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Turner, Ethel Sybil, 1872-1958

"Seven Little Australians"

It
creaked ominously as he reached the top step and crawled
through into the loft.
There were a ham-bone, a box of dominoes, and a burst pillow this
side of the partition, nothing else, so he walked across and
looked over.
"Very cosy," he murmured, "I shouldn't mind camping here myself
for a little time," and it even came into his head to do so, and be
there as a "surprise party" when Judy returned. But he dismissed the
idea as hardly compatible with dignity. He remembered hearing
rumours of missing furniture in the house, and almost a smile came
into his eyes as he saw the little old table with the spirit-lamp and
teapot thereon, the bed-clothing and washing-basin. But a stern
look succeeded it. Were seventy-seven miles not sufficient obstacle
to Judy's mischievous plans? How did she dare thus to defy him, a
child of thirteen: and he her father? His lips compressed
ominously, and he went down again and strode heavily back to the
house.
"Esther!" he called, in a vibrating voice at the foot of the
stairs.
And "Coming, dear--half a minute," floated down in response.
Half a minute passed ten times, and then she came, the beautiful young
mother with her laughing-faced wee son in her arms.


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