ere not enough knives
and forks to go round. He, being ten, was old and tactful; he cut up his
meat and ate a few swift mouthfuls frowning into quietness the nudging
and protesting brother at his side who wanted his innings with the
knife.

"We seem to be a bit short of usables," said Mrs. Twist, complacently
drinking tea out of a jampot. "It's all along of that bush-fire last
year, when we lost everything."

"We ought to have got out our pannikins," said Marcella, "but we were so
tired and hungry I couldn't think of anything but how nice it was to get
here."

"You can't think how glad I am to see you," said Mrs. Twist. "I haven't
seen a woman since little Millie was born two years ago."

There seemed a million things to talk about. When the last scrap of jam
was satisfactorily disposed of, the seven children scattered in seven
directions. Mrs. Twist and Marcella washed the dishes; Mr. Twist and
Louis smoked on the verandah. A great collie walked sedately into the
room and looked at the cleared table reproachfully. Betty appeared with
an air of magic and found him a plateful of food. The children seemed to
be attached to their mother by invisible wires. At one minute their
voices could be heard, shrieking and calling to each other. The next,
when she went along the verandah with Mrs. Twist, most of them were in
their hammocks, falling asleep.

"I wish they were a bit older," sighed the mother, at the door of their
room. Two merry voices giggled in the darkness.

"That makes you older, too," said Marcella softly.

"They're so many to feed, and there's only Jerry can do much to help
father yet. We've thirty acres of gorse to clear--and it seems
impossible to get at it. It ought to have been done two years ago, but
the Government have given us grace when we explained about the
bush-fire. We lost a thousand sheep then, you know. And the Homestead
was mostly burnt down."

They went along towards the men.

"It's a hard life," said Mrs. Twist uncomplainingly. "But the children
are well and happy."

That night they talked, sitting out on the verandah, the black wall of
the darkness in front of them, the fire-glow behind. A hot, steaming
rain had begun to fall, following on the wind of the dust-storm. It
dripped softly and gently, bringing no coolness with it. Mr. Twist
talked of the slices of bad luck that had bowed his shoulders, lined his
face, and all but broken his spirit. The two women talked softly. Jerry,
w