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,
who, being almost a man, had been allowed to stay up, brought out his
old gramophone. Many notes were merely croaks; but "Oh, Dry those Tears"
and "Rock of Ages" were quite recognizable.
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