenses in every way, and bring you home to help.”
“We’re jolly glad you did,” said the twins.