It occurred to her as she wrote that she had intended to write a poem which should stir Cyril--not one of _her_ sort of poems, about streams and flowers and dells and birds, but a dashing sort of poem, one that would make Cyril say "By _Jup-i-ter_, Betty," and learn it off by heart without any asking.

For a s.p.a.ce she laid down her story, which began, "Once upon a time,"

and asked herself what there was that she could make a poem of for Cyril.

"It must be something brave," she said. "A horse, a dog, a fire, a man--a St. Bernard dog saving a boy--a soldier--I think a soldier would suit Cyril!"

She stared through the bush to the red road consideringly, holding her pencil ready to write. As she looked she became aware of a small figure running along the road, and entering the bush track. It was Cyril, and Cyril in woe. She could see that at a glance, and of course the first thing she did was to throw down her paper and pencil and run to meet him.

As she got nearer to him she saw tears were running down his face and she heard, ever and anon as he ran, a great sob, half of anger and half of fear, come bursting from his lips.

"Oh, my poor boy, whatever _is_ the matter?" she cried in her most motherly way.

"The g-g-great big bully!" sobbed Cyril.

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Betty in distress.

"Oh the b-b-big bully. Let's get home."

"Big John Brown?" asked Betty, for only yesterday this same John Brown had sent her small brother home weeping over a sore head.

"Yes, of course. He--he said he'd knock me into next year. Come on, can't you?"

Betty was running by his side at quite a brisk trot to keep up with him.

"I--I hope you knocked him down," she said.

"He said grandfather isn't our grandfather at all."

"Oh!--and you _did_ give him a black eye Cywil dear?" asked Betty eagerly. Her "r's" had a way of rolling themselves into "w's" whenever she was excited.

They were at the wicket-gate now, and Cyril slackened his speed, and looked over his shoulder. No one was in sight.

"Oh, I will do!" he said boldly. "I told him no Bruce was afraid!"

"That's right," said Betty eagerly. "That's right Cywil. No Bruce is afraid. But you did knock him down, didn't you."

Cyril hesitated--then his trouble broke from him in a burst. "We fight to-night down at our coral islands at seven," he said.

"Oh my bwave Cywil!" exclaimed Betty admiringly. "Oh, I am so glad--oh, I am so very glad!"

But Cyril looked doleful, and was lagging behind his small eager sister.

"I'm not so sure that he meant us to fight," he said. "He--he never asked me to."

"What did he say?"

"He only said something about a challenge and things."

"Oh," said Betty, eager again in a minute; "_if_ he said 'challenge' you _must_ fight. There's no get out."

"But I've hurt my leg."

"Oh never mind your leg--think of the honour of the Bruces!" said the fervent Betty, who regarded the family cognomen as something sacred and against which no breath of evil must be allowed to come.

"Honour of the Bruces be hanged, if I'm lame," said Cyril savagely.

A sense of foreboding swept over Betty as she followed Cyril into the house. Her imagination showed her willows and the "coral islands," and only John Brown--big square John Brown--there. She knew the story that would soon be all over the school--all over the neighbourhood--that Cyril had been _afraid_ to fight. Of course she, Betty, his own twin sister, knew there would not be a grain of truth in it. She knew he was shy and delicate, and had hurt his leg. But for all that, she wished eagerly that he were not shy and delicate, and did not always have some bodily ill when fighting time came. And more than one sob shook her, for she beheld the honour of the Bruces being trampled under John Brown's big boots.

She set the table and went about her usual household tasks in a very half-hearted way. Cyril would not look at her, and crept off to bed at six o'clock, complaining of the pain in his leg. Tea was over by then, and Betty, with her woeful look still on her face was helping "wash up"

in the kitchen.

Cyril in his bedroom turned down his stocking and examined the little blue bruise near his knee. That there was some outward and visible sign of his hurt he was very thankful. It raised his self-respect and brought tears of self-pity to his eyes, that Betty should have expected him to fight under such circ.u.mstances! So much did the sight of his wound upset him that he only went on one leg while undressing, though it must be confessed it was not always the same leg that did the hopping.

Presently, after he had been lying in bed for some little time and commiserating with himself over his sad fate, the door opened and Betty, with the wistfulness quite gone from her face, came in. And _such_ a Betty! Her brown hair was bundled away under one of Cyril's battered straw hats, and thankful indeed had she been that she had so little hair to bundle. She wore one of Cyril's sailor jackets, and a pair of his serge knickers, and few looking at her casually, would have insulted her with the supposition that she was a mere girl.

Her face was alight with eagerness as she besought her brother to "just _see_ if he'd know her!"

"It'll be almost dark when I get there," she said, "and he'll never _dweam_ I'm not you."

"But what'll you do when you get there?" asked Cyril, sitting up in bed; "perhaps a challenge _does_ mean a fight!"

"Fight him!" said Betty stoutly; "I've been wanting to ever since he went above me."

"You can't fight," said Cyril disgustedly. "You're only a girl."

Betty's face positively flamed with eagerness.

"Can't fight!" she said. "Why Fred Jones taught me. He says I've got the knack, but not _very_ much strength. Anyway, I fought that Barry kid the other day, _I_ can promise you!"

"But John Brown is three times as big as Ces Barry."

"I know!" she sighed dismally. "Anyway, it's better to be beaten than not to fight at all. And if you don't fight, they--they _might_ say you were afraid." Her face grew scarlet as she put the horrid thought into words.

When the door was shut, Cyril jumped out of bed to watch her go, and so occupied was he over _her_ danger, that he forget his own hurt and did not limp at all.

Up and down the garden paths his mother and father were walking, his mother's arm through his father's, and a happy peaceful look on her face. The thought ran through the boy's mind, how little grown up ones know of the troubles of childhood. Nancy was rolling with baby on the little lawn, singing--

"John, John, John, the grey goose is gone, The fox is away o'er the hill, Oh!"

and he thought how good it was to be a girl--a goose--a fox--anything but a boy!

Then he crept back to bed, covered up his head and began to cry. For he was afraid that Betty would be hurt--and once again had he hung back when he should have gone forward. And his heart told him that again he had been a coward.

Down by the willows John Brown was waiting. He had very much enjoyed issuing his "challenge" but he felt morally certain that it would not be accepted. He was therefore surprised when he saw his small adversary approaching him in the dusk.

Who shall say what fancies were running riot in his head! He was a squire going to punish a rash youth for trying to thrust himself into their family. He, his grandfather's grandson, was going to thrash a foolish boy for taking his grandfather's name in vain!

Meanwhile his little foe came on, over the rough sun-burnt gra.s.s, over a fallen tree through a small stretch of denser scrub, to the very sh.o.r.es of the "coral island sea." And the baby-moon chose the moment of their meeting to slip behind a cloud and leave the world in semi-darkness.