FIVE LITTLE BUSH GIRLS.

Dedicated to the Memory of
My Dear Mother.
THE AUTHOR.

First Print, October, 1918.

“It’s about the hardest thing I ever tried.”

FIVE LITTLE
BUSH
GIRLS

BY
E. LEE RYAN,

Illustrated by Betty Paterson.

AUSTRALASIAN AUTHORS’ AGENCY,
237 COLLINS STREET, MELBOURNE.

This Book was Printed in Australia by
BRUCE & Co., 434 Bourke St.,
and the Blocks were made by
Patterson, Shugg & Co.,
21 Burns Lane,
Melbourne.

CONTENTS.

Chapter. Page. I. [THE CONSULTATION] 7 II. [“GILLGONG”] 20 III. [THE LETTER] 29 IV. [“TEDDO”] 36 V. [THE REPLY] 42 VI. [A SURPRISE] 51 VII. [FRANK] 61 VIII. [THE STORM] 67 IX. [ANTICIPATION] 71 X. [MOSMAN] 77 XI. [HOME AGAIN] 88 XII. [WILLIE] 95 XIII. [A SYNDICATE] 102 XIV. [LESSONS] 110 XV. [EILEEN’S RETURN] 118 XVI. [CONVERSATIONS] 126 XVII. [THE GOVERNESS] 133 XVIII. [THE SUBSCRIPTION] 141 XIX. [POETS] 154 XX. [GOOD-BYE TO “TEDDO”] 162 XXI. [INTERCESSION] 169 XXII. [A HERO] 175 XXIII. [LETTERS] 180 XXIV. [A NEW ARRIVAL] 186 XXV. [NEW PEOPLE] 193 XXVI. [SOME MERRY MEETINGS] 202 XXVII. [THE INVITATION] 209 XXVIII. [THE PARTY] 219 XXIX. [A WEEK ON THE RIVER] 225 [CONCLUSION] 234

CHAPTER I.
THE CONSULTATION.

“I’m just about sick of it all,” said Eileen.

“So am I,” murmured Mollie, almost under her breath.

“Me, too,” said Eva.

“An’ me, too,” agreed Doris. “I’m weal sick of it.”

“Me tick, too,” cried Baby, looking round at the disconsolate faces, and, putting two fat hands to her eyes, she cried lustily.

“Stop that, Baby,” cried Eileen, severely. “Stop at once.”

But Baby only cried the louder.

“Wait a bit, Baby. Here’s a nice piece of bread and jam,” said Mollie, and the cries ceased instantly.

“I’m goin’ to ask Mum to let’s all have bread and jam for tea,” said Doris. “I’m sick o’ old drippin’—weal sick!”

“So am I,” agreed Eileen. “Other people can have butter and jam together, while we’re scraping along with old dripping. I’m just sick of everything.”

“So am I.”

“And so am I.”

“And so am I.”

“And so am I.”

And then five very disconsolate little girls swung five pairs of very disconsolate legs vigorously as they sat in a row on the wooden verandah. At least, Baby tried to swing hers in unison with the others, but she only succeeded in giving a rather weak kick now and again, as she watched the other legs and tried to munch her bread and jam at the same time.

“Let’s count up all the bad luck we’ve had this year,” said Eileen.

“Oh, yes, let’s count,” they all cried excitedly, and instantly they sat erect, all except Baby, who still solemnly swung one leg and then the other, and hung tenaciously on to the last piece of crust.

“Go on, Eileen. Speak up.”

“First the two cows died, and one of the calves, and didn’t we have trouble with the other one?” she said with a sigh.

“And then the big horse died,” chimed in another.

“So it did, and then——”

“Old Star’s foal died,” said Mollie.

“So it did,” cried Eileen. “Old Star’s beautiful foal died.”

“Me want Tar’s foal,” cried Baby.

“Oh, stop that noise, Baby! You never let us have a nice quiet talk,” said Eileen. “What next?”

“The sheep got poisoned weed,” said Eva.

“And the dingoes came,” answered Doris.

“So they did,” cried Eileen, ticking off the events on her fingers. “That’s six. Can’t we make twelve?”

“Say that lot over again,” said Doris, “and we might think of more.” She sat down and prepared to enjoy herself listening to their bad luck.

“Yes,” answered Eileen, with hands in the air. “There’s the two cows and the calf—oh! by the way, I didn’t count the calf last time; that’s three, and the horse—that’s four; and old S-t-a-r-’s f-o-a-l” (spelling it aloud, so that Baby would not go into a fresh paroxysm of grief) “makes five, and there’s the poisoned weed and the dingoes. That makes seven. We nearly have twelve—we might think of more by night,” she went on hopefully.

“Oh! I know another—one you haven’t thought of—very near the biggest of them all,” shouted Doris.

“Oh! Doris, darling, tell us!”

“What about the haystack being burnt down?” she exclaimed triumphantly.

“Oh, yes!” they shouted; “very near the worst of all, because if the wind was blowing the other way and the house was a lot nearer the stack, it would have been burnt, too.”

“Fancy me thinkin’ of it, and you not, and me very near the youngest,” said Doris proudly, as she folded her hands complacently, with a look of self-satisfaction.

“That’s eight!” shrieked Eileen. “I knew more would come. We’ll get the twelve yet.”

“Oh, look at the beautiful sunset!” cried Eva. “Just like a big crimson lake!”

“Beautiful grandmother!” grumbled Eileen. “What’s the use of a beautiful sunset, I’d like to know? I’m just about sick of seeing the old sunset—the same old thing every day, with a few more colours dashed into it at times. I’ve seen enough sunsets to last me to the end of my days, after all the old droughty ones we’ve been seeing for months.”

“Were’s de tun-tet? Me want te tun-tet!” screamed Baby, as she clutched her fingers towards the paling pink sky.

“Yes, dearie, you’ll get it, too,” answered Eileen. “You’ll get tons of sunset if you keep on living here. You’ll get days and days and days of it, till you’ll wish the old sun would never rise again, so as you wouldn’t see him set again.”

Eva remained quietly watching the departing glory of the evening sky. Sometimes Eva got “fits of goodness,” as Eileen called them, and then she was “unbearable.” She sincerely hoped she was not going to get one now, and spoil their nice grumbling evening, for of all things that Eileen liked at times it was to grumble to her heart’s content, especially when she had an audience, so she plunged back to the theme before the “goodness” seized Eva.

“Well, we’ve counted eight. There must be more. Oh! yes—didn’t old Dave die?”

“So he did!” shouted Doris wildly. “Poor old Dave died, and didn’t Dadda have trouble fixing up about the funeral and lettin’ the policeman know, and all that?” and she folded her hands importantly again. “It’s a wonder we didn’t think of him first of all the troubles, being a man, you know. Say them all over again, Eileen, and we might think of more.”

Doris was enjoying herself thoroughly. She was five, and fat and chubby, and she swung her fat legs excitedly and held up her fat fingers to tick off the events.

“Well, cut them short this time,” said Eva, “and let’s get on to something else.”

“Indeed, it’s nice to talk about ’em,” answered Doris. “Two cows, calf, big horse, f-o-a-l, weed, dingoes, fire, and old Dave—nine bits of bad luck in one year!”

“What about Frank cutting his foot that time?” cried Eva, who was getting warmed up to the subject.

“Oh, what a bit of luck!” gurgled Doris. “Ten, ten——”

“Oh, yes!” cried Eileen. “Frank cutting his foot, and having stitches put in, and wasn’t he a cripple for weeks? That’s ten, sure enough. Fancy ten big accidents in one year, besides the drought and old hot sunsets, and dripping for butter, and long, lonely days when no one comes. I’m real sick of it all. I wish I was rich and had pretty clothes, and could travel about and have lots of fun. There’s Enid Davis, and she’s not a bit prettier or better than us, and she wears beautiful dresses and lovely silky stockings.” She extended her shapely leg. “Fancy that in one of Enid’s silks! Why, it would be a different leg.”

Then they all laughed merrily for a time, but discontent was in the air.

“I think Enid’s just lovely,” said Doris, with a sigh.

“We’d all be if we had pretty dresses like her, and no work to do. She has no right to be richer and happier than any of us. She happens to be lucky. I don’t know why ever there’s such a difference between people. If Enid wants a drive, she just has to call for the car. If we want one, it’s either the broken-down buggy, or the jolting sulky, or ‘Shanks.’ I think, if I were God, I’d have things fixed up differently.”

“Oh, Eileen, don’t say that!” said Mollie. “Don’t bring God’s name into it.”

Mollie was the eldest, and at times, for all her natural gaiety, felt her responsibilities.

“Now, don’t get sermony, Mollie. Let’s have a good straight-out talk sometimes. I do wonder why God doesn’t send rain, when the ground and all around is as black as the ace of spades.”

“I s’pose poor God’s busy,” said little Doris. “Goodness! we’re busy enough without havin’ the world to look after.”

“Yes,” put in Eva, eagerly. “Just think of all the big world He has to look after. I wonder He can manage it at all. There’s all the country and all Sydney, and all other towns, and all other parts of the world. Do you remember, when we were trying to learn geography, all the places we had to think of? To think He has to look after them all! I just don’t know how He manages at all.”

But Eileen’s shapely legs still swung vigorously to and fro, in silent protest.

“I wish we were all big men, and could go out and work and make money, and get real rich, and buy lovely homes, and—and—all that. And I wish Mamma would never have to work again, and that Frank could go away and get rich and—and—oh! anything different to this.”

They all looked up the long, white, dusty road that stood out clear and distinct in the gathering twilight, and for a time were very quiet, with rebellion in their hearts.

At last Mollie, with a bright light of resolve shining in her eyes, turned to them.

“Do you know what I’ve been thinking? I don’t know if I ought to tell you——”

“Oh, do, Mollie—do!” They all crowded round her. “Whatever is it?”

“It’s something I’ve been thinking over for three whole days.”

“Three whole days, Mollie? How ever did you manage not to tell us?”

“It’s a big plan—it might be too big, but—I think we ought to try. Come on, I’ll tell you!”

They all gathered together with big wonder-eyes and listened. And Mother, who had spent the afternoon down under the shade of the friendly bluegums on the creek, darning and patching, wondered what was keeping her little girlies so quiet up on the wooden verandah.

“You know, Dadda has a very rich brother somewhere in the world, and, of course, he’s our uncle. So, at that rate, we have a Rich Uncle!”

“A Rich Uncle,” they all murmured.

“A smart lot of good he is to us,” put in Eileen. “That’s the last we’ll hear of him.”

“Wait a bit,” went on Mollie. “I’ve been thinking we ought to write to him.”

“Write to him,” in chorus, “but we don’t know him!”

“That doesn’t matter. We’ll write to him.”

“Write to him,” repeated Eileen. “A lot of good that will do. I suppose he’d never answer the letter. Anyhow, where is he?”

“I don’t know. But I think we can find him.”

“How, Mollie—how?”

“Well, he travels a lot in Europe, but he’s in a big firm in Melbourne, and if we write there they’re sure to forward it on to him. But keep this a secret—a great big secret.”

“Oh, yes!” they all gasped.

“We’re all in it, you know. We’ll all sign our names.”

“Yes—oh, yes!” they all gasped again. “But how did you find him out, Mollie?”

“I heard Mamma and Dadda talking about him nearly a year ago. They had a Melbourne paper, with a lot about a big firm in it, and they said he pretty well owned it. Langdon and Ross is the name—Collins Street. And Mamma said what a very rich man he was, and then she sighed and said how different things were.”

“What a pity you didn’t think about the letter then,” sighed Eileen. “We might be rich to-day.”

“I think I must have thought something then,” said Mollie, slowly; “but it was only a few days ago, when I saw Mother looking so tired, that the letter flashed across my mind.”

“And I never knew Dadda had a brother,” said Eva.

“You knew you had an uncle somewhere,” put in Eileen.

“Yes, but I never thought of whose brother he was. You can know a lot of things without knowing much about them,” declared Eva, stoutly.

“Melbourne! That’s the capital of Victoria, isn’t it?”

“Oh, never mind what it is!” snapped Eileen. “Go on, Mollie.”

“The worst of it is,” went on Mollie, “he and Dadda have not been good friends since they were boys. Of course, they might not be real bad friends, but they quarrelled when they were young, and never write to each other at all, and I suppose he’s nearly forgotten he has a brother while he’s travelling all over the world.”

“Oh! dear, aren’t people a nuisance to go quarrelling, especially when one of them’s rich?” said Eileen. “I do wish he was friendly with us: he might help us. I don’t suppose Mamma and Dadda would take anything—it’d be too much like begging.”

“Well, we’ll just write from ourselves,” said Mollie. “From five little bush girls—his five little nieces that he doesn’t know—and we’ll all sign our own names.”

“Good! Grand! Splendid! Oh, Mollie, you’re a brick! Let’s start the letter straight away. Oh, Mollie! what’ll we say? I wonder when he’ll get it.”

“But I hope he don’t write and tell Dadda that his five little—little—what are we?—nieces, wrote to him,” said Eva.

“Oh, no! we’ll tell him not to,” declared Mollie. “It’ll be a hard letter to write; I’ve been thinking over it for the last three days.”

“Three days!” again murmured Eva. “I don’t know how you’ve thought of it for three days without telling us,” she said admiringly. “I’d have to have told us all straight away. Oh, Mollie, you’re real clever! I’d have never thought of our Rich Uncle.”

“Oh, Mollie, do let’s find him!” said little Doris; “let’s find him quick! He might bring us lollies and candy and—and dolls——”

“And nice dresses and books and pictures and—” said Eva.

“And pocket-money and trips,” put in Eileen.

“I hope he ain’t got poor before we find him,” said Doris.

“Oh!” There was a chorus of exclamations, while their faces clouded. “I hope not.”

“We don’t want any more poor ones in the family,” said Eileen, quickly.

“He’s not poor,” said Mollie. “We’ll all write and tell him about ourselves and the drought and the bad times, and how Dadda has to struggle——”

“Yes, how Dadda has to struggle,” repeated Eileen.

“And all about our losses—and about Mamma. What’ll we say about Mamma?”

“Say she’s a brick,” shouted Eileen, “and she’s always cheery and never gives in——”

“And she makes all our clothes,” said Doris.

“And we often know she’s real tired, and she keeps on sewing,” said Eva.

“And when I get a big woman I’m going to take care of her,” said Doris, quite carried away.

“Never mind when you’re a woman—we want help now,” said Eileen.

“And we’ll say she tries to make time to teach us,” said Mollie, “and bring us up nicely, and we’re afraid she’ll tire herself to death before we grow up, and we’d like him to write to us if he can spare the time.”

“Yes, spare the time,” repeated Eileen.

“And-and—we’d like him to come and see us——”

“Come and see us!” they repeated aghast. “Oh, Mollie! you’re not going to ask him over here, are you?”

“Yes. What else can we do?”

“But if he’s such a big, rich man, and travelled such a lot—oh, Mollie! our place won’t be grand enough, will it?”

“Yes, of course it will. It’s nice and clean, and we’ll all help to tidy it up and make things as nice as possible. And it’s the only thing to do—to ask him here, and let him see for himself how Mamma and Dadda have to work while he’s tripping round.”

“Yes, while he’s tripping round,” echoed Eva.

“He’ll have to be very hard-hearted if he sees us like this, and does not help us,” went on Mollie. “We’ll pay him back when we grow up. We don’t want to be common beggars, but we do want money now.”

“Oh, Mollie! and I never thought you used to think like this,” declared Eileen, in a low voice. “I never thought you wanted to be rich like I do——”

“It’s not for myself so much as others,” cried Mollie. “I’m not going to see Mother toiling from daylight to dark, and trying to keep nice and pleasant, and Father and Frank nearly too tired to talk when they come in of a night, and nothing but loneliness staring us in the face, when all the time we might be able to make things a little better. We’ll write that letter and post it by next mail,” she went on in a low voice. “Mother is going to see Mrs. Smith to-morrow, so we’ll write it then. But we must keep it a great big secret.”

“Well, this has been a wonderful evening,” said Eileen, “and I’m dying for to-morrow to come.”

“It’s been a wonderful, bootiful evenin’,” bubbled Doris, clasping her fat hands. “Bad luck and good together.”

“I hope it will be good luck,” said Mollie as she flew inside to set the table, for away across the distance she saw the men returning slowly from their day’s toil, while Eileen and Eva hurried off to feed the lambs, and the two toddlers trudged off to the creek to meet Mamma.

“If only we can manage it! If only we can manage it!” was the thought that filled Mollie’s mind as she hurried hither and thither from the kitchen to the dining-room. “If only Uncle gets that letter and comes straight away and fixes up things and gives us all a fresh start. If only we can manage it!”

Outside in the gathering darkness Eileen and Eva fed and petted the lambs while they laughed and talked, for a gleam of new hopes and anticipations had come to them.

Late that night, when darkness and silence had descended on the homestead, three pairs of bright eyes peered at the stars, while Mollie, Eileen and Eva talked over the wonderful letter that was to be posted by the next mail.

CHAPTER II.
GILLONG.

Up till the evening that they had “put their heads together” and planned that wonderful letter, the Hudsons had lived much the same lives as other little bush girls, although, on the whole, it was much quieter. Just at the present it was very dull on account of the drought, and also their one neighbour, with a big family, had sold out of “Wilga” Station, and gone further west, and that had put an end to the half-time school that had flourished for twelve months between the Hudsons and Jenkins. Now only a caretaker and his wife lived at Jenkin’s homestead, so the little girls were very short of playmates. Sometimes Enid Davies, from Myall, would call to see them, or they would pay a visit to her place, but as Enid was away so much they seldom could count on her.

“Besides, Enid is so rich,” Mollie would say sometimes, “although she is real nice, but I don’t like a lot of her friends.”

Already Mollie could feel the restraint of “class” in the air.

“Things are going from bad to worse,” Eileen would often grumble. “I do wish people with big families wouldn’t sell out. There should be a law to prevent it. We could have some fun and games when the Jenkins were near, and we did have some fun at school, even if it was a bit of a nuisance at times,” and then she would sigh as she thought of the little weather-board school-house, where their teacher—a bright, fresh-faced young man from the Department—had been so keen about studies and competitions and games.

It was with regret that they all bade him good-bye, although there had been days and days when they had all felt like throwing slates and books at him—days when they could not manage columns of figures or dictation or dates, and Eileen would wish the teacher “at the bottom of the sea,” or “at the end of the world” or any other far-off place.

But he had left with words of kindly encouragement, telling them not to forget their lessons, and to read and study, till such time as they could obtain another teacher; and for a while they had tried, but it was very hard to keep up anything without someone to supervise, as they all discovered, although Mother tried her best to teach them a little every day.

“What’s the good of learning old sums?” said Eileen. “We’ll never use them.”

“Oh, you never know!” Mother would say, hopefully.

“Yes, I know,” declared Eileen. “I’ll just live and die here, like I’m going on, and nothing will ever happen, and I’ll never want sums or nothing else.”

“You might get married and go away,” said Mollie.

“No, I won’t. If I do get married, I suppose it’ll be to some cockie about here, so I don’t want to know anything for that!”—emphatically.

“You mustn’t call them ‘cockies,’” said Mollie, severely. “They’re all selectors or lessees about here.”

“Well, whatever they are, I won’t marry any of them. I’ll die an old maid, or go right away and marry a rich man and have a motor-car.” Which showed that Eileen was not very consistent, and would say anything for argument’s sake.

Things had been going from bad to worse on the Hudsons’ selection for the past year. A run of bad luck seemed to have struck them, and sometimes after a long day of toil Mr. Hudson would sit far into the night, under the silent stars, smoking grimly, while he wondered how long he could stand it. Already he was deep in debt to the bank, and the loss of some valuable stock during the year had made things look blacker. He was of a hopeful nature, and determined to stick to his land through thick and thin till better times came. But to the children the good times seemed a very long while coming.

Mollie was fourteen, and had big, deep blue eyes and red-gold hair. She was bright and animated and fond of fun, and eagerly grasped any little brightness that came within her reach, and in her kind, tender way, eager to share it with others.

Eileen, with her big dark eyes and thick brown hair, was fond of luxury, only she never had a chance to gratify her wishes. Her greatest wish was to become “a fine lady,” with everything at her command.

Eva, with her nine years of experience, was somewhat old-fashioned. She desired very much to be clever, and “some day” meant to learn everything. Then came Doris and Baby, who never did much except play with dolls and sticks and tins and bottles.

A big fat porter bottle, with a red ribbon round its neck, was Doris’s pet “dog,” and she would tie a string to the ribbon and lead “him” everywhere. Although she had many favourites among her dolls, her special pet was “Rose,” a big rag doll, with a very dirty face and eyes like two “daubs of the blue-bag,” as Eileen often said. For all her dirty face and “blue-bag” eyes, she was taken everywhere, and even slept with her fond little mother. When the annual picnic was held in the little township Doris disgusted them all by rigging out Rose in the wax doll’s white muslin and pink ribbons, and carrying her to the picnic. It was a very dirty-faced Rose and a very draggled muslin frock that they found in the bottom of the buggy on their return, for, in the excitement of meeting new people, Doris had quite forgotten her treasure for the time being.

Then they had “stick” horses, which came in for a lot of care, and during the drought Doris daily placed little nose-bags, filled with sawdust (for chaff), on their heads, after she had dipped their heads into a pail of water. “’Cause the poor things are like ourselves, and get so thirsty,” she would murmur, as she ran backwards and forwards, attending to their wants.

“When God sends the rain, we’ll have nice green couch-grass for youse,” she would tell the sticks, as she laid them away for the night. There was Rattler and Robin and Tommie and Bally, and while Baby could only jog round the house on hers, Doris would scamper over the paddock.

Frank Lynton had lived with the Hudson family for the last five years. His mother had been Mr. Hudson’s favourite cousin, and on her death-bed she had given her son into his care.

“I know you will be good to him, Robert,” she had murmured. “You know, his father was a ne’er-do-well, but I’m sure my boy will not follow in his steps.”

So Frank became one of the family, and tried to settle down and do his very best, although as the years went on he knew that the land was not for him, and, try as he would, he could never build up any interest or eagerness in the work. This only made him try the harder to help and please “Uncle and Aunt,” as he always called them, for he had a great sense of gratitude, and he gave his fresh young strength and energies to help them in their needs, while all the time deep in his heart was an unsatisfied longing for something different.

“If only things would change for the better, and I could leave Uncle,” he would murmur, as he went about his work. “But I must not let them know—not yet awhile; but I’ll have to later on. I’m not going to waste my life doing things I hate.”

Then he would work grimly on, with determination on his young face. And no one at “Gillong” ever guessed the unsatisfied longings in the boy’s heart—no one but Mollie.

It came about in this way. It had been a very hot, trying day, and Frank had left home at five in the morning and returned at twilight, after mustering and drafting sheep the whole day long. He was utterly weary and worn out as he rode to the hayshed and pulled the saddle and bridle off his horse, and there Mollie met him.

“Oh, Frank! a man came down from Myall to say there’s a big draft there to-morrow. Travelling sheep were going through, and they didn’t give notice, and all the sheep are boxed, and they want you up, first light.”

“Oh, hang it all!” cried Frank, wrathfully. “I’ve been at it every day this week. It’s nothing but drafting from morning till night. I’m just about sick of the whole turn-out.”

“Yes, it is hard,” said Mollie, slowly.

“Hard! It’s deadly. A fellow might as well be dead as be tied up here, week after week, grinding his life away. I’m just sick of it.” And he threw himself on a big bale of hay.

“Oh, Frank! I’m so sorry,” said Mollie, softly.

“It’s no use being sorry, Mollie,” he answered, with a hard laugh. “A fellow has to go through it, I suppose—for a while, at any rate. But you don’t know how hard it is, Mollie, when a fellow hates the very thought of the work he’s tied to, and is always longing for something else he knows he’d be better at. What’s the use of throwing your life away in those paddocks, when there’s something else you’re dying to get at and know you’ll be a success at it? You know that there’s hundreds of people just fit for this kind of work, and could do it better than I can——”

“Oh, Frank! I am sorry; I always thought you didn’t like this,” said Mollie, “but you’re always so cheerful and so bright, and——”

“It’s the least I can do, Mollie, and I shouldn’t grumble now. I’d be a real cad if I were not grateful to you all. You mustn’t think I’m not grateful.”

“I know you are,” answered Mollie, warmly, “and I’d like you to tell me more,” she went on, hesitatingly, “if—if you would.”

For the first time in his life Frank poured out his heart and told her all his dreams and wishes.

“And I’m saving up for it this ever so long. And you know, Mollie,” he concluded, “my father was a ne’er-do-well, and if I go on up here without my heart in my work I suppose people will put me down the same, and all the time I’m out of my sphere. I’m sixteen now, Mollie, and it’s time I was at it; but here I am, and there seems no chance. Look here,” he cried, “as soon as we get rain and things are a little better I’ll tell Uncle all about it.”

The stars had come out one by one as they talked, and now the sky was a mass of flickering points, as Mollie, with a sad heart, gazed into the twinkling depths, wondering what on earth she could do to help her loved Frank, and suddenly there flashed into her mind the thought of that wonderful letter.

Yes, that would be it! She would write to that rich uncle that she knew so little of. He was rich, and he might help Frank. He might help them all. But she must never let Frank know—Frank, nor Mother, nor Father. Surely it would not be wrong to write on the quiet for a good cause like this. For three days she had thought and thought and worried, before she told her sisters of her plan.

“I’m glad you’ve told me all this, Frank, and I think you’re—you’re splendid,” cried Mollie, dashing away the tears; “and I only wish I could do something for you. You’ll have to keep on hoping and wishing, and some day something good may happen.”

“Yes, some day,” echoed Frank. “I hope so. But we’d better go in to tea, Mollie,” he said, cheerfully, “and then I’m going to bed early, to get ready for a big day to-morrow.”

Frank never knew that, long after he was asleep, Mollie went to his box and carefully examined his clothes, noting all the patched and darned shirts and socks, and wondering if he could make those last until he could go away.

“If only he could go before he has to get any more new clothes, and then he could get a nice new supply for his studies,” thought Mollie with shining eyes. “Oh, I do hope that I can manage to fix up things!”

Frank slept calmly on—the sleep of the tired, never dreaming that any factors were at work to bring him nearer his heart’s desire.

CHAPTER III.
THE LETTER.

“Whatever shall we say?”

They had been trying for the last three hours, and were getting quite out of patience.

“Go on, Mollie, have another try.”

“‘My dear Uncle’—no, we can’t put ‘my,’ because he’s ‘ours,’” said Mollie, crossing out the “my.” “Just—‘Dear Uncle Henry.’”

“He mightn’t like ‘Henry,’” suggested Eva.

“No, he might rather be called Harry,” said Eileen. “Let’s leave his name out.”

“All right. Just ‘Dear Uncle’——”

“He mightn’t know it’s for him if you just put that,” cried Doris, and then they all laughed.

“All right, just ‘Dear Uncle,—You will no doubt be astonished to hear from us’——”

“No, from the five undersigned,” put in Eileen. “It’s more business-like.”

“All right—‘from the five undersigned. No doubt you do not know that you have five little nieces away up in the bush in New South Wales——’”

“Australia,” put in Eva.

“We don’t want Australia,” cried Eileen in disgust. “Yes, ‘New South Wales.’ Go on, Mollie.”

“Let me see—‘and we would very much like to meet you. We have no idea where you are now, but hope this letter will reach you.’”

“Yes, that’s right!”

“‘We live up here in the bush, and have a very quiet time’—quiet time,” she repeated, tapping her pencil.

“‘And we’re poor,’” put in Doris, “‘and would like some money.’”

“No, we can’t put it that way.”

“Well, hurry up, then, and ask for the money.”

“We’re not asking for money,” said Mollie, severely. “We’re going to ask him to come and see us, and then——”

“And then we’re hoping he’ll give us some,” cried Eva.

“No!” cried Eileen, excitedly. “We’ll trust to his generosity——”

“Oh, yes! put in ‘generosity’—it sounds so well,” said Eva.

“‘For some years Father has had very hard times,’” went on Mollie, “‘and we’re all struggling’——”

“‘But things get no better,’” blurted out Eileen, “‘worse—if anything.’”

“‘All struggling,’” went on Mollie, “‘but things are still very black.’”

“‘And there don’t seem a chance of a silver lining,’” chimed in Eva.

“Silver lining, be hanged!” said Eileen. “He’s the only hope we’ve got of a silver lining.”

“‘And as we’ve heard, Uncle, that you are very, very wealthy’——perhaps I ought to say ‘we’ve heard by accident,’” said Mollie, perplexedly; “you see, he might think Father and Mother are always talking about him if I don’t.”

“Yes, ‘by accident,’” agreed Eileen.

“‘By accident, that you are very wealthy; we’ve been hoping to meet you and tell you all our troubles.’”

“Don’t forget about the foal and the fire and——”

“Oh, shut up, Doris!” snapped Eileen.

“‘And perhaps you can set matters right for us. We don’t want to beg, Uncle. We only ask you if you could give us a loan.’ We’ll have to mention money, girls,” said Mollie; “we can’t wait till he comes——‘perhaps you could give us a loan by helping Father and Mother (who work so hard), and when we grow up we’ll pay back every penny of it. We’re all strong and healthy and willing to work.’”

“‘And we’re as clever as most people,’” put in Eileen.

“Yes, ‘and we can assure you that we would be quite clever if we got a chance, and would be all willing to take up something to make money to pay you back, if you would only let us have a loan soon.’”

“Oh, Mollie, you are clever,” said Eva, “to write all that!”

“Yes, I’m pretty good at letters,” answered Mollie. “‘If possible, we would like you to come and see us.’”

“Tell him he can have the verandah room,” said Doris.

“‘And then you could decide for yourself if you would care to help us.’”

“Don’t forget to tell him not to tell Father and Mother that we wrote,” warned Eva.

“Oh, no!” they all cried.

“‘And now, Uncle, we have a big favour to ask of you. Don’t, please, let Mother and Father know we wrote to you, on any account, because they would be fearfully annoyed. It’s because they’re working so hard and try to do their best, and are so cheerful about all the bad times, that we’re writing to you.’”

“I think we ought to write another one all over again, and tell him right at the beginning it’s a secret,” said Eileen.

“Oh! do you think so?” asked Mollie, wearily. “I wonder ought we? I’m just about sick of it. It’s about the hardest thing I ever tried.”

“Oh, it’s sickening!” declared Doris.

“Ugh!” grunted Baby.

“I’ve scribbled about a hundred already, and we’re just as far off as when we started,” said Mollie. “I wish he’d ride up this very instant and save us all this trouble.” And she looked away and sighed. “Oh, well! I suppose we’ll only have to do it. We’ll have to stick at it till we do get something to suit.”

“Yes, we’ll have to have it ready for to-morrow’s mail,” said Eileen.

“Oh, yes, it has to be done! Let’s have another go.”

They had a great many “goes” before they managed one to satisfy them, but at last they all gathered round while Mollie read the last one out aloud, and they declared that would have to do.

Dear Uncle,—

No doubt you will be surprised to hear from us. We are your five little Bush Nieces. We live away up in the North-West of New South Wales, on a selection, in a wooden house on the bank of the Gillongi Creek, and our father is your brother Robert.

“Won’t that s’prise him?” chuckled Doris, clasping her fat hands.

Eileen gave her a withering look, to command silence.

Of course we are all strangers to you, but we would like very much to know you. We don’t know where you are now, but hope this letter will reach you, and we would like you to come and see us as soon as possible.

The five of us now have a very big secret to tell you, and we hope for our sakes you will keep it. Father and Mother don’t know we are writing to you, and we never want them to know, because they would be very, very much annoyed and angry, and might think that you will think that we are beggars. But we would not think of begging; only as we are very poor, and Mother and Father are always struggling and working hard, we are hoping that you might lend us some money, and we’ll pay back every penny of it when we grow up. We are all willing to work to make money, and if we get the chance we are sure we would be quite clever. But we would like to see you and talk to you, and as we heard by accident that you are very rich and travel a great deal, we hope that you will come up here very soon. Our house is only a wooden place, but it is very clean, and we’ll all do our very best to make you happy; but we do hope that you will keep our secret.

We have a very lonely life up here. I suppose you don’t know what loneliness is, as you are so rich and travel so much; but if you woke up day after day and saw only the hot sunshine and a few pet lambs and people working hard, and no one new and fresh to talk to, and the night comes on, and there’s another day gone, and nothing done.

If you think you would care to meet us when you read this letter, we would like you to write to us to the undermentioned address, and we’ll ask the mailman to give it into our hands, as we would not like to hurt Mother’s and Father’s feelings by letting them know we wrote; and we are sure you are clever enough to fix up a way of coming here without letting them know we asked you. If we can only talk to you, we are sure we can make you understand.

If you think you wouldn’t like to meet us, please burn this letter, and oblige,

Yours very faithfully,

Mollie Hudson, aged 14 years, blue eyes and goldeny hair.

Eileen Hudson, aged 12 years, dark eyes and hair.

Eva Hudson, aged 9 years, grey eyes and dark hair.

Doris Hudson, aged 5 years, blue eyes and fair hair.

Baby Hudson (X, her mark), aged 2 years, blue eyes and fair hair.

PS.—We give you a description of ourselves, as it might interest you.

P.S.—PLEASE KEEP OUR SECRET. M.H. E.H. E.H. D.H. B.H. (X)

Address: Misses Hudson,

“Gillong,”

Bragan Junction,

N.W. Line,

N.S.W.

P.S.—The above address will always find us. M., E., E., D., and B. Hudson.

To H. Hudson, Esq.,

C/o the Firm of

Langdon & Ross,

Collins Street,

Melbourne,

Victoria.

Private,

Confidential

&

Urgent.

Important.

“That ought to be plain enough,” said Mollie, anxiously. “He ought to understand just what we mean.”

“Understand? Of course he’ll understand! He ought to go and bury himself if he doesn’t,” declared Eileen, vehemently. “Why, a man with one eye and a wooden leg would understand that. I’m glad it’s over,” she went on; “it’s the hardest bit of work I ever tackled!”

CHAPTER IV.
“TEDDO.”

And now the trouble was to square Ted, the mailman. He jogged up about four o’clock the next day, with his packhorse and mailbags, and the girls hovered round while he had a cup of tea and told all the news. Strange to say, Ted seemed to stay longer than ever that day, and Mother would persist in talking to him and asking him questions, and Mollie and Eileen were nearly distracted. There was no chance of giving him the letter while Mother was there, so they tried to get Ted away out to his horses.

“My word, your horses look well, Ted! You must feed them very well,” said Eileen.

“Yes, a mailman wants good horses,” he answered, well pleased. “That’s one thing about me, I always look after my nags. Why, I’d rather go short myself than see ’em hungry!”

“Fancy!” said Mollie.

“Yes, as long as Ted’s on the line, you’ll never see poor mail horses. I couldn’t be like some of them other chaps you see knocking round, with horses like bags of bones; I always say the gee-gees first.”

“Fancy!” said Mollie again, not taking a bit of interest in Ted’s rambling.

“Do you remember old Dave, Mrs., that used to run this mail last year? Why, he was always eight or ten hours late. Recollect?”

“Yes, indeed, I do,” said Mother, coming out to view Ted’s wonderful “nags,” much to the little girls’ disgust, for another day she would not bother.

“We’ll never get it away,” whispered Eileen.

“Let’s have a stroll,” said Mollie, as she saw Ted drawing out pipe and tobacco, preparatory to filling his pipe before he continued his journey. So the two of them strolled round the “bend,” to wait till Ted came along.

“Of all the bad luck,” grumbled Mollie. “Another day Mother wouldn’t see Ted at all, and we could have just given him the letter without any trouble.”

“It’s always the way,” sighed Eileen.

Then they heard the welcome thud of horses’ hoofs and the clink of harness and buckles as Ted appeared.

“Oh, Ted! here’s a letter we want you to post, please,” cried Mollie, “and here’s a penny for the stamp; and, Ted, don’t tell anyone at home about this, please—because—because it’s a secret, and if a reply comes, Ted——”

“Hello! what’s the game?” asked Ted, suspiciously.

“No ‘game’ at all,” said Eileen, indignantly. “It’s a business letter.”

“It’s not a boy you’re writing to on the sly, is it?” asked Ted, with a wink.

“No, we don’t write to boys,” snapped Eileen. “It’s a very important letter, Ted, and there’s nothing wrong about it. It’s—it’s for a good cause.”

“Oh! a charity affair?” said Ted. “Righto, give’s it here. I’ll post him for you all right.”

“Oh! and, Ted, a reply might come, addressed to the Misses Hudson——”

“Mrs. Hudson—your Mother?”

“No, to the Miss Hudsons—us—you know. I suppose it will be M-i-s-s-e-s, so we want you to keep it back, and give it into my hands,” said Mollie.

“Righto! give it into your hands,” repeated Ted, as he pocketed the letter. “And when do you expect the blooming reply?”

“Oh, we don’t know, Ted! It might be a week, or it might be a month——”

Ted whistled. “Whey! Righto, I’ll watch for it, and give it into your hands when it does come. You can stake your life on Teddo!”

“Oh, thanks so much, Ted! I’m sure we can trust you. And, Ted, if you don’t mind, we’d like you to take this sixpence and have a drink with it—from the five of us, because we’re all in this letter.”

“Chase the ducks!” exclaimed Ted in surprise. “Keep your sixpence, little Missie, and thank you, all the same; you’re little bricks!”

“But we’d like you to take it, Ted; we would, really.”

“We’d love you to take it, Ted,” put in Eileen.

“Run away and play,” cried Ted. “If Teddo can’t do a favour without taking drinking silver, he ought to be shot! So long; you can trust your life with Teddo.”

For the shock-headed “Teddo” was a good-natured lad, and many a one “on the line” had reason to be grateful to him.

“Thank you so much, Teddy,” they all cried. “Thanks so much.”