t she
had quite a collection of fairy stories and poems of her own
composition. She and an exercise book, or a few scraps of paper and a
stumpy bit of pencil were to be seen sometimes in very close
companionship.

But for all that no one did see; or seeing, they did not understand.

Still Betty wrote her stories--not necessarily for publication like her
father--nor as a guarantee that the scribbling genius was within her,
like Dot--but for the love of story writing alone.

Her fairy story to-day had to do with the bold and handsome Waratah
which ran mad in the bush behind her home, towards Middle Harbour. Her
fertile fancy had suggested many roles for these flowers to take.

It occurred to her as she wrote that she had intended to write a poem
which should stir Cyril--not one of _her_ sort of poems, about streams
and flowers and dells and birds, but a dashing sort of poem, one that
would make Cyril say "By _Jup-i-ter_, Betty," and learn it off by heart
without any asking.

For a space she laid down her story, which began, "Once upon a time,"
and asked herself what there was that she could make a poem of for
Cyril.

"It must be something brave," she said. "A horse, a dog, a fire, a
man--a St. Bernard dog saving a boy--a soldier--I think a soldier would
suit Cyril!"

She stared through the bush to the red road consideringly, holding her
pencil ready to write. As she looked she became aware of a small figure
running along the road, and entering the bush track. It was Cyril, and
Cyril in woe. She could see that at a glance, and of course the first
thing she did was to throw down her paper and pencil and run to meet
him.

As she got nearer to him she saw tears were running down his face and
she heard, ever and anon as he ran, a great sob, half of anger and half
of fear, come bursting from his lips.

"Oh, my poor boy, whatever _is_ the matter?" she cried in her most
motherly way.

"The g-g-great big bully!" sobbed Cyril.

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Betty in distress.

"Oh the b-b-big bully. Let's get home."

"Big John Brown?" asked Betty, for only yesterday this same John Brown
had sent her small brother home weeping over a sore head.

"Yes, of course. He--he said he'd knock me into next year. Come on,
can't you?"

Betty was running by his side at quite a brisk trot to keep up with him.

"I--I hope you knocked him down," she said.

"He said grandfather isn't our grandfather at all."

"Oh!--and you _did_ giv