"Yes--listen!" said Miss Chase; and as another burst of thick-toned mirth reached them, "There--don't you hear that?"

Nesta rolled down into her pillow, and fairly shouted into it.

"What is the matter with the child?" asked Miss Chase in bewilderment.

"People!" gasped Nesta, as soon as she had any voice to speak with.

"Those aren't people; they're birds!"

"Birds!" said Miss Chase. "Impossible. You must be asleep still, or you didn't hear what I said."

"Yes, I did," Nesta replied. "You mean those funny fat chuckles and ha-ha's? Well, those are birds--the laughing jacka.s.ses. I can show them to you in a minute."

Out they both went on to the veranda, and in the fast-increasing light Nesta pointed out some trees below, on which sat groups of brightly-hued birds, not unlike kingfishers in appearance, but very much larger. They had without doubt the funniest faces Miss Chase had ever seen. Not only did they laugh aloud--they positively grinned, so comic was the expression of their wide beaks. She laughed herself till the tears ran down her cheeks, and Nesta put her head down on the veranda railing and wept with laughter too.

The sun was up now, there being practically no twilight either before sunrise or after sunset in North Queensland. The glory of the scene sobered Miss Chase, and she stood watching.

The glee of the birds was explained. They sat and laughed as they watched for their prey, then pounced down upon the unwary locusts or lizards they had marked, and returning to the tree, sat chuckling triumphantly over the capture before eating.

"It is really rather horrid of them, isn't it?" said Miss Chase.

But Nesta did not sympathize.

"n.o.body minds," she said, "especially about locusts being eaten--nasty things. When there is a plague of them it means ruin to father; they destroy every blade of sugar-cane."

Over the tree-tops in the valley below appeared a cloud of shimmering whiteness, moving swiftly round the base of the hill.

"What is that?" asked Miss Chase curiously.

"White c.o.c.katoos," said Nesta, with a yawn; "they're changing their feeding-ground--white c.o.c.katoos with bright yellow crests. But, I say, don't you think you had better go back to bed? You're looking awfully tired."

"Is that one for me and two for yourself?" said Miss Chase lightly.

"Personally, I would rather dress and go for a walk in the wood down there."

"I don't think you had better," Nesta said, shaking her head doubtfully. "We aren't allowed to go there alone. It is awfully easy to get lost; and then there are snakes and things. You might get into a mangrove swamp too--or you might meet black-fellows."

"Well, really," laughed Miss Chase, leading the way back to bed, "you don't give a very flattering description. Why, at home I'm often up at sunrise, out all by myself in the woods. You don't even meet poachers, for they take good care not to be seen."

"I think England must be splendid," sighed Nesta.

"I wonder if you would really think so," Miss Chase responded. "Mr.

Cochrane gave you a very dismal picture of it, remember."

"Oh, but Bob has never been there. Besides, he was only exaggerating, because he doesn't want us to go, you know."

Miss Chase gave such a graphic account at breakfast of her early morning experiences that every one at the table shouted with laughter. The jacka.s.ses were alluded to ever after as Aunt Dorothy's lunatics.

"To talk of serious things," said Mr. Orban, half way through the meal, "we shall have to be fearfully careful with the water. The second tank is almost empty, and I doubt its lasting till the rains come."

"That's bad," said Bob.

"Things are bad," said Mr. Orban. "I hope the rains will hurry up, or we shall have the cane catching fire. We should lose every bit of the crop if that happened."

"Dear me," said Miss Chase, "you seem to have fearful difficulties to contend with. Nesta was talking about locusts only this morning."

"Locusts will destroy the young crop," said Mr. Orban. "If it escapes them, fire may destroy the old. Too much rain and too little do equal damage. We've had a good many unprosperous years, with one thing and another."

"It looks grand burning," said Eustace.

"A sheet of flame, and your heart in the middle of it, never seems very grand to the man whose year's work and hope is being burnt under his very nose," said Mr. Orban.

The children had seldom seen their father look as worried as he did then. It seemed to Eustace there was trouble in the air.

"Can't you put out a fire in the cane once it begins?" asked Miss Chase with interest.

"No," was the answer; "you can only try to stop it spreading by cutting as wide a path as possible between the burning part and the sound. It takes all hands to do it, though, and some of the coolies can't be got to work for love or money. It is a nasty business when it happens."

Bob started off home early; not quite so early as he had meant to, because when his horse was brought round ready saddled, he found it had lamed itself somehow in the stable. He therefore borrowed a horse from Mr. Orban, and left his own to rest for a day or two.

Generally when Bob took his departure after a particularly jolly time there was a good deal of depression about. But to-day, with the arrival of Aunt Dorothy's boxes up the hill, low spirits disappeared as if by magic.

The contents of those boxes kept every one occupied the whole day.

What with the excitement and curiosity over the many presents--the clothes, useful things, and games stowed quaintly into the packing-cases together; what with every one's amus.e.m.e.nt over Miss Chase's frequent astonishment at the commonest things of their everyday life, time slipped cheerily away towards evening. The children never remembered such happiness in their quiet existence before, and Miss Chase felt half inclined to weep when she saw what simple things were joys to them.

"Herbert and Brenda would laugh at them if they saw them," she thought gravely.

Brenda's photograph was very much admired. She was a beautiful girl indeed, with a proudly-carried head, and just the suspicion of a scornful curve to her lips.

Nesta suppressed a sigh as she looked at her cousin's clothes, for Nesta loved pretty things. She let out little bursts of admiration that amused her aunt considerably.

"She looks a regular angel," Nesta said. "I never saw any one so lovely. Isn't she simply perfect, Aunt Dorothy?"

"She is a very nice girl," was all Miss Chase could be brought to admit.

"And she goes to school," murmured Nesta, gazing lingeringly at the lucky girl, who seemed to have everything heart could desire. "I just want to see her more than everything in the world."

"Perhaps you will some day," said Miss Chase, wondering silently how much of the compliment Brenda would return could she see a photograph of this rough-headed, ill-dressed little cousin of hers; for Brenda was particular--at least over her friends at school.

Eustace gazed silently at the portrait of Herbert. He had no word to say about the immaculately-dressed English boy, photographed in his best suit, his highest collar, and pet tie. At least he made no public comment; but when Nesta bothered him later for an opinion, he said shortly,--

"He looks an a.s.s."

"Oh, he doesn't," Nesta said warmly, ready to admire everything English.

"I think so," Eustace said imperturbably.

"Then you're a silly, jealous boy," said Nesta in fiery championship.

"Who wants to have clothes like Brenda?" was the instant retort, "and go to school like Brenda, and be just like Brenda? But I'm certain I don't want to look like Herbert anyway. He looks a stuck-up a.s.s."