enny a week to
stock the barrel in the kitchen with firewood and chips, and bits of
bark to coax contrary fires. He was the only one who received payment
for his work, and no one demurred, for was he not the only boy of the
family and in the eyes of them all a sort of king!

So Betty was dressed in working garb and was bestowing her usual
Saturday morning attention upon the "living-room"--drawing-room they had
none. The little room that had evidently been destined by its builder to
fulfil such a mission, had been seized and occupied by the author in the
beginning of his residence at The Gunyah.

The living-room was a low-ceiled room with French windows leading to the
verandah. It had a centre table, several cane chairs, a small piano, a
rocking-chair and a dilapidated sofa. Its floor was oilclothed and its
windows uncurtained--only Dorothea had arrived at the stage that sighed
for prettinesses.

Betty was quite happy when she had swept the floor, shaken the cloth,
put all the chairs with their backs to the wall, and polished the piano.

She was surveying the room with pride when Dorothea walked in. Dorothea
in the frock she had worn for five mornings during the week, and which
was still clean and fresh; with her wonderful hair in a shining mass
down her back, and a serviette in her hand (an extempore duster). It
always took her the better part of Saturday to even find her own niche
in the home.

"I was going to dust this room, Betty," she said--"someway, everything I
am going to do, I find you've done."

Elizabeth smiled drily. She could not even sweep a room and be just
Elizabeth Bruce. Saturdays usually found her in imagination Cinderella;
and consequently harsh words from Dorothea, who in her eyes was a cruel
step-sister, would have found more favour with her than kind ones.

"There is the kitchen to be swept," said Betty; "the ashes are thick on
the hearth and the breakfast things are not washed up."

Dorothea looked startled. Betty's voice sounded tired and resigned.

"Oh dear!" said Dorothea, "I do so _hate_ doing kitchen work. It makes
my hands so red and rough, and just spoils my dress."

"The work is there and must be done," remarked Betty.

Mrs. Bruce looked in at the door. Her face was just Dorothea's grown
older, and without its roses; her hair was Dorothea's with its gold
grown dull; her very voice and dimples were Dorothea's. A large
poppy-trimmed hat adorned her head, and a basket with an old