"Why, what's the matter, old chap?" asked Bob in a kindly voice.

"You're as limp as if all the starch had been boiled out of you.

Come along if you want to, of course. Peter can come another time, if it's afraid of being selfish that you are."

"But it isn't that," Eustace said with difficulty. "I mean I can't.

You see, father is going away, and I couldn't leave mother."

Bob darted a quick look at Mr. Orban.

"Are you really going away?" he asked--"any distance, I mean?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Mr. Orban said gravely. "I have to be away about a fortnight or three weeks. I go the day after to-morrow."

Bob looked serious.

"Oh, I say," he said, "I'm sorry."

To Nesta, standing there in the sunshine, with a great big pleasure ahead of her, the words conveyed nothing beyond a civil sympathy with the annoyance it must be to Mr. Orban to have to go away on business. To Eustace, who must stay behind, there was something underlying those few words that brought back all the fears of the day before.

"It is a nuisance, but it can't be helped," Mr. Orban said; "business won't wait."

"I am sorry," repeated Bob, with that same strange solemnity, "because I can't offer to come and stay here while you are away.

Father is going away too, and of course I couldn't leave the mater and Trix. If only it hadn't happened just now--"

"It is very good of you to think of it, Bob," said Mrs. Orban, "but of course we shall be perfectly safe. I think I would rather you took Peter, though," she added in a lower tone. "Eustace is more companionable. I can spare one of the twins, but not both at once."

"Of course," agreed Bob.

He was strangely unlike his usual cheerful self, but he roused himself, as every one seemed to be looking at him, and added, "Could the children be ready to go back with me soon?"

"Stay till the heat is over, and drive home in the cool with them,"

suggested Mr. Orban. "I'll say good-bye for the present; I'm due at the plantation."

Eustace was left alone with Bob, for the others went with their mother to watch her preparations for their departure.

"Well, old man," questioned Bob from the depths of a cane chair, where he had flung himself for a quiet smoke, "what's up?"

Eustace stood staring at him.

"I say," he said with some difficulty, "it's beastly about father going, isn't it?"

"Rather," said Bob carelessly. "Mrs. Orban will feel awfully dull."

"That isn't the worst of it," said the lad mysteriously.

"Really?" questioned Bob indifferently, as he packed his pipe with great apparent interest.

"You know it isn't, Bob," Eustace broke out desperately.

"Do I?" questioned Bob lazily, but with a shrewd glance at the thin, pale face before him. "Why, what's the trouble?"

"It's the black-fellows," Eustace said in a half whisper.

Bob raised his eyebrows a little, and was again attentive to his pipe.

"Indeed?" he said; "what about them?"

"They are all round us in the scrub; you never know where they are," Eustace said with a gulp.

"They always are, and one never does," said Bob lightly. "I don't see that it matters. Are you in a funk about them?"

The cool question brought crimson to Eustace's cheeks.

"No," he said st.u.r.dily, "but they are a fearfully low grade lot, and--and they have done some awful things in lonely places, out of revenge, on white people."

Bob looked up sharply.

"What do you know about it?" he asked in a voice that sounded almost stern.

"The servants--Kate and Mary--have told us stories," Eustace explained.

"Oh, they have, have they?" Bob positively snorted in indignation.

"Then they deserve to be sacked."

He was silent a long time, puffing out volumes of smoke, then he said suddenly,--

"Look here, Eustace, don't get stupid and frightened about the black-fellows. Your father has never done them any harm; they have nothing to revenge here, for he hasn't interfered with any of them."

"But Kate says that doesn't matter," Eustace said dismally. "She says they have a deadly hatred against all white people."

"Kate is an ignorant goose," growled Bob; "much she can know about it! Why, my father has had black-fellows in his employment for years, and they've been all right. Don't you listen to Kate's nonsense."

There was silence awhile, then Bob went on,--

"But I tell you what I'll do, if it will be any comfort to Mrs.

Orban. I'll come over nearly every day and hang about the place as if I were living here. How would that do?"

"I should like it, of course, and I believe mother would," said the boy slowly.

"Of course you would be all right anyhow," Bob said bracingly.

"Of course," repeated Eustace with less certainty, hesitated, then went on haltingly, "but supposing--of course I believe you, Bob--but just only supposing one night some black-fellows did turn up, what should you do?"

"I should shoot them," Bob said promptly.

"But if you were me?" questioned Eustace.

"Oh, if I were you," repeated Bob thoughtfully. "Well, of course, you wouldn't shoot them--they wouldn't be scared enough of a chap your size. On the whole, I think if I were you I should scoot down the hill as hard as I could go for Robertson, Farley, and Ashton.

They would soon settle matters."