"But that would be leaving mother to face them alone," objected Eustace.

Bob stared solemnly for one moment, then broke into a laugh.

"Cheer up, old boy," he exclaimed; "you look as if you had a whole tribe at your heels this minute. Why, what has happened to you? I thought you had more spirit than to be scared by a pack of silly maids' stories."

The laugh was so genuine, the look in Bob's eyes so quizzical, that Eustace felt suddenly abashed, and as if he had been making a stupid fuss about nothing. With all his heart he wished he had not mentioned the subject to Bob--Bob whose opinion he valued above all others, except, perhaps, his own father's.

CHAPTER III.

THE BAREFOOT VISITOR.

When Mr. Orban came home to dinner he brought with him another excitement--the mail letters that Hadji ought to have brought with the parcel the day before.

To Bob Cochrane, whose parents were Australian born and bred, this meant nothing; but he was so intimate with the Orbans that he understood their feelings on the subject. He sat silently puffing at his pipe while Mr. and Mrs. Orban read their letters. Eustace, Nesta, and Peter had seized on some packets which they knew to contain English papers and magazines.

Suddenly Mrs. Orban gave a curious exclamation, and all eyes were turned questioningly upon her.

"Mother, mother, what is it?" cried Nesta, noting the colour flooding her mother's usually pale face.

"Any news, darling?" asked Mr. Orban.

"I should just think it is news," said Mrs. Orban unsteadily.

"Listen to this, Jack: 'Dorothy has been so very slow in her recovery from the terrible bout of typhoid she had in spring that the doctor advises a long sea voyage at once, and we have decided to send her out to you by the first boat available. We go up to London to-morrow to get her outfit.'"

"Aunt Dorothy!" yelled the children. "Aunt Dorothy coming here!"

It was a most surprising piece of news, almost incredibly so. The children had never seen any of their parents' people, as none of them had been over to Queensland. They knew them only by name and the oft-repeated tales of childhood, which were their favourite stories of all Mr. and Mrs. Orban told.

This was their mother's unmarried sister, Dorothy Chase, who lived with her father and mother in Herefordshire, in the "old home" the children knew so well by hearsay, and longed so much to see. Some one coming out from England was next best to going home, and the news produced the wildest commotion of questions and suggestions.

"When will she come, mother? When can she be here?" came in chorus.

"Well, I am sure I don't know," Mrs. Orban said; "but it seems to me she will not be very far behind this letter."

"Not more than a fortnight, I should think," said Mr. Orban. "You see they are hurrying her off."

"O mummie, this is exciting!" Nesta exclaimed. "Do tell us how old Aunt Dorothy is!"

"Just twenty-three. She was a little child when I last saw her, and I can never picture her grown up."

"Twenty-three is a decent age for girls," said Eustace.

"Out of a vast and varied experience speaks Sir Eustace," laughed Bob--and Eustace reddened.

"Twenty-three," said Mr. Orban. "Fancy little Dot twenty-three!

There'll be a big change in her."

"There must be a big change in every one, Jack," Mrs. Orban sighed.

"What wouldn't I give to see them all!"

"The next thing we shall hear," remarked Bob solemnly, "is that you will be clearing out to England--the whole lot of you. I don't think I like the idea of Miss Dorothy coming at all. She will bewitch you, and off you will all go."

"No such luck," cried Nesta impulsively.

"Alas! an impossibility," said Mrs. Orban.

Mr. Orban said nothing, but looked very grave.

These few words, however, could only shadow the great excitement a moment. Mrs. Orban returned to her letter, and read interesting little sc.r.a.ps from time to time, such as "'I am cudgelling my brains in the hurry to think of everything I can send you--it is such a grand opportunity--I wish I had time to get a list of wants from you--but I dare say nothing will come amiss. Frocks for the girls and yourself, of course--'"

"Darling gran!" cried Nesta.

"Then I needn't get the duster stuff," said Mr. Orban.

"No, none of the clothes," said Mrs. Orban. "I know what grannie is when she gets a chance to send a box."

Nesta and Peter went off in high spirits with Bob later in the day, Nesta exacting many promises that should Aunt Dorothy by some miracle appear before she was expected, Mrs. Orban would send for the children back.

Eustace let the party go without a pang; he was actually glad not to be going. So taken up was he with the new idea that he even forgot his fear lest he had made a bad impression on the great Bob.

There was so much to be thought of in the preparations for Miss Chase's arrival that even Mr. Orban's departure two mornings later left no one depressed. Up to the last Mrs. Orban was wondering whether there was anything she could think of that could be brought from Brisbane for their visitor's greater comfort.

"She will be used to such a different life," Mrs. Orban said. "I do hope she won't mind roughing it."

"Not she," said Mr. Orban heartily. "She will like it all the better if we make no changes for her, but just let her see life as we live it. After all, it is only for a time with her."

"Well, my darling old man," said Mrs. Orban gaily that evening, as she and Eustace sat alone at late dinner, "how does it feel to be 'man of the house'? Do you feel a great burden of responsibility as mummie's guardian and protector?"

"I don't know, mummie," said Eustace.

He was looking very grave, for now that the lamps were lighted and it was dusk outside everything felt different again.

The veranda ran round the entire house; only on one side was there a flight of steps down to the ground. The drawing-room opened out on to the other side of the house, facing the sea. It was here Mrs.

Orban and Eustace went after dinner, for the day had been exhaustingly hot, and now a slight breeze blew landwards.

But for the rustling of leaves and a distant murmur from the plantation, the night was very still. As she meant to go to bed so early, Mrs. Orban did not have lamps brought out on to the veranda; she and Eustace sat close together in the gloom, their only light a faint golden streak from the drawing-room.

Becky had been in bed a long time, and was fast asleep. For a while they could hear the servants clearing away the dinner; then there was silence even in that quarter, and they knew that Mary and Kate had gone to bed.

"We ought to be going too, I think, my man," Mrs. Orban said softly.

Eustace slipped down on to a stool at her feet and rested his head against her knee.