minds, for instance, or that you
didn't like England after all; but of course that couldn't be."

She spoke with such perfect certainty that the twins were dumb;
they could think of nothing to say.

"There really is rather a blessing in disguise in your going to
school at once, though I can't bear parting with you," Mrs. Orban
went on after a little silence. "I shall be quite close to you
while you are still feeling strange in your new life; I shall hear
all about everything from you by word of mouth in the holidays; and
I shall go away next year feeling content that you are settled
down, and likely to be nothing but a tiny bit mammy-sick at my
departure."

Eustace rubbed his head against her shoulder.

"More than a tiny bit, mummie," he said.

"We needn't think about that yet, though," said Mrs. Orban
cheerily; "it is a long way off, with plenty of lovely times
between. I only wish father had not to go so soon."

"How soon?" queried Nesta sharply.

"He says he must be off the end of this month," was the answer;
"that is why the school-going has had to be settled so hurriedly.
But he has a lovely dream for the future: before you have left
school he hopes to be able to come to England for good and settle
down here."

"How long would it be before that, mother?" Eustace asked.

"Oh, four or five years, perhaps," said Mrs. Orban.

"But shan't we ever go back to Australia again?" Nesta said with a
gulp.

"You won't want to, my dear, once you get used to England," said
her mother gently. "Of course it would not be possible for you to
come home all that distance for holidays, but you will soon learn
not to mind if you have our home-coming to look forward to. Now I
will tell you a little about the schools you are going to."

It was easy to listen with apparent interest to this, to put in a
question here and there and glean all the information possible. But
when the pair left the room Nesta suddenly gripped her brother's
arm.

"Eustace," she said huskily, "I--I can't bear it."

"You just must," said the boy sturdily. "I guess there is nothing
else to do."

The words were so hopeless that Nesta's tears began to fall thick
and fast, and he drew her almost roughly down the passage out of
earshot. They reached the picture gallery, and sat down in a deep
window-seat overlooking the front drive and the beautiful park
beyond. Here Nesta buried her face in her hands and fairly sobbed.
Eustace bore it for some secon