Эрнест Хорнунг - A Bride from The Bush

"But, long before that, you must come out and see us . Don't shake your head. You simply must. England and Australia are getting nearer and nearer every year. The world's wearing small, like one of those round balls of soap, between the hands of Time—(a gem in the rough this, for Gran to polish and set!) Why, there's a Queensland squatter who for years has gone 'home' for the hunting season; while, on the other hand, Australia is becoming the crack place to winter in.

"Now, as you, dear mother, always do winter abroad, why not here as well as anywhere else? You must! You shall! If not next winter, then the following one; and if the Judge cannot bring you, then Gran must. That reminds me: how are they both? And has Gran been writing anything specially trenchant lately? I'm afraid I don't appreciate very 'cutely—'miss half the 'touches,' he used to tell me (though I think I have made him a present of a 'touch' to–day). But you know how glad we would both be to read some of his things; so you might send one sometimes, dear mother, without him knowing. For we owe him so much! And, besides what he did for me afterwards, he was always so nice and brotherly with Gladys. I know she thought so at the time, though she doesn't speak about him much now—I can't think why. You're the one she thinks of most, dearest mother; you're her model and her pattern for life!

"The mail–boy has begun to remonstrate. He'll have to gallop the whole way to the 'jolly' township, he says, if I am not quick. So I must break off; but I will answer your dear letter more fully next mail, or, better still, Gladdie shall write herself. Till then, good–bye, and dearest love from us both.

"Ever your affectionate son,

"Alfred.

"PS.—Gladys has read the above: so one last word on the sly.

"Oh, mother, if you only saw her at this moment! She is sitting in the veranda—I can just see her through the door. She's in one of those long deck–chairs, with a book, though she seems to have tired of reading. I can't see much of her face, but only the sweep of her cheek, and the lashes of one lid, and her little ear. But I can see she isn't reading—she's threading her way through the pines into space somewhere—perhaps back to Twickenham, who knows? And she's wearing a white dress; you would like it—it's plain. And her cheek is quite brown; you'll remember how it was the day she landed from the launch. But there! I can't describe like Gran, so it's no good trying. Only I do know this: I simply love her more and more and more, and a million times more for all that has happened. And you, and all of you, and all your friends, would fairly worship her now. You couldn't help it!"