There were many sorts to choose from, but all seemed very dear, they thought, for money was very scarce. That friend whom they had told had lent Hen enough to get out to the Palmer.
"I want you to have a comfortable pillow, Hen. What does it matter—a few shillings—and it will be so much better. Flock gets into such horrid lumps—and it's so hot and study—horse-hair will keep you cool."
"How much are these horse-hair pillows" asked Hen.
"A guinea, sir."
Hen looked up and drew a quick breath.
Chicken sighed.
"That settles it! Flock—three and six—will do for me."
Chicken turned away and seemed very interested in an advertisement of somebody's soap. When she thought no one noticed, she quickly brushed her cheek with her handkerchief. She had a horse-hair pillow at home.
But Hen-mother had seen. hen they left the "Stores," he chaffed about feather pillows and such luxuries, and told her that a clean sheet of Stringy-bark with a saddle for a pillow made as comfortable a bed as anyone could possibly want in the bush.
He was going back again—after twenty years—to look for gold. It seemed a wild idea, a hopeless sort of scheme, this going out to Australia, but they had talked it over and thrashed it out and is seemed best. And so one day he came up in the morning for the last time. It was ten o'clock, and his ship was to sail from the Albert Dock at twelve.
For the first time in twelve years they were parted.
On the ship he commenced a diary and the opening words were: January 18, 1900. The most miserable day of my life.
