Queensland Cousins.

by Eleanor Luisa Haverfield.

CHAPTER I.

HOME.

"It has come, it has come, it has come! Oh, do be quick, father!"

The cry rang out l.u.s.tily from three young voices, three eager heads were thrust over the veranda railings. Below, on horseback, was a big, brown-haired, brown-bearded man, who looked up from under his soft slouch hat with a laugh, and exclaimed,--

"What has come, you outrageously noisy youngsters? One would think I had a family of dingoes, to hear you."

Then another head appeared over the railings--a gentle-faced, fair-haired woman looked down.

"It is the parcel from home, Jack," she said. "Hadji brought it up an hour ago."

"Yes, yes, father; it is the parcel from England at last, and mother wouldn't open it till you came, so we have been waiting a whole hour--the longest hour I have ever lived."

Nesta Orban, to whom one of the first heads over the railing belonged, shook back her ma.s.ses of fair, fluffy hair with an impatient little toss.

"Stuff, Nesta; you always say that," exclaimed Eustace, her twin of fourteen. "You said it yesterday coming through the scrub because you were tired; and the day before when mother made you sew for an hour instead of reading; and the day before--"

"Oh, shut up!" Nesta retorted. "You needn't quote pages from my biography like that. Let's think about the parcel.--Hurry up, dad, darling."

This last she called after her father, for Mr. Orban had not stayed a second after his wife's explanation of the excitement.

"The parcel from home," he repeated, all the laughter dying out of his face, and he spurred his horse into a trot round the house towards the stable.

The heads all came back into the veranda, and there fell a hush of expectancy as every one listened for Mr. Orban's footsteps coming up through the house.

"La, la, la! look, Nesta. Dolly downside up; Becky done it," piped a little voice from the floor.

"Oh, do be quiet, Becky. Think about the parcel from England.

Perhaps there is something in it for you," said Nesta.

Mrs. Orban had seated herself again in a low wicker chair, and was busy sewing--patching a well-worn shirt with utmost patience.

"Don't be cross with Becky," she said gently. "She can't be expected at two years old to realize the meaning of a parcel from home. I don't believe you do yourself, Nesta. It is just a lot of nice things from England to you--only to father and me is it 'a parcel from home.'"

Nesta flushed a little and looked grave as she stood by the table fingering the string of the wonderful parcel. Such a lot of string there was, and so much sewing and writing! Whatever it might contain, at least the parcel looked interesting.

The owner of the third head that had looked over the veranda railing to shout the news was ten-year-old Peter. It always seemed to Nesta and Eustace that he was ever so much younger than they were--perhaps because he had been the baby for so many years, till Becky came.

"Mother," said Peter, setting himself right in front of her, and staring at her with wide blue eyes, "why don't you and father live in England when you want to so much?"

Peter was fair, and very like his mother and Nesta. Eustace and little Becky were the two who were like their father, brown-haired and brown-eyed. Peter had a delicate, sensitive face, and he was always wondering about things in a queer, dreamy sort of way.

"It is easier said than done, my little son," Mrs. Orban answered, bending low over her sewing that the child might not see the tears his question had brought to her eyes. "Father must work."

"But couldn't he work in England just as well as Queensland?" asked Peter.

"Unfortunately not," said his mother sadly. "Work is not easy to get in England, or anywhere for the matter of that."

Eustace caught the note of sadness in his mother's voice, and strolling behind Peter he gave him a kick on the ankle with all the air of its being accidental.

"Ow-wow-wow!" exclaimed Peter, hopping on one leg and holding on to the other. "You hurt me."

"Sorry," said Eustace carelessly, following him across the veranda.

"La, la, la! dolly upside downey," crooned Becky from the floor, where she sat deeply engaged in trying to make her boy doll stand on its head as she had seen Eustace do.

"Look here," said Eustace under cover of Becky's singing, "don't ask stupid questions, Peter. It always makes mother feel bad to talk about England--any silly could see that without being told, I should think."

But Peter looked surprised.

"Then you kicked me on purpose," he said, no louder than Eustace had spoken.

"Of course," said Eustace.

"What for?" demanded Peter, flushing hotly.

"To make you shut up, that's all," Eustace said coolly.

Peter dropped his injured leg and flung himself upon his brother with doubled fists.

"How dare you, you--you horrid boy!" he said chokily, for Peter's temper always sprang out like a sheet of flame up muslin curtains.

With a queer little smile, Eustace gripped his slender wrists, and held them so that the little chap could do nothing but wriggle about like an eel.

"Let me go, I say," he said; "let me go, I tell you. I won't be held like a baby."

He had about as much strength as a baby in Eustace's grip, for the elder boy was a well-built, square-shouldered fellow, and powerful for his age.

Mrs. Orban looked up at the commotion, and wondered what it could be all about so suddenly.

"As you are strong, be merciful, Eustace," she said quietly--that was all.

Eustace instantly let go, and Peter stood for a second staring down at the two red rings round his wrists, then, as Eustace turned unconcernedly away, dashed at his back and pommelled it.

"Go on," said Eustace with seeming carelessness, but the words were jerked out by the thumps; "my coat hasn't had a brushing for a week. Glad to get the dust out of it."

"Peter, Peter," said his mother warningly, "you surely don't want to be sent away before the parcel is opened, do you?"

This stopped Peter effectually; a minute later he had forgotten his grievance, which was also Peter's way.