That night they talked, sitting out on the verandah, the black wall of the darkness in front of them, the fire-glow behind.  A hot, steaming rain had begun to fall, following on the wind of the dust-storm.  It dripped softly and gently, bringing no coolness with it.  Mr. Twist talked of the slices of bad luck that had bowed his shoulders, lined his face, and all but broken his spirit.  The two women talked softly.  Jerry, who, being almost a man, had been allowed to stay up, brought out his old gramophone.  Many notes were merely croaks; but “Oh, Dry those Tears” and “Rock of Ages” were quite recognizable.  He was very proud of the “Merry Widow” waltz that had been sent to him from his uncle in England, and kept repeating it until he was ordered off to bed.  Presently, in the darkness, Marcella found herself telling Mrs. Twist about the coming child.

“Where are you making for, kid?” asked Mrs. Twist, who seemed sorry for her.

“Anywhere.  We were told there was a lot of clearing going on up here, so I thought we might both get a job.  I didn’t want my baby born in the city.”

They talked no more that night, for Mr. Twist said it was bedtime.  They slept dreamlessly in their hammocks until five o’clock, when they were wakened by Scot the collie who, planting his forepaws on each window-sill barked furiously until he was answered by a shout from within.

The sky was grey and sullen, the hot rain was still falling; grass seemed to have sprung up from the sun-baked soil in the night and the slant-set leaves of the five gums smiled as they slid big drops on to their roots.  The leaves of the wonga-vine that sheltered the rather scanty beds of the food-garden looked riotously alive and green; nasturtiums and sunflowers sent out by the uncle in England glowed like little gold lamps seen through a fog.

Breakfast was a repetition of fried mutton and flapjacks and tea.  As soon as the children had cleared it away the smallest ones settled down to write on slates long lines of pothooks and hangers.  Two of the boys spelt words laboriously from ancient “readers,” and Jerry set out to look for the lost sheep again.  Marcella was packing her swag a little sadly.  She wished they could stay at Loose End.  Obviously it looked as though Loose End could not support its own family without the burden of another.  But Mr. Twist thought differently.

“What do you say to stopping here, ma?” he said, looking at Marcella through the trellis.  “I’ve been talking to your boss and he’s willing if you say the word.”

Marcella straightened herself up and looked at him.

“I’d like nothing better,” she told him simply.

“Right-o, then.  That’s settled,” he said, and they discussed details.  Rather shamefacedly he offered them five pounds a month and rations.  He said they were worth more, but he could not afford it.  If they liked to throw in their lot with his and try to make Loose End’s run of bad luck change, he would share the good when it came.  They accepted his offer without discussion.  Then he asked if they would live at the Homestead or in a shepherd’s hut about half a mile away, near the lake.