“Beyond the distant sky-line (Now pansy-blue and clear), We know a land is waiting, A brown land, very dear: A land of open spaces, Gaunt forest, treeless plain: And if we once have loved it We must come back again.” (Dorothea Mackellar.)
“Do the beastly old map yourself, if you want it. I shan't, anyhow!”
“Wilfred!”
“Aw, Wil-fred!” The boy at the end of the schoolroom table, red-haired, snub-nosed and defiant, mimicked the protesting tone. “I've done it once, and I'm blessed if I do it again.”
“No one would dream that it was ever meant for Africa.” The young teacher glanced at the scrawled and blotted map before her. “It—it doesn't look like anything earthly. You must do it again, Wilfred.”
“Don't you, Wilf.” Wilfred's sister leaned back in her chair, tilting it on its hind legs.
“You have nothing to do with Wilfred's work, Avice. Go on with your French.”
“Done it, thanks,” said Avice. “And I suppose I can speak to my own brother if I like.”
“No, you can't—in lesson time,” said the teacher.
“Who's going to stop me?”
Cecilia Rainham controlled herself with an effort.
“Bring me your work,” she said.
She went over the untidy French exercise with a quick eye. When she had finished it resembled a stormy sky—a groundwork of blue-black, blotted writing, lit by innumerable dashes of red. Cecilia put down her red pencil.
“It's hopeless, Avice. You haven't tried a bit. And you know it isn't hard—you