The Getting of Wisdom

her knees, her chin in her hands. Her face wore the stiff expression that went by the name of “Laura’s sulks,” but her eyes were big, and as watchful as those of a scared animal. If Sarah came to fetch her she would hold on to the seat with both hands. But even if she had to yield to Sarah’s greater strength⁠—well, at least she was up and dressed. Not like the last time⁠—about a week ago Mother had tried this kind of thing. Then, she had been caught unawares. She had gone into Pin’s warm place, curious and unsuspecting, and thereupon Mother had begun to talk seriously to her, and not with her usual directness. She had reminded Laura that she was growing up apace and would soon be a woman; had told her that she must now begin to give up childish habits, and learn to behave in a modest and womanly way⁠—all disagreeable, disturbing things, which Laura did not in the least want to hear. When it became clear to her what it was about, she had thrown back the bedclothes and escaped from the room. And since then she had been careful never to be long alone with Mother.

But now half an hour went by and no one came to fetch her: her grim little face relaxed. She felt very hungry, too, and when at length she heard Pin calling, she jumped up and betrayed her hiding-place.

“Laura! Laura, where are you? Mother says to come to breakfast and not be silly. The coach’ll be here in an hour.”

Taking hands the sisters ran to the house.

In the passage, Sarah was busy roping a battered tin box. With their own hands the little boys had been allowed to paste on this a big sheet of notepaper, which bore, in Mother’s writing, the words:

Miss Laura Tweedle Rambotham
The Ladies’ College
Melbourne.

Mother herself was standing at the breakfast-table cutting sandwiches.

“Come and eat your breakfast, child,” was all she said at the moment. “The tea’s quite cold.”

Laura sat down and fell to with appetite, but also with a side-glance at the generous pile of bread and meat growing under Mother’s hands.

“I shall never eat all that,” she said ungraciously; it galled her still to be considered a greedy child with an insatiable stomach.

“I know better than you do what you’ll eat,” said Mother. “You’ll be hungry enough by this evening I can tell you, not getting any dinner.”

Pin’s face fell at this prospect. “Oh, mother, won’t she really get any dinner?” she asked: and to her soft little heart going to school began to seem one of the blackest experiences life held.

“Why, she’ll be in the train, stupid, ’ow can she?” said Sarah. “Do you think trains give you dinners?”

“Oh, mother, please cut ever such a lot!” begged Pin sniffing valiantly.

Laura began to feel somewhat moved herself at this solicitude, and choked down a lump in her throat with a gulp of tea. But when Pin had gone with Sarah to pick some nectarines, Mother’s face grew stern, and Laura’s emotion passed.

“I feel more troubled about you than I can say, Laura. I don’t know how you’ll ever get on in life⁠—you’re so disobedient and self-willed. It would serve you very well right, I’m sure, for not coming this morning, if I didn’t give you a penny of pocket-money to take to school.”

Laura had heard this threat before, and thought it wiser not to reply. Gobbling up the rest of her breakfast she slipped away.

With the other children at her heels she made a round of the garden, bidding goodbye to things and places. There were the two summerhouses in which she had played house; in which she had cooked and eaten and slept. There was the tall fir-tree with the rung-like branches by which she had been accustomed to climb to the very treetop; there was the wilderness of bamboo and cane where she had been Crusoe; the ancient, broadleaved cactus on which she had scratched their names and drawn their portraits; here, the high aloe that had such a mysterious charm for you, because you never knew when the hundred years might expire and the aloe burst into flower. Here again was the old fig tree with the rounded, polished boughs, from which, seated as in a cradle, she had played Juliet to Pin’s Romeo, and vice versa⁠—but oftenest Juliet: for though Laura greatly preferred to be the ardent lover at the foot, Pin was but a poor climber, and, as she clung trembling to her branch, needed so much prompting in her lines⁠—even then to repeat them with such feeble emphasis⁠—that Laura invariably lost patience with her and the love-scene ended in a squabble. Passing behind a wooden fence which was a tangle of passionflower, she opened the door of the fowl-house, and out strutted the mother-hen followed by her pretty brood. Laura had given each of the chicks a name, and she now took Napoleon and Garibaldi up in her hand and laid her cheek against their downy breasts, the younger children following her movements in respectful silence. Between the bars of the rabbit hutch she thrust enough greenstuff to last the two little occupants for days; and everywhere she went she was accompanied by a legless magpie, which, in spite of its infirmity, hopped cheerily and quickly on its stumps. Laura had rescued it and reared it; it followed her like a dog; and she was only less devoted to it than she had been to a native bear which died under her hands.

“Now listen, children,” she said as she rose from her knees before the hutch. “If you don’t look well after Maggy and the bunnies, I don’t know what I’ll do. The chicks’ll be all right. Sarah’ll take care of them, ’cause of the eggs. But Maggy and the bunnies don’t have eggs, and if they’re not fed, or if Frank treads on Maggy again, then they’ll die. Now if you let them die, I don’t