tell about l

Jacky wh

ell what the

eath; for Cousin Emmy always cried when she told i

or their morning walk, and

ry him about most of the night. The last time I walked him up and down he put his little arms round my neck and said: 'Ting, Memmy!'- he couldn't say 'sing' or 'Emmy' properly, you know"-

eously, none of the three being minded, often as they had heard

est nightgown, and he lay there looking like a big wax doll - with white flowers in his hands. And his little coffin was lined with white satin, and trimmed with the most BEAUTIFUL lace. . ." And here sure enough, at mention of her nur

talking; and it was about running away and Aunt Lizzie being most awfully furious. And then Cousin Emmy had come to stay with them. He was glad she h

It was the Reverend Mr. Angus. He wore a long black coat that reached below his knees and a white tie. He had a red curly beard and pink cheeks. (Just like a lady, thought Cuffy.

so much, and say "How pretty!" to, and "How kind of you, Cuffy!" Mr. Angus had a face like a cow; and when he spoke he made hissing noises through his teeth. The first time he heard them, Cuffy hadn't been able t

floated. You weren't allowed to look down this hole, not even if somebody held your hand . . . like Mr. Angus did Cousin Emmy's. (Why was he? She couldn't fall off a LOG.) It had a nasty smell,

running postman, and pulling snatches of the purple sarsaparilla that climbed the bushes and young trees, till he had a tight, close bunch in his hot little hand. As he picked, he sniffed the air, which smelt lovely . . . like honey. . . . Cousin Emmy said it was the wattle coming out. To feel it better he

from the shaft his courage all but failed him. What was he going to see? And ooh! . . . it DID smell. Laying his flowers on the ground, he went down on his hands and knees and crawled forward till he could just peep over. And then, why, what a

wriggle a little way back, but was still on all fours (squashing the flowers) when they found him, Mr. Angus panting and puffing with tears on his forehead, Cousin Emmy pressing her hand to her chest and saying, oh dear oh dear! Then Mr. Angus took him by the shoulder and shook him. Little boys w

hings go wrong, and ended with Cousin Emmy having to go back to live with

r parasol, Cuffy was hurried through the township. "Or p

em with fear to see Cousin Emmy so afraid, and t

ould have to send all the way to Melbourne. But it also leaked out that not a word wa

? Is it

ot looking after him better. How COULD he be so dishonourable, the first moment she wasn't watching, to go where he had been strictl

llen, guilt-laden little p

er. And she saw at once what had happened, and said: "Where's your hat? - LOST it? Your nic

uestion Cuffy dreaded most: "Pray, what were you doing there . . . by yourself?" In vain he shuffled and prevaricated, and told about the nosegay. Mamma just fixed her eyes on him, and it was no good; Mr. Angus had to come out. And now it was Cousin Emmy's turn. She went scarlet, but she a

rely the sound of them, though he didn't know what they were saying, threw Cuffy into a flutter. Retreating to the f

mines if they want to . . . he's very nice . . . Aunt Mary isn't fair!" Mary was saying: "I

dear - other people's childre

st awkward questions. And surely WE are not 'other people?' If Emmy can't look after her own little

ikely to ha

igh horse at once, and said it wasn't a very great crime to hav

ure that's t

n deceive me. They were to have held their tongues about this Angus meeting them on their walks . . . . Cuffy went as near as he coul

ertainly wo

the talk of the place. And what if she got herself into some entanglement or other while she's under our care? John's eldest da

uld be the same, and were it Cro

ia grumble at the washing! Besides, she's everlastingly titivating, dressing her hair or something. She does none of the jobs one expects from a nursery - governes

ritual experience, and one result of it might very well be to mature her . . . turn her into a woman who feels her power. It will probably be the same wherever she goes, with a face like hers. In her father's

it. She took to staying away an unconscionable time, and his wife must have got wind of it, she began to look so queerly at Emmy and to drop hints. Most uncomfortable. And then you've surely noticed how often old Thistlethwaite comes to see us now, compared with what he used to, and how he sits and stares at Emmy. He looks at her far too much, too, when he's preaching, and I've heard him pay her the most outrageous compliments. A clergyman and a widower, and old enough to be h

made no

NG, Richard? . .

, I

, perhaps you'll rouse yourself

's nothing for i

d t

he

ve them their lessons and their music-l

not teach them y

now, they need one person's undivided attent

ou must you must . . . a

in these words e

rd me utter a word of complaint. But I can't do more than I am d

ne thing I see is that you never hesit

you're satisfied with the practice, that the fees come in well and so on; and yet to get anything out of you nowadays is like drawing blood from a stone. I don't care a rap about m

a trace of understanding!"- And

e verandah, squeezed his ears u