o the best of her ability.
She intensely admired the beautiful elder sister in _The Mother of
Eight_, a book Mona had just lent to her.

The mother of eight was a girl of eighteen, who had promised her mother
on her death-bed to be a mother to all the little ones. Lovers had come
to her, imploring her to "make their lives," friends had put in their
claims, pleasures had beckoned; but the mother of eight had shaken her
beautiful head and stood there at her post until the eight were married
and settled in homes of their own, when the "mother" had suddenly died
of a broken heart.

This book formed the basis of Dorothea's day-dreams. She, too, was going
to be an "elder sister" and reform the home. In the flights of her
imagination she saw herself making Betty and Nancy new frocks, mending
Cyril's trousers, trimming her mother's hats, correcting her father's
manuscripts.

Wherever she looked she seemed to be wanted. A great place gaped in the
household, and it was for the elder sister to step in and fill it. And
Betty, wild madcap Betty, would want talking to, and training and
putting into the way in which she should go. And, of course, lovers
would come for Dot, but until Baby was well started in life she would
have none of them. And when she married, "a few silver threads would be
discernible in her golden hair, and there would be patient tired lines
at the corners of her mouth."

But it was only the first day after school now, and she had much to
think of. She was not going to commence the new order of things by being
an elder sister, although the home needed her sorely.

As things had fallen out, it was necessary, she found, to set duty aside
for a while.

She was invited to spend the end of December and the whole of January
with Alma Montague at Katoomba. They were to stay at the best hotel
there--Mrs. Montague, her sister Mrs. Stacey, Alma and Dot. Rooms had
already been engaged for the party (Alma's and Dot's adjoining each
other's), and all sorts of intoxicating details been settled.

Dot, indeed, spoke to her mother once about coming home to help,
instead of going away, but even if she had meant it--which must
be questioned--Mrs. Bruce was quite decided that she should go.

"It will do you good," she said, "and we don't need you at home at all.
Betty will be here--it will be holiday-time and she must help."

For February Dot had an invitation to Tasmania. In her wildest
imaginings she did not dream of acc