o 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