"You'll need to take this letter to Carlossie, Marcella. Jean is too
busy to-day. And ask about the postage to Australia. I believe it's only
a penny."

"Who do we know in Australia?" asked Marcella.

"Your mother's brother Philip. I've written to tell him you'll be coming
to him. He wrote when your mother died saying he would have you, but
your father refused then. I've told him you'll be coming shortly, so
we'll need to cable when we've looked up the boats and everything."

Marcella stared at her aunt in dead silence. She did not in the least
resent this way of disposing of her. She was used to it--she would have
disposed of herself in just the same high-handed fashion if it had
occurred to her. But she was stricken silent with inarticulate joy at
the prospect of going away--especially of going across the sea just as
far as possible without getting over the edge of the world.

"But do you think he'll have me?" she said tremulously when she could
speak again.

"He'll need to," said her aunt calmly.

"Anyway, if he doesn't someone else will," said Marcella casually. To
her hitherto the world had meant Lashnagar, Pitleathy and Carlossie.
She had never been as far as Edinburgh. She had lived in a world of
friends--a world that knew her, barefoot and hungry as she was, for the
last of the Lashcairns, a world that had open doors for her everywhere.
And Aunt Janet knew about as much of life outside the wall that held her
own smouldering personality as Marcella knew.