nd Gerrard bent down and
kissed her. "I'll try and cure Bunny for you. I know a heap of things
about native bears and ticks, and know exactly what to do."

The child smiled delightedly into his face,* "Oh! Uncle Tom, you are as
kind as Uncle Westonley, good-night."

"Good-night, little woman," and then the man laid himself down upon the
sandy ground beside her, with a certain resolve in his mind.

At six o'clock in the morning, he rode up to Marumbah Station with
little Mary held in front of him. Mrs Westonley, pale-faced, austere,
and much agitated, met him as he dismounted.

"Oh, dear, Thomas! Just fancy _you_ finding the child and bringing her
home! I sent out Toby, the black boy, to look for her, and I suppose he
is looking for her still--the naughty----"

"That's all right, Lizzie, don't get into a fluster," said Gerrard
placidly, as he dismounted and kissed his sister, "Toby _did_ find
her--that is, he found her and me comfortably camped for the night. He's
coming along presently with my packhorse."

Mrs Westonley turned angrily upon the child, and was about to deliver
a lecture, when her brother placed his hand upon her arm and drew her
aside.

"Look here, Lizzie, I'm your guest, and I'm also your brother; but
if you bully that unfortunate youngster, I'll just get into my saddle
again, and ride off without putting my foot over your threshold."

Mrs Westonley's pale, clear-cut face flushed deeply. "I never expected
such a remark as this from you, Thomas."

"And I never expected that you would have treated your own sister's
child as you have done," was the stern reply; "I found her five miles
from here, wandering alone. Have you no love or sympathy in your heart,
or compassion for children, because you have none yourself?" and the
grey eyes flashed.

Mrs Westonley gazed at him in astonishment, and twined her hands
together in mingled anger and fear that this brother--fifteen years
younger than herself--should so dare to speak to _her_.

"The child is a great trial----"

"Aye, an 'incubus,' you call her, the poor little mite. But I hardly
thought you read novels."

"_I_ read novels! _Never!_ What do you mean?"

Gerrard drew her inside the house, and patted her cheek, ready to
forgive.

"Oh, I did read a book somewhere about a stepmother or an aunt or
something of the kind, who was always talking about some unfortunate
child committed to her care, as an 'incubus.' Now, that's all I have
to say. I