He was very proud of the
"Merry Widow" waltz that had been sent to him from his uncle in England,
and kept repeating it until he was ordered off to bed. Presently, in the
darkness, Marcella found herself telling Mrs. Twist about the coming
child.
"Where are you making for, kid?" asked Mrs. Twist, who seemed sorry for
her.
"Anywhere. We were told there was a lot of clearing going on up here, so
I thought we might both get a job. I didn't want my baby born in the
city."
They talked no more that night, for Mr. Twist said it was bedtime. They
slept dreamlessly in their hammocks until five o'clock, when they were
wakened by Scot the collie who, planting his forepaws on each
window-sill barked furiously until he was answered by a shout from
within.
The sky was grey and sullen, the hot rain was still falling; grass
seemed to have sprung up from the sun-baked soil in the night and the
slant-set leaves of the five gums smiled as they slid big drops on to
their roots. The leaves of the wonga-vine that sheltered the rather
scanty beds of the food-garden looked riotously alive and green;
nasturtiums and sunflowers sent out by the uncle in England glowed like
little gold lamps seen through a fog.
Breakfast was a repetition of fried mutton and flapjacks and tea. As
soon as the children had cleared it away the smallest ones settled down
to write on slates long lines of pothooks and hangers.
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