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Updated: May 18, 2025
Hassal had white tall palings put; the short grave was in the shady corner of it. The place looked like a tiny churchyard in a children's country where there had only been one death. Or a green fair field, with one little garden bed.
But for escorting his daughter to the ball, Mr. Hassal would have gone himself to the place and seen about it in person. As it was, he placed the great trolly in the charge of four men, with instructions to pick up a couple of men from distant huts to help in the task.
"Just up there where Pip is sitting," Mrs. Hassal said, "and he was helping Esther with the cake, because she was cutting it with his sword. Such a hole you made in the table-cloth, Esther, my very best damask one with the convolvulus leaves, but, of course, I've darned it dear, dear!" Baby had upset her coffee all over herself and her plate and Bunty, who was next door.
Hassal, leaving little grandma with Esther, the General, and Baby, and went over to the brick stables near. There were three or four buggies under cover, but no horses at all, they were farther afield. Across the paddock they went, and up the hill. Half a dozen answered Mr.
Hassal he was sure they would be late and miss it. Judy had pleaded hard to be allowed to go, but everyone said it was out of the question indeed, it was doubted if it were wise to allow Pip to face the danger that is inseparable with the drafting of the wilder kind of cattle that had been driven from great distances.
That was why a condition was attached to the freely granted picnic. Everyone might go, and go on the bullock-dray, but the picnic was to take place above the ravine, and no one was to venture down, on pain of being instantly packed back to Sydney. They all promised faithfully. Mrs. Hassal, tiny as she was, had a way of commanding implicit obedience.
Baby had never seen so much sugar together in her life before; she looked as if she would have liked to have been let loose in the great bin for an hour or two. And the currants! There was a big wooden box brim full about forty pounds, Mrs. Hassal thought when questioned. Bunty whipped up a handful and pocketed them when everyone was looking at the mountain of candles.
He watched them go over the grass at least he watched Meg in her cool, summer muslin and pale-blue belt, Meg in her shady chip hat, with the shining fluffy plait hanging to her waist. Judy's long black legs and crumpled cambric had no element of the picturesque in them. Mrs. Hassal unfastened the padlock of the store-room. Such a chorus of "ohs!" and "ahs!" there was from the children!
Hassal had laid aside her girlish accomplishments, her fancy work, her guitar, her water-colours, and had scrubbed and cooked and washed as many a settler's wife has done before, until the anxiously watched wool market had brought them better days.
"Dane, Macdonald, and Hassal know, too, but you will not ask them, and if you did they would not tell you." "I can refuse you nothing," said Winston with a laugh, though his voice betrayed him. "Still, I want a quid pro quo. Wait until Ferris's farm is in the sale list and then take it with the growing crop." "I could not. There are reasons," said the girl.
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