Soon he appeared, carrying a huge bunch of the coarse blades of foliage, which he brought to the tent.

With an odd mixture of emotions, Lady Bridget watched her husband take the grass tops from the black boy and spread them carefully on the floor of the tent, heaping up and smoothing the mass into a bed, upon which he laid the oilskin and then one of the blankets--they were new white blankets, fresh from the store.

After that, he set the cushions from the buggy, covering them with the rug, at the head of the couch, making a bolster, and, over that, the one she had had at her back.
'No down pillows or linen sheets allowed in a bush camp-out, my lady Biddy,' he said with a laugh, a half timorous glance at his wife, but her answering smile reassured him.
'You'll never sleep on a sweeter bed,' he said, sniffing the resinous fragrance of the grass-tree tops.

He would not let her help him with the upper blankets when she wished to lend a hand.
'No, this camp is my own show.

Go and look at the scenery until I've got our wigwam in order.' And she submissively obeyed.
Against the other side of the rock wall, the black boys had built a second fire.