long intervals would stare silently into the darkness. Sometimes a string
of the vermin would hop past close to the fire, and another time a curlew
would come near and screech its ghostly wail, but he never noticed them.
Yet he seemed to be listening.

We mooched around from fire to fire, hour after hour, and when we wearied
of heaving fire-sticks at the enemy we sat on our heels and cursed the
wind, and the winter, and the night-birds alternately. It was a lonely,
wretched occupation.

Now and again Dad would leave his fire to ask us if we could hear a noise.
We could n't, except that of wallabies and mopokes. Then he would go back
and listen again. He was restless, and, somehow, his heart was n't in the
wallabies at all. Dave could n't make him out.

The night wore on. By-and-by there was a sharp rattle of wires, then a
rustling noise, and Sal appeared in the glare of the fire. "DAD!" she
said. That was all. Without a word, Dad bounced up and went back to the
house with her.

"Something's up!" Dave said, and, half-anxious, half-afraid, we gazed into
the fire and thought and thought. Then we stared, nervously, into the
night, and listened for Dad's return, but heard only the wind and the
mopoke.

At dawn he appeared again, with a broad smile on his face, and told us
that mother had got another baby--a fine little chap. Then we knew why
Mrs. Brown had been staying at our place.