"THE RAILWAY CHILDREN\n\nBy E. Nesbit\n\n\n               To my dear son Paul Bland,\n               behind whose knowledge of railways\n               my ignorance confidently shelters.\n\n\nContents.\n\n     I.    The beginning of things.\n     II.   Peter's coal-mine.\n     III.  The old gentleman.\n     IV.   The engine-burglar.\n     V.    Prisoners and captives.\n     VI.   Saviours of the train.\n     VII.  For valour.\n     VIII. The amateur fireman.\n     IX.   The pride of Perks.\n     X.    The terrible secret.\n     XI.   The hound in the red jersey.\n     XII.  What Bobbie brought home.\n     XIII. The hound's grandfather.\n     XIV.  The End.\n\n\n\n\nChapter I. The beginning of things.\n\n\nThey were not railway children to begin with. I don't suppose they had\never thought about railways except as a means of getting to Maskelyne\nand Cook's, the Pantomime, Zoological Gardens, and Madame Tussaud's.\nThey were just ordinary suburban children, and they lived with their\nFather and Mother in an ordinary red-brick-fronted villa, with coloured\nglass in the front door, a tiled passage that was called a hall, a\nbath-room with hot and cold water, electric bells, French windows, and\na good deal of white paint, and 'every modern convenience', as the\nhouse-agents say.\n\nThere were three of them. Roberta was the eldest. Of course, Mothers\nnever have favourites, but if their Mother HAD had a favourite, it might\nhave been Roberta. Next came Peter, who wished to be an Engineer when he\ngrew up; and the youngest was Phyllis, who meant extremely well.\n\nMother did not spend all her time in paying dull calls to dull ladies,\nand sitting dully at home waiting for dull ladies to pay calls to her.\nShe was almost always there, ready to play with the children, and read\nto them, and help them to do their home-lessons. Besides this she used\nto write stories for them while they were at school, and read them\naloud after tea, and she always made up funny pieces of poetry for their\nbirthdays and for other great occasions, such as the christening of the\nnew kittens, or the refurnishing of the doll's house, or the time when\nthey were getting over the mumps.\n\nThese three lucky children always had everything they needed: pretty\nclothes, good fires, a lovely nursery with heaps of toys, and a Mother\nGoose wall-paper. They had a kind and merry nursemaid, and a dog who was\ncalled James, and who was their very own. They also had a Father who was\njust perfect--never cross, never unjust, and always ready for a game--at\nleast, if at any time he was NOT ready, he always had an excellent\nreason for it, and explained the reason to the children so interestingly\nand funnily that they felt sure he couldn't help himself.\n\nYou will think that they ought to have been very happy. And so they\nwere, but they did not know HOW happy till the pretty life in the Red\nVilla was over and done with, and they had to live a very different life\nindeed.\n\nThe dreadful change came quite suddenly.\n\nPeter had a birthday--his tenth. Among his other presents was a model\nengine more perfect than you could ever have dreamed of. The other\npresents were full of charm, but the Engine was fuller of charm than any\nof the others were.\n\nIts charm lasted in its full perfection for exactly three days. Then,\nowing either to Peter's inexperience or Phyllis's good intentions, which\nhad been rather pressing, or to some other cause, the Engine suddenly\nwent off with a bang. James was so frightened that he went out and did\nnot come back all day. All the Noah's Ark people who were in the tender\nwere broken to bits, but nothing else was hurt except the poor little\nengine and the feelings of Peter. The others said he cried over it--but\nof course boys of ten do not cry, however terrible the tragedies may be\nwhich darken their lot. He said that his eyes were red because he had a\ncold. This turned out to be true, though Peter did not know it was when\nhe said it, the next day he had to go to bed and stay there. Mother\nbegan to be afraid that he might be sickening for measles, when suddenly\nhe sat up in bed and said:\n\n\"I hate gruel--I hate barley water--I hate bread and milk. I want to get\nup and have something REAL to eat.\"\n\n\"What would you like?\" Mother asked.\n\n\"A pigeon-pie,\" said Peter, eagerly, \"a large pigeon-pie. A very large\none.\"\n\nSo Mother asked the Cook to make a large pigeon-pie. The pie was made.\nAnd when the pie was made, it was cooked. And when it was cooked, Peter\nate some of it. After that his cold was better. Mother made a piece of\npoetry to amuse him while the pie was being made. It began by saying\nwhat an unfortunate but worthy boy Peter was, then it went on:\n\n      He had an engine that he loved\n        With all his heart and soul,\n      And if he had a wish on earth\n        It was to keep it whole.\n\n      One day--my friends, prepare your minds;\n        I'm coming to the worst--\n      Quite suddenly a screw went mad,\n        And then the boiler burst!\n\n      With gloomy face he picked it up\n        And took it to his Mother,\n      Though even he could not suppose\n        That she could make another;\n\n      For those who perished on the line\n        He did not seem to care,\n      His engine being more to him\n        Than all the people there.\n\n      And now you see the reason why\n        Our Peter has been ill:\n      He soothes his soul with pigeon-pie\n        His gnawing grief to kill.\n\n      He wraps himself in blankets warm\n        And sleeps in bed till late,\n      Determined thus to overcome\n        His miserable fate.\n\n      And if his eyes are rather red,\n        His cold must just excuse it:\n      Offer him pie; you may be sure\n        He never will refuse it.\n\nFather had been away in the country for three or four days. All Peter's\nhopes for the curing of his afflicted Engine were now fixed on his\nFather, for Father was most wonderfully clever with his fingers. He\ncould mend all sorts of things. He had often acted as veterinary surgeon\nto the wooden rocking-horse; once he had saved its life when all human\naid was despaired of, and the poor creature was given up for lost, and\neven the carpenter said he didn't see his way to do anything. And it was\nFather who mended the doll's cradle when no one else could; and with a\nlittle glue and some bits of wood and a pen-knife made all the Noah's\nArk beasts as strong on their pins as ever they were, if not stronger.\n\nPeter, with heroic unselfishness, did not say anything about his Engine\ntill after Father had had his dinner and his after-dinner cigar. The\nunselfishness was Mother's idea--but it was Peter who carried it out.\nAnd needed a good deal of patience, too.\n\nAt last Mother said to Father, \"Now, dear, if you're quite rested, and\nquite comfy, we want to tell you about the great railway accident, and\nask your advice.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Father, \"fire away!\"\n\nSo then Peter told the sad tale, and fetched what was left of the\nEngine.\n\n\"Hum,\" said Father, when he had looked the Engine over very carefully.\n\nThe children held their breaths.\n\n\"Is there NO hope?\" said Peter, in a low, unsteady voice.\n\n\"Hope? Rather! Tons of it,\" said Father, cheerfully; \"but it'll want\nsomething besides hope--a bit of brazing say, or some solder, and a new\nvalve. I think we'd better keep it for a rainy day. In other words, I'll\ngive up Saturday afternoon to it, and you shall all help me.\"\n\n\"CAN girls help to mend engines?\" Peter asked doubtfully.\n\n\"Of course they can. Girls are just as clever as boys, and don't you\nforget it! How would you like to be an engine-driver, Phil?\"\n\n\"My face would be always dirty, wouldn't it?\" said Phyllis, in\nunenthusiastic tones, \"and I expect I should break something.\"\n\n\"I should just love it,\" said Roberta--\"do you think I could when I'm\ngrown up, Daddy? Or even a stoker?\"\n\n\"You mean a fireman,\" said Daddy, pulling and twisting at the engine.\n\"Well, if you still wish it, when you're grown up, we'll see about\nmaking you a fire-woman. I remember when I was a boy--\"\n\nJust then there was a knock at the front door.\n\n\"Who on earth!\" said Father. \"An Englishman's house is his castle, of\ncourse, but I do wish they built semi-detached villas with moats and\ndrawbridges.\"\n\nRuth--she was the parlour-maid and had red hair--came in and said that\ntwo gentlemen wanted to see the master.\n\n\"I've shown them into the Library, Sir,\" said she.\n\n\"I expect it's the subscription to the Vicar's testimonial,\" said\nMother, \"or else it's the choir holiday fund. Get rid of them quickly,\ndear. It does break up an evening so, and it's nearly the children's\nbedtime.\"\n\nBut Father did not seem to be able to get rid of the gentlemen at all\nquickly.\n\n\"I wish we HAD got a moat and drawbridge,\" said Roberta; \"then, when we\ndidn't want people, we could just pull up the drawbridge and no one else\ncould get in. I expect Father will have forgotten about when he was a\nboy if they stay much longer.\"\n\nMother tried to make the time pass by telling them a new fairy story\nabout a Princess with green eyes, but it was difficult because they\ncould hear the voices of Father and the gentlemen in the Library, and\nFather's voice sounded louder and different to the voice he generally\nused to people who came about testimonials and holiday funds.\n\nThen the Library bell rang, and everyone heaved a breath of relief.\n\n\"They're going now,\" said Phyllis; \"he's rung to have them shown out.\"\n\nBut instead of showing anybody out, Ruth showed herself in, and she\nlooked queer, the children thought.\n\n\"Please'm,\" she said, \"the Master wants you to just step into the study.\nHe looks like the dead, mum; I think he's had bad news. You'd best\nprepare yourself for the worst, 'm--p'raps it's a death in the family or\na bank busted or--\"\n\n\"That'll do, Ruth,\" said Mother gently; \"you can go.\"\n\nThen Mother went into the Library. There was more talking. Then the bell\nrang again, and Ruth fetched a cab. The children heard boots go out and\ndown the steps. The cab drove away, and the front door shut. Then Mother\ncame in. Her dear face was as white as her lace collar, and her eyes\nlooked very big and shining. Her mouth looked like just a line of pale\nred--her lips were thin and not their proper shape at all.\n\n\"It's bedtime,\" she said. \"Ruth will put you to bed.\"\n\n\"But you promised we should sit up late tonight because Father's come\nhome,\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"Father's been called away--on business,\" said Mother. \"Come, darlings,\ngo at once.\"\n\nThey kissed her and went. Roberta lingered to give Mother an extra hug\nand to whisper:\n\n\"It wasn't bad news, Mammy, was it? Is anyone dead--or--\"\n\n\"Nobody's dead--no,\" said Mother, and she almost seemed to push Roberta\naway. \"I can't tell you anything tonight, my pet. Go, dear, go NOW.\"\n\nSo Roberta went.\n\nRuth brushed the girls' hair and helped them to undress. (Mother almost\nalways did this herself.) When she had turned down the gas and left them\nshe found Peter, still dressed, waiting on the stairs.\n\n\"I say, Ruth, what's up?\" he asked.\n\n\"Don't ask me no questions and I won't tell you no lies,\" the red-headed\nRuth replied. \"You'll know soon enough.\"\n\nLate that night Mother came up and kissed all three children as they\nlay asleep. But Roberta was the only one whom the kiss woke, and she lay\nmousey-still, and said nothing.\n\n\"If Mother doesn't want us to know she's been crying,\" she said to\nherself as she heard through the dark the catching of her Mother's\nbreath, \"we WON'T know it. That's all.\"\n\nWhen they came down to breakfast the next morning, Mother had already\ngone out.\n\n\"To London,\" Ruth said, and left them to their breakfast.\n\n\"There's something awful the matter,\" said Peter, breaking his egg.\n\"Ruth told me last night we should know soon enough.\"\n\n\"Did you ASK her?\" said Roberta, with scorn.\n\n\"Yes, I did!\" said Peter, angrily. \"If you could go to bed without\ncaring whether Mother was worried or not, I couldn't. So there.\"\n\n\"I don't think we ought to ask the servants things Mother doesn't tell\nus,\" said Roberta.\n\n\"That's right, Miss Goody-goody,\" said Peter, \"preach away.\"\n\n\"I'M not goody,\" said Phyllis, \"but I think Bobbie's right this time.\"\n\n\"Of course. She always is. In her own opinion,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Oh, DON'T!\" cried Roberta, putting down her egg-spoon; \"don't let's be\nhorrid to each other. I'm sure some dire calamity is happening. Don't\nlet's make it worse!\"\n\n\"Who began, I should like to know?\" said Peter.\n\nRoberta made an effort, and answered:--\n\n\"I did, I suppose, but--\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Peter, triumphantly. But before he went to school he\nthumped his sister between the shoulders and told her to cheer up.\n\nThe children came home to one o'clock dinner, but Mother was not there.\nAnd she was not there at tea-time.\n\nIt was nearly seven before she came in, looking so ill and tired that\nthe children felt they could not ask her any questions. She sank into an\narm-chair. Phyllis took the long pins out of her hat, while Roberta took\noff her gloves, and Peter unfastened her walking-shoes and fetched her\nsoft velvety slippers for her.\n\nWhen she had had a cup of tea, and Roberta had put eau-de-Cologne on her\npoor head that ached, Mother said:--\n\n\"Now, my darlings, I want to tell you something. Those men last night\ndid bring very bad news, and Father will be away for some time. I am\nvery worried about it, and I want you all to help me, and not to make\nthings harder for me.\"\n\n\"As if we would!\" said Roberta, holding Mother's hand against her face.\n\n\"You can help me very much,\" said Mother, \"by being good and happy\nand not quarrelling when I'm away\"--Roberta and Peter exchanged guilty\nglances--\"for I shall have to be away a good deal.\"\n\n\"We won't quarrel. Indeed we won't,\" said everybody. And meant it, too.\n\n\"Then,\" Mother went on, \"I want you not to ask me any questions about\nthis trouble; and not to ask anybody else any questions.\"\n\nPeter cringed and shuffled his boots on the carpet.\n\n\"You'll promise this, too, won't you?\" said Mother.\n\n\"I did ask Ruth,\" said Peter, suddenly. \"I'm very sorry, but I did.\"\n\n\"And what did she say?\"\n\n\"She said I should know soon enough.\"\n\n\"It isn't necessary for you to know anything about it,\" said Mother;\n\"it's about business, and you never do understand business, do you?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Roberta; \"is it something to do with Government?\" For Father\nwas in a Government Office.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mother. \"Now it's bed-time, my darlings. And don't YOU\nworry. It'll all come right in the end.\"\n\n\"Then don't YOU worry either, Mother,\" said Phyllis, \"and we'll all be\nas good as gold.\"\n\nMother sighed and kissed them.\n\n\"We'll begin being good the first thing tomorrow morning,\" said Peter,\nas they went upstairs.\n\n\"Why not NOW?\" said Roberta.\n\n\"There's nothing to be good ABOUT now, silly,\" said Peter.\n\n\"We might begin to try to FEEL good,\" said Phyllis, \"and not call\nnames.\"\n\n\"Who's calling names?\" said Peter. \"Bobbie knows right enough that when\nI say 'silly', it's just the same as if I said Bobbie.\"\n\n\"WELL,\" said Roberta.\n\n\"No, I don't mean what you mean. I mean it's just a--what is it Father\ncalls it?--a germ of endearment! Good night.\"\n\nThe girls folded up their clothes with more than usual neatness--which\nwas the only way of being good that they could think of.\n\n\"I say,\" said Phyllis, smoothing out her pinafore, \"you used to say\nit was so dull--nothing happening, like in books. Now something HAS\nhappened.\"\n\n\"I never wanted things to happen to make Mother unhappy,\" said Roberta.\n\"Everything's perfectly horrid.\"\n\nEverything continued to be perfectly horrid for some weeks.\n\nMother was nearly always out. Meals were dull and dirty. The\nbetween-maid was sent away, and Aunt Emma came on a visit. Aunt Emma was\nmuch older than Mother. She was going abroad to be a governess. She\nwas very busy getting her clothes ready, and they were very ugly, dingy\nclothes, and she had them always littering about, and the sewing-machine\nseemed to whir--on and on all day and most of the night. Aunt Emma\nbelieved in keeping children in their proper places. And they more than\nreturned the compliment. Their idea of Aunt Emma's proper place was\nanywhere where they were not. So they saw very little of her. They\npreferred the company of the servants, who were more amusing. Cook,\nif in a good temper, could sing comic songs, and the housemaid, if she\nhappened not to be offended with you, could imitate a hen that has laid\nan egg, a bottle of champagne being opened, and could mew like two cats\nfighting. The servants never told the children what the bad news was\nthat the gentlemen had brought to Father. But they kept hinting\nthat they could tell a great deal if they chose--and this was not\ncomfortable.\n\nOne day when Peter had made a booby trap over the bath-room door, and\nit had acted beautifully as Ruth passed through, that red-haired\nparlour-maid caught him and boxed his ears.\n\n\"You'll come to a bad end,\" she said furiously, \"you nasty little limb,\nyou! If you don't mend your ways, you'll go where your precious Father's\ngone, so I tell you straight!\"\n\nRoberta repeated this to her Mother, and next day Ruth was sent away.\n\nThen came the time when Mother came home and went to bed and stayed\nthere two days and the Doctor came, and the children crept wretchedly\nabout the house and wondered if the world was coming to an end.\n\nMother came down one morning to breakfast, very pale and with lines\non her face that used not to be there. And she smiled, as well as she\ncould, and said:--\n\n\"Now, my pets, everything is settled. We're going to leave this house,\nand go and live in the country. Such a ducky dear little white house. I\nknow you'll love it.\"\n\nA whirling week of packing followed--not just packing clothes, like when\nyou go to the seaside, but packing chairs and tables, covering their\ntops with sacking and their legs with straw.\n\nAll sorts of things were packed that you don't pack when you go to\nthe seaside. Crockery, blankets, candlesticks, carpets, bedsteads,\nsaucepans, and even fenders and fire-irons.\n\nThe house was like a furniture warehouse. I think the children enjoyed\nit very much. Mother was very busy, but not too busy now to talk to\nthem, and read to them, and even to make a bit of poetry for Phyllis to\ncheer her up when she fell down with a screwdriver and ran it into her\nhand.\n\n\"Aren't you going to pack this, Mother?\" Roberta asked, pointing to the\nbeautiful cabinet inlaid with red turtleshell and brass.\n\n\"We can't take everything,\" said Mother.\n\n\"But we seem to be taking all the ugly things,\" said Roberta.\n\n\"We're taking the useful ones,\" said Mother; \"we've got to play at being\nPoor for a bit, my chickabiddy.\"\n\nWhen all the ugly useful things had been packed up and taken away in a\nvan by men in green-baize aprons, the two girls and Mother and Aunt Emma\nslept in the two spare rooms where the furniture was all pretty. All\ntheir beds had gone. A bed was made up for Peter on the drawing-room\nsofa.\n\n\"I say, this is larks,\" he said, wriggling joyously, as Mother tucked\nhim up. \"I do like moving! I wish we moved once a month.\"\n\nMother laughed.\n\n\"I don't!\" she said. \"Good night, Peterkin.\"\n\nAs she turned away Roberta saw her face. She never forgot it.\n\n\"Oh, Mother,\" she whispered all to herself as she got into bed, \"how\nbrave you are! How I love you! Fancy being brave enough to laugh when\nyou're feeling like THAT!\"\n\nNext day boxes were filled, and boxes and more boxes; and then late in\nthe afternoon a cab came to take them to the station.\n\nAunt Emma saw them off. They felt that THEY were seeing HER off, and\nthey were glad of it.\n\n\"But, oh, those poor little foreign children that she's going to\ngoverness!\" whispered Phyllis. \"I wouldn't be them for anything!\"\n\nAt first they enjoyed looking out of the window, but when it grew dusk\nthey grew sleepier and sleepier, and no one knew how long they had been\nin the train when they were roused by Mother's shaking them gently and\nsaying:--\n\n\"Wake up, dears. We're there.\"\n\nThey woke up, cold and melancholy, and stood shivering on the draughty\nplatform while the baggage was taken out of the train. Then the engine,\npuffing and blowing, set to work again, and dragged the train away. The\nchildren watched the tail-lights of the guard's van disappear into the\ndarkness.\n\nThis was the first train the children saw on that railway which was in\ntime to become so very dear to them. They did not guess then how they\nwould grow to love the railway, and how soon it would become the centre\nof their new life, nor what wonders and changes it would bring to them.\nThey only shivered and sneezed and hoped the walk to the new house would\nnot be long. Peter's nose was colder than he ever remembered it to have\nbeen before. Roberta's hat was crooked, and the elastic seemed tighter\nthan usual. Phyllis's shoe-laces had come undone.\n\n\"Come,\" said Mother, \"we've got to walk. There aren't any cabs here.\"\n\nThe walk was dark and muddy. The children stumbled a little on the rough\nroad, and once Phyllis absently fell into a puddle, and was picked up\ndamp and unhappy. There were no gas-lamps on the road, and the road was\nuphill. The cart went at a foot's pace, and they followed the gritty\ncrunch of its wheels. As their eyes got used to the darkness, they could\nsee the mound of boxes swaying dimly in front of them.\n\nA long gate had to be opened for the cart to pass through, and after\nthat the road seemed to go across fields--and now it went down hill.\nPresently a great dark lumpish thing showed over to the right.\n\n\"There's the house,\" said Mother. \"I wonder why she's shut the\nshutters.\"\n\n\"Who's SHE?\" asked Roberta.\n\n\"The woman I engaged to clean the place, and put the furniture straight\nand get supper.\"\n\nThere was a low wall, and trees inside.\n\n\"That's the garden,\" said Mother.\n\n\"It looks more like a dripping-pan full of black cabbages,\" said Peter.\n\nThe cart went on along by the garden wall, and round to the back of the\nhouse, and here it clattered into a cobble-stoned yard and stopped at\nthe back door.\n\nThere was no light in any of the windows.\n\nEveryone hammered at the door, but no one came.\n\nThe man who drove the cart said he expected Mrs. Viney had gone home.\n\n\"You see your train was that late,\" said he.\n\n\"But she's got the key,\" said Mother. \"What are we to do?\"\n\n\"Oh, she'll have left that under the doorstep,\" said the cart man;\n\"folks do hereabouts.\" He took the lantern off his cart and stooped.\n\n\"Ay, here it is, right enough,\" he said.\n\nHe unlocked the door and went in and set his lantern on the table.\n\n\"Got e'er a candle?\" said he.\n\n\"I don't know where anything is.\" Mother spoke rather less cheerfully\nthan usual.\n\nHe struck a match. There was a candle on the table, and he lighted it.\nBy its thin little glimmer the children saw a large bare kitchen with\na stone floor. There were no curtains, no hearth-rug. The kitchen\ntable from home stood in the middle of the room. The chairs were in one\ncorner, and the pots, pans, brooms, and crockery in another. There was\nno fire, and the black grate showed cold, dead ashes.\n\nAs the cart man turned to go out after he had brought in the boxes,\nthere was a rustling, scampering sound that seemed to come from inside\nthe walls of the house.\n\n\"Oh, what's that?\" cried the girls.\n\n\"It's only the rats,\" said the cart man. And he went away and shut the\ndoor, and the sudden draught of it blew out the candle.\n\n\"Oh, dear,\" said Phyllis, \"I wish we hadn't come!\" and she knocked a\nchair over.\n\n\"ONLY the rats!\" said Peter, in the dark.\n\n\n\nChapter II. Peter's coal-mine.\n\n\n\"What fun!\" said Mother, in the dark, feeling for the matches on the\ntable. \"How frightened the poor mice were--I don't believe they were\nrats at all.\"\n\nShe struck a match and relighted the candle and everyone looked at each\nother by its winky, blinky light.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"you've often wanted something to happen and now it\nhas. This is quite an adventure, isn't it? I told Mrs. Viney to get us\nsome bread and butter, and meat and things, and to have supper ready. I\nsuppose she's laid it in the dining-room. So let's go and see.\"\n\nThe dining-room opened out of the kitchen. It looked much darker than\nthe kitchen when they went in with the one candle. Because the kitchen\nwas whitewashed, but the dining-room was dark wood from floor to\nceiling, and across the ceiling there were heavy black beams. There was\na muddled maze of dusty furniture--the breakfast-room furniture from\nthe old home where they had lived all their lives. It seemed a very long\ntime ago, and a very long way off.\n\nThere was the table certainly, and there were chairs, but there was no\nsupper.\n\n\"Let's look in the other rooms,\" said Mother; and they looked. And in\neach room was the same kind of blundering half-arrangement of furniture,\nand fire-irons and crockery, and all sorts of odd things on the floor,\nbut there was nothing to eat; even in the pantry there were only a rusty\ncake-tin and a broken plate with whitening mixed in it.\n\n\"What a horrid old woman!\" said Mother; \"she's just walked off with the\nmoney and not got us anything to eat at all.\"\n\n\"Then shan't we have any supper at all?\" asked Phyllis, dismayed,\nstepping back on to a soap-dish that cracked responsively.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said Mother, \"only it'll mean unpacking one of those big\ncases that we put in the cellar. Phil, do mind where you're walking to,\nthere's a dear. Peter, hold the light.\"\n\nThe cellar door opened out of the kitchen. There were five wooden steps\nleading down. It wasn't a proper cellar at all, the children thought,\nbecause its ceiling went up as high as the kitchen's. A bacon-rack hung\nunder its ceiling. There was wood in it, and coal. Also the big cases.\n\nPeter held the candle, all on one side, while Mother tried to open the\ngreat packing-case. It was very securely nailed down.\n\n\"Where's the hammer?\" asked Peter.\n\n\"That's just it,\" said Mother. \"I'm afraid it's inside the box. But\nthere's a coal-shovel--and there's the kitchen poker.\"\n\nAnd with these she tried to get the case open.\n\n\"Let me do it,\" said Peter, thinking he could do it better himself.\nEveryone thinks this when he sees another person stirring a fire, or\nopening a box, or untying a knot in a bit of string.\n\n\"You'll hurt your hands, Mammy,\" said Roberta; \"let me.\"\n\n\"I wish Father was here,\" said Phyllis; \"he'd get it open in two shakes.\nWhat are you kicking me for, Bobbie?\"\n\n\"I wasn't,\" said Roberta.\n\nJust then the first of the long nails in the packing-case began to come\nout with a scrunch. Then a lath was raised and then another, till all\nfour stood up with the long nails in them shining fiercely like iron\nteeth in the candle-light.\n\n\"Hooray!\" said Mother; \"here are some candles--the very first thing! You\ngirls go and light them. You'll find some saucers and things. Just drop\na little candle-grease in the saucer and stick the candle upright in\nit.\"\n\n\"How many shall we light?\"\n\n\"As many as ever you like,\" said Mother, gaily. \"The great thing is\nto be cheerful. Nobody can be cheerful in the dark except owls and\ndormice.\"\n\nSo the girls lighted candles. The head of the first match flew off and\nstuck to Phyllis's finger; but, as Roberta said, it was only a little\nburn, and she might have had to be a Roman martyr and be burned whole if\nshe had happened to live in the days when those things were fashionable.\n\nThen, when the dining-room was lighted by fourteen candles, Roberta\nfetched coal and wood and lighted a fire.\n\n\"It's very cold for May,\" she said, feeling what a grown-up thing it was\nto say.\n\nThe fire-light and the candle-light made the dining-room look very\ndifferent, for now you could see that the dark walls were of wood,\ncarved here and there into little wreaths and loops.\n\nThe girls hastily 'tidied' the room, which meant putting the chairs\nagainst the wall, and piling all the odds and ends into a corner and\npartly hiding them with the big leather arm-chair that Father used to\nsit in after dinner.\n\n\"Bravo!\" cried Mother, coming in with a tray full of things. \"This is\nsomething like! I'll just get a tablecloth and then--\"\n\nThe tablecloth was in a box with a proper lock that was opened with a\nkey and not with a shovel, and when the cloth was spread on the table, a\nreal feast was laid out on it.\n\nEveryone was very, very tired, but everyone cheered up at the sight of\nthe funny and delightful supper. There were biscuits, the Marie and the\nplain kind, sardines, preserved ginger, cooking raisins, and candied\npeel and marmalade.\n\n\"What a good thing Aunt Emma packed up all the odds and ends out of the\nStore cupboard,\" said Mother. \"Now, Phil, DON'T put the marmalade spoon\nin among the sardines.\"\n\n\"No, I won't, Mother,\" said Phyllis, and put it down among the Marie\nbiscuits.\n\n\"Let's drink Aunt Emma's health,\" said Roberta, suddenly; \"what should\nwe have done if she hadn't packed up these things? Here's to Aunt Emma!\"\n\nAnd the toast was drunk in ginger wine and water, out of\nwillow-patterned tea-cups, because the glasses couldn't be found.\n\nThey all felt that they had been a little hard on Aunt Emma. She wasn't\na nice cuddly person like Mother, but after all it was she who had\nthought of packing up the odds and ends of things to eat.\n\nIt was Aunt Emma, too, who had aired all the sheets ready; and the men\nwho had moved the furniture had put the bedsteads together, so the beds\nwere soon made.\n\n\"Good night, chickies,\" said Mother. \"I'm sure there aren't any rats.\nBut I'll leave my door open, and then if a mouse comes, you need only\nscream, and I'll come and tell it exactly what I think of it.\"\n\nThen she went to her own room. Roberta woke to hear the little\ntravelling clock chime two. It sounded like a church clock ever so far\naway, she always thought. And she heard, too, Mother still moving about\nin her room.\n\nNext morning Roberta woke Phyllis by pulling her hair gently, but quite\nenough for her purpose.\n\n\"Wassermarrer?\" asked Phyllis, still almost wholly asleep.\n\n\"Wake up! wake up!\" said Roberta. \"We're in the new house--don't you\nremember? No servants or anything. Let's get up and begin to be useful.\nWe'll just creep down mouse-quietly, and have everything beautiful\nbefore Mother gets up. I've woke Peter. He'll be dressed as soon as we\nare.\"\n\nSo they dressed quietly and quickly. Of course, there was no water in\ntheir room, so when they got down they washed as much as they thought\nwas necessary under the spout of the pump in the yard. One pumped and\nthe other washed. It was splashy but interesting.\n\n\"It's much more fun than basin washing,\" said Roberta. \"How sparkly\nthe weeds are between the stones, and the moss on the roof--oh, and the\nflowers!\"\n\nThe roof of the back kitchen sloped down quite low. It was made\nof thatch and it had moss on it, and house-leeks and stonecrop and\nwallflowers, and even a clump of purple flag-flowers, at the far corner.\n\n\"This is far, far, far and away prettier than Edgecombe Villa,\" said\nPhyllis. \"I wonder what the garden's like.\"\n\n\"We mustn't think of the garden yet,\" said Roberta, with earnest energy.\n\"Let's go in and begin to work.\"\n\nThey lighted the fire and put the kettle on, and they arranged the\ncrockery for breakfast; they could not find all the right things, but\na glass ash-tray made an excellent salt-cellar, and a newish baking-tin\nseemed as if it would do to put bread on, if they had any.\n\nWhen there seemed to be nothing more that they could do, they went out\nagain into the fresh bright morning.\n\n\"We'll go into the garden now,\" said Peter. But somehow they couldn't\nfind the garden. They went round the house and round the house. The yard\noccupied the back, and across it were stables and outbuildings. On the\nother three sides the house stood simply in a field, without a yard\nof garden to divide it from the short smooth turf. And yet they had\ncertainly seen the garden wall the night before.\n\nIt was a hilly country. Down below they could see the line of the\nrailway, and the black yawning mouth of a tunnel. The station was out of\nsight. There was a great bridge with tall arches running across one end\nof the valley.\n\n\"Never mind the garden,\" said Peter; \"let's go down and look at the\nrailway. There might be trains passing.\"\n\n\"We can see them from here,\" said Roberta, slowly; \"let's sit down a\nbit.\"\n\nSo they all sat down on a great flat grey stone that had pushed itself\nup out of the grass; it was one of many that lay about on the hillside,\nand when Mother came out to look for them at eight o'clock, she found\nthem deeply asleep in a contented, sun-warmed bunch.\n\nThey had made an excellent fire, and had set the kettle on it at about\nhalf-past five. So that by eight the fire had been out for some time,\nthe water had all boiled away, and the bottom was burned out of the\nkettle. Also they had not thought of washing the crockery before they\nset the table.\n\n\"But it doesn't matter--the cups and saucers, I mean,\" said Mother.\n\"Because I've found another room--I'd quite forgotten there was one. And\nit's magic! And I've boiled the water for tea in a saucepan.\"\n\nThe forgotten room opened out of the kitchen. In the agitation and half\ndarkness the night before its door had been mistaken for a cupboard's.\nIt was a little square room, and on its table, all nicely set out, was a\njoint of cold roast beef, with bread, butter, cheese, and a pie.\n\n\"Pie for breakfast!\" cried Peter; \"how perfectly ripping!\"\n\n\"It isn't pigeon-pie,\" said Mother; \"it's only apple. Well, this is the\nsupper we ought to have had last night. And there was a note from Mrs.\nViney. Her son-in-law has broken his arm, and she had to get home early.\nShe's coming this morning at ten.\"\n\nThat was a wonderful breakfast. It is unusual to begin the day with\ncold apple pie, but the children all said they would rather have it than\nmeat.\n\n\"You see it's more like dinner than breakfast to us,\" said Peter,\npassing his plate for more, \"because we were up so early.\"\n\nThe day passed in helping Mother to unpack and arrange things. Six small\nlegs quite ached with running about while their owners carried clothes\nand crockery and all sorts of things to their proper places. It was not\ntill quite late in the afternoon that Mother said:--\n\n\"There! That'll do for to-day. I'll lie down for an hour, so as to be as\nfresh as a lark by supper-time.\"\n\nThen they all looked at each other. Each of the three expressive\ncountenances expressed the same thought. That thought was double,\nand consisted, like the bits of information in the Child's Guide to\nKnowledge, of a question and an answer.\n\nQ. Where shall we go?\n\nA. To the railway.\n\nSo to the railway they went, and as soon as they started for the railway\nthey saw where the garden had hidden itself. It was right behind the\nstables, and it had a high wall all round.\n\n\"Oh, never mind about the garden now!\" cried Peter. \"Mother told me\nthis morning where it was. It'll keep till to-morrow. Let's get to the\nrailway.\"\n\nThe way to the railway was all down hill over smooth, short turf with\nhere and there furze bushes and grey and yellow rocks sticking out like\ncandied peel from the top of a cake.\n\nThe way ended in a steep run and a wooden fence--and there was the\nrailway with the shining metals and the telegraph wires and posts and\nsignals.\n\nThey all climbed on to the top of the fence, and then suddenly there was\na rumbling sound that made them look along the line to the right, where\nthe dark mouth of a tunnel opened itself in the face of a rocky cliff;\nnext moment a train had rushed out of the tunnel with a shriek and\na snort, and had slid noisily past them. They felt the rush of its\npassing, and the pebbles on the line jumped and rattled under it as it\nwent by.\n\n\"Oh!\" said Roberta, drawing a long breath; \"it was like a great dragon\ntearing by. Did you feel it fan us with its hot wings?\"\n\n\"I suppose a dragon's lair might look very like that tunnel from the\noutside,\" said Phyllis.\n\nBut Peter said:--\n\n\"I never thought we should ever get as near to a train as this. It's the\nmost ripping sport!\"\n\n\"Better than toy-engines, isn't it?\" said Roberta.\n\n(I am tired of calling Roberta by her name. I don't see why I should.\nNo one else did. Everyone else called her Bobbie, and I don't see why I\nshouldn't.)\n\n\"I don't know; it's different,\" said Peter. \"It seems so odd to see ALL\nof a train. It's awfully tall, isn't it?\"\n\n\"We've always seen them cut in half by platforms,\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"I wonder if that train was going to London,\" Bobbie said. \"London's\nwhere Father is.\"\n\n\"Let's go down to the station and find out,\" said Peter.\n\nSo they went.\n\nThey walked along the edge of the line, and heard the telegraph wires\nhumming over their heads. When you are in the train, it seems such a\nlittle way between post and post, and one after another the posts seem\nto catch up the wires almost more quickly than you can count them. But\nwhen you have to walk, the posts seem few and far between.\n\nBut the children got to the station at last.\n\nNever before had any of them been at a station, except for the purpose\nof catching trains--or perhaps waiting for them--and always with\ngrown-ups in attendance, grown-ups who were not themselves interested in\nstations, except as places from which they wished to get away.\n\nNever before had they passed close enough to a signal-box to be able to\nnotice the wires, and to hear the mysterious 'ping, ping,' followed by\nthe strong, firm clicking of machinery.\n\nThe very sleepers on which the rails lay were a delightful path to\ntravel by--just far enough apart to serve as the stepping-stones in a\ngame of foaming torrents hastily organised by Bobbie.\n\nThen to arrive at the station, not through the booking office, but in\na freebooting sort of way by the sloping end of the platform. This in\nitself was joy.\n\nJoy, too, it was to peep into the porters' room, where the lamps are,\nand the Railway almanac on the wall, and one porter half asleep behind a\npaper.\n\nThere were a great many crossing lines at the station; some of them just\nran into a yard and stopped short, as though they were tired of business\nand meant to retire for good. Trucks stood on the rails here, and on one\nside was a great heap of coal--not a loose heap, such as you see in your\ncoal cellar, but a sort of solid building of coals with large square\nblocks of coal outside used just as though they were bricks, and built\nup till the heap looked like the picture of the Cities of the Plain in\n'Bible Stories for Infants.' There was a line of whitewash near the top\nof the coaly wall.\n\nWhen presently the Porter lounged out of his room at the twice-repeated\ntingling thrill of a gong over the station door, Peter said, \"How do you\ndo?\" in his best manner, and hastened to ask what the white mark was on\nthe coal for.\n\n\"To mark how much coal there be,\" said the Porter, \"so as we'll know if\nanyone nicks it. So don't you go off with none in your pockets, young\ngentleman!\"\n\nThis seemed, at the time but a merry jest, and Peter felt at once that\nthe Porter was a friendly sort with no nonsense about him. But later the\nwords came back to Peter with a new meaning.\n\nHave you ever gone into a farmhouse kitchen on a baking day, and seen\nthe great crock of dough set by the fire to rise? If you have, and if\nyou were at that time still young enough to be interested in everything\nyou saw, you will remember that you found yourself quite unable to\nresist the temptation to poke your finger into the soft round of dough\nthat curved inside the pan like a giant mushroom. And you will remember\nthat your finger made a dent in the dough, and that slowly, but quite\nsurely, the dent disappeared, and the dough looked quite the same as it\ndid before you touched it. Unless, of course, your hand was extra dirty,\nin which case, naturally, there would be a little black mark.\n\nWell, it was just like that with the sorrow the children had felt at\nFather's going away, and at Mother's being so unhappy. It made a deep\nimpression, but the impression did not last long.\n\nThey soon got used to being without Father, though they did not forget\nhim; and they got used to not going to school, and to seeing very little\nof Mother, who was now almost all day shut up in her upstairs room\nwriting, writing, writing. She used to come down at tea-time and read\naloud the stories she had written. They were lovely stories.\n\nThe rocks and hills and valleys and trees, the canal, and above all, the\nrailway, were so new and so perfectly pleasing that the remembrance of\nthe old life in the villa grew to seem almost like a dream.\n\nMother had told them more than once that they were 'quite poor now,' but\nthis did not seem to be anything but a way of speaking. Grown-up people,\neven Mothers, often make remarks that don't seem to mean anything in\nparticular, just for the sake of saying something, seemingly. There was\nalways enough to eat, and they wore the same kind of nice clothes they\nhad always worn.\n\nBut in June came three wet days; the rain came down, straight as lances,\nand it was very, very cold. Nobody could go out, and everybody shivered.\nThey all went up to the door of Mother's room and knocked.\n\n\"Well, what is it?\" asked Mother from inside.\n\n\"Mother,\" said Bobbie, \"mayn't I light a fire? I do know how.\"\n\nAnd Mother said: \"No, my ducky-love. We mustn't have fires in June--coal\nis so dear. If you're cold, go and have a good romp in the attic.\nThat'll warm you.\"\n\n\"But, Mother, it only takes such a very little coal to make a fire.\"\n\n\"It's more than we can afford, chickeny-love,\" said Mother, cheerfully.\n\"Now run away, there's darlings--I'm madly busy!\"\n\n\"Mother's always busy now,\" said Phyllis, in a whisper to Peter. Peter\ndid not answer. He shrugged his shoulders. He was thinking.\n\nThought, however, could not long keep itself from the suitable\nfurnishing of a bandit's lair in the attic. Peter was the bandit, of\ncourse. Bobbie was his lieutenant, his band of trusty robbers, and, in\ndue course, the parent of Phyllis, who was the captured maiden for whom\na magnificent ransom--in horse-beans--was unhesitatingly paid.\n\nThey all went down to tea flushed and joyous as any mountain brigands.\n\nBut when Phyllis was going to add jam to her bread and butter, Mother\nsaid:--\n\n\"Jam OR butter, dear--not jam AND butter. We can't afford that sort of\nreckless luxury nowadays.\"\n\nPhyllis finished the slice of bread and butter in silence, and followed\nit up by bread and jam. Peter mingled thought and weak tea.\n\nAfter tea they went back to the attic and he said to his sisters:--\n\n\"I have an idea.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" they asked politely.\n\n\"I shan't tell you,\" was Peter's unexpected rejoinder.\n\n\"Oh, very well,\" said Bobbie; and Phil said, \"Don't, then.\"\n\n\"Girls,\" said Peter, \"are always so hasty tempered.\"\n\n\"I should like to know what boys are?\" said Bobbie, with fine disdain.\n\"I don't want to know about your silly ideas.\"\n\n\"You'll know some day,\" said Peter, keeping his own temper by what\nlooked exactly like a miracle; \"if you hadn't been so keen on a row, I\nmight have told you about it being only noble-heartedness that made me\nnot tell you my idea. But now I shan't tell you anything at all about\nit--so there!\"\n\nAnd it was, indeed, some time before he could be induced to say\nanything, and when he did it wasn't much. He said:--\n\n\"The only reason why I won't tell you my idea that I'm going to do is\nbecause it MAY be wrong, and I don't want to drag you into it.\"\n\n\"Don't you do it if it's wrong, Peter,\" said Bobbie; \"let me do it.\" But\nPhyllis said:--\n\n\"_I_ should like to do wrong if YOU'RE going to!\"\n\n\"No,\" said Peter, rather touched by this devotion; \"it's a forlorn hope,\nand I'm going to lead it. All I ask is that if Mother asks where I am,\nyou won't blab.\"\n\n\"We haven't got anything TO blab,\" said Bobbie, indignantly.\n\n\"Oh, yes, you have!\" said Peter, dropping horse-beans through his\nfingers. \"I've trusted you to the death. You know I'm going to do a lone\nadventure--and some people might think it wrong--I don't. And if Mother\nasks where I am, say I'm playing at mines.\"\n\n\"What sort of mines?\"\n\n\"You just say mines.\"\n\n\"You might tell US, Pete.\"\n\n\"Well, then, COAL-mines. But don't you let the word pass your lips on\npain of torture.\"\n\n\"You needn't threaten,\" said Bobbie, \"and I do think you might let us\nhelp.\"\n\n\"If I find a coal-mine, you shall help cart the coal,\" Peter\ncondescended to promise.\n\n\"Keep your secret if you like,\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"Keep it if you CAN,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"I'll keep it, right enough,\" said Peter.\n\nBetween tea and supper there is an interval even in the most greedily\nregulated families. At this time Mother was usually writing, and Mrs.\nViney had gone home.\n\nTwo nights after the dawning of Peter's idea he beckoned the girls\nmysteriously at the twilight hour.\n\n\"Come hither with me,\" he said, \"and bring the Roman Chariot.\"\n\nThe Roman Chariot was a very old perambulator that had spent years of\nretirement in the loft over the coach-house. The children had oiled its\nworks till it glided noiseless as a pneumatic bicycle, and answered to\nthe helm as it had probably done in its best days.\n\n\"Follow your dauntless leader,\" said Peter, and led the way down the\nhill towards the station.\n\nJust above the station many rocks have pushed their heads out through\nthe turf as though they, like the children, were interested in the\nrailway.\n\nIn a little hollow between three rocks lay a heap of dried brambles and\nheather.\n\nPeter halted, turned over the brushwood with a well-scarred boot, and\nsaid:--\n\n\"Here's the first coal from the St. Peter's Mine. We'll take it home in\nthe chariot. Punctuality and despatch. All orders carefully attended to.\nAny shaped lump cut to suit regular customers.\"\n\nThe chariot was packed full of coal. And when it was packed it had to\nbe unpacked again because it was so heavy that it couldn't be got up the\nhill by the three children, not even when Peter harnessed himself to the\nhandle with his braces, and firmly grasping his waistband in one hand\npulled while the girls pushed behind.\n\nThree journeys had to be made before the coal from Peter's mine was\nadded to the heap of Mother's coal in the cellar.\n\nAfterwards Peter went out alone, and came back very black and\nmysterious.\n\n\"I've been to my coal-mine,\" he said; \"to-morrow evening we'll bring\nhome the black diamonds in the chariot.\"\n\nIt was a week later that Mrs. Viney remarked to Mother how well this\nlast lot of coal was holding out.\n\nThe children hugged themselves and each other in complicated wriggles of\nsilent laughter as they listened on the stairs. They had all forgotten\nby now that there had ever been any doubt in Peter's mind as to whether\ncoal-mining was wrong.\n\nBut there came a dreadful night when the Station Master put on a pair\nof old sand shoes that he had worn at the seaside in his summer holiday,\nand crept out very quietly to the yard where the Sodom and Gomorrah heap\nof coal was, with the whitewashed line round it. He crept out there, and\nhe waited like a cat by a mousehole. On the top of the heap something\nsmall and dark was scrabbling and rattling furtively among the coal.\n\nThe Station Master concealed himself in the shadow of a brake-van that\nhad a little tin chimney and was labelled:--\n\n     G. N. and S. R.\n          34576\n    Return at once to\n  White Heather Sidings\n\nand in this concealment he lurked till the small thing on the top of\nthe heap ceased to scrabble and rattle, came to the edge of the heap,\ncautiously let itself down, and lifted something after it. Then the arm\nof the Station Master was raised, the hand of the Station Master fell\non a collar, and there was Peter firmly held by the jacket, with an old\ncarpenter's bag full of coal in his trembling clutch.\n\n\"So I've caught you at last, have I, you young thief?\" said the Station\nMaster.\n\n\"I'm not a thief,\" said Peter, as firmly as he could. \"I'm a\ncoal-miner.\"\n\n\"Tell that to the Marines,\" said the Station Master.\n\n\"It would be just as true whoever I told it to,\" said Peter.\n\n\"You're right there,\" said the man, who held him. \"Stow your jaw, you\nyoung rip, and come along to the station.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" cried in the darkness an agonised voice that was not Peter's.\n\n\"Not the POLICE station!\" said another voice from the darkness.\n\n\"Not yet,\" said the Station Master. \"The Railway Station first. Why,\nit's a regular gang. Any more of you?\"\n\n\"Only us,\" said Bobbie and Phyllis, coming out of the shadow of another\ntruck labelled Staveley Colliery, and bearing on it the legend in white\nchalk: 'Wanted in No. 1 Road.'\n\n\"What do you mean by spying on a fellow like this?\" said Peter, angrily.\n\n\"Time someone did spy on you, _I_ think,\" said the Station Master. \"Come\nalong to the station.\"\n\n\"Oh, DON'T!\" said Bobbie. \"Can't you decide NOW what you'll do to us?\nIt's our fault just as much as Peter's. We helped to carry the coal\naway--and we knew where he got it.\"\n\n\"No, you didn't,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Yes, we did,\" said Bobbie. \"We knew all the time. We only pretended we\ndidn't just to humour you.\"\n\nPeter's cup was full. He had mined for coal, he had struck coal, he had\nbeen caught, and now he learned that his sisters had 'humoured' him.\n\n\"Don't hold me!\" he said. \"I won't run away.\"\n\nThe Station Master loosed Peter's collar, struck a match and looked at\nthem by its flickering light.\n\n\"Why,\" said he, \"you're the children from the Three Chimneys up yonder.\nSo nicely dressed, too. Tell me now, what made you do such a thing?\nHaven't you ever been to church or learned your catechism or anything,\nnot to know it's wicked to steal?\" He spoke much more gently now, and\nPeter said:--\n\n\"I didn't think it was stealing. I was almost sure it wasn't. I thought\nif I took it from the outside part of the heap, perhaps it would be. But\nin the middle I thought I could fairly count it only mining. It'll\ntake thousands of years for you to burn up all that coal and get to the\nmiddle parts.\"\n\n\"Not quite. But did you do it for a lark or what?\"\n\n\"Not much lark carting that beastly heavy stuff up the hill,\" said\nPeter, indignantly.\n\n\"Then why did you?\" The Station Master's voice was so much kinder now\nthat Peter replied:--\n\n\"You know that wet day? Well, Mother said we were too poor to have a\nfire. We always had fires when it was cold at our other house, and--\"\n\n\"DON'T!\" interrupted Bobbie, in a whisper.\n\n\"Well,\" said the Station Master, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, \"I'll\ntell you what I'll do. I'll look over it this once. But you remember,\nyoung gentleman, stealing is stealing, and what's mine isn't yours,\nwhether you call it mining or whether you don't. Run along home.\"\n\n\"Do you mean you aren't going to do anything to us? Well, you are a\nbrick,\" said Peter, with enthusiasm.\n\n\"You're a dear,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"You're a darling,\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"That's all right,\" said the Station Master.\n\nAnd on this they parted.\n\n\"Don't speak to me,\" said Peter, as the three went up the hill. \"You're\nspies and traitors--that's what you are.\"\n\nBut the girls were too glad to have Peter between them, safe and free,\nand on the way to Three Chimneys and not to the Police Station, to mind\nmuch what he said.\n\n\"We DID say it was us as much as you,\" said Bobbie, gently.\n\n\"Well--and it wasn't.\"\n\n\"It would have come to the same thing in Courts with judges,\" said\nPhyllis. \"Don't be snarky, Peter. It isn't our fault your secrets are so\njolly easy to find out.\" She took his arm, and he let her.\n\n\"There's an awful lot of coal in the cellar, anyhow,\" he went on.\n\n\"Oh, don't!\" said Bobbie. \"I don't think we ought to be glad about\nTHAT.\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Peter, plucking up a spirit. \"I'm not at all sure,\neven now, that mining is a crime.\"\n\nBut the girls were quite sure. And they were also quite sure that he was\nquite sure, however little he cared to own it.\n\n\n\nChapter III. The old gentleman.\n\n\nAfter the adventure of Peter's Coal-mine, it seemed well to the children\nto keep away from the station--but they did not, they could not, keep\naway from the railway. They had lived all their lives in a street where\ncabs and omnibuses rumbled by at all hours, and the carts of butchers\nand bakers and candlestick makers (I never saw a candlestick-maker's\ncart; did you?) might occur at any moment. Here in the deep silence of\nthe sleeping country the only things that went by were the trains. They\nseemed to be all that was left to link the children to the old life that\nhad once been theirs. Straight down the hill in front of Three Chimneys\nthe daily passage of their six feet began to mark a path across the\ncrisp, short turf. They began to know the hours when certain trains\npassed, and they gave names to them. The 9.15 up was called the Green\nDragon. The 10.7 down was the Worm of Wantley. The midnight town\nexpress, whose shrieking rush they sometimes woke from their dreams\nto hear, was the Fearsome Fly-by-night. Peter got up once, in chill\nstarshine, and, peeping at it through his curtains, named it on the\nspot.\n\nIt was by the Green Dragon that the old gentleman travelled. He was a\nvery nice-looking old gentleman, and he looked as if he were nice,\ntoo, which is not at all the same thing. He had a fresh-coloured,\nclean-shaven face and white hair, and he wore rather odd-shaped collars\nand a top-hat that wasn't exactly the same kind as other people's. Of\ncourse the children didn't see all this at first. In fact the first\nthing they noticed about the old gentleman was his hand.\n\nIt was one morning as they sat on the fence waiting for the Green\nDragon, which was three and a quarter minutes late by Peter's Waterbury\nwatch that he had had given him on his last birthday.\n\n\"The Green Dragon's going where Father is,\" said Phyllis; \"if it were\na really real dragon, we could stop it and ask it to take our love to\nFather.\"\n\n\"Dragons don't carry people's love,\" said Peter; \"they'd be above it.\"\n\n\"Yes, they do, if you tame them thoroughly first. They fetch and carry\nlike pet spaniels,\" said Phyllis, \"and feed out of your hand. I wonder\nwhy Father never writes to us.\"\n\n\"Mother says he's been too busy,\" said Bobbie; \"but he'll write soon,\nshe says.\"\n\n\"I say,\" Phyllis suggested, \"let's all wave to the Green Dragon as it\ngoes by. If it's a magic dragon, it'll understand and take our loves to\nFather. And if it isn't, three waves aren't much. We shall never miss\nthem.\"\n\nSo when the Green Dragon tore shrieking out of the mouth of its dark\nlair, which was the tunnel, all three children stood on the railing and\nwaved their pocket-handkerchiefs without stopping to think whether they\nwere clean handkerchiefs or the reverse. They were, as a matter of fact,\nvery much the reverse.\n\nAnd out of a first-class carriage a hand waved back. A quite clean hand.\nIt held a newspaper. It was the old gentleman's hand.\n\nAfter this it became the custom for waves to be exchanged between the\nchildren and the 9.15.\n\nAnd the children, especially the girls, liked to think that perhaps the\nold gentleman knew Father, and would meet him 'in business,' wherever\nthat shady retreat might be, and tell him how his three children stood\non a rail far away in the green country and waved their love to him\nevery morning, wet or fine.\n\nFor they were now able to go out in all sorts of weather such as they\nwould never have been allowed to go out in when they lived in their\nvilla house. This was Aunt Emma's doing, and the children felt more and\nmore that they had not been quite fair to this unattractive aunt, when\nthey found how useful were the long gaiters and waterproof coats that\nthey had laughed at her for buying for them.\n\nMother, all this time, was very busy with her writing. She used to send\noff a good many long blue envelopes with stories in them--and large\nenvelopes of different sizes and colours used to come to her. Sometimes\nshe would sigh when she opened them and say:--\n\n\"Another story come home to roost. Oh, dear, Oh, dear!\" and then the\nchildren would be very sorry.\n\nBut sometimes she would wave the envelope in the air and say:--\"Hooray,\nhooray. Here's a sensible Editor. He's taken my story and this is the\nproof of it.\"\n\nAt first the children thought 'the Proof' meant the letter the sensible\nEditor had written, but they presently got to know that the proof was\nlong slips of paper with the story printed on them.\n\nWhenever an Editor was sensible there were buns for tea.\n\nOne day Peter was going down to the village to get buns to celebrate\nthe sensibleness of the Editor of the Children's Globe, when he met the\nStation Master.\n\nPeter felt very uncomfortable, for he had now had time to think over the\naffair of the coal-mine. He did not like to say \"Good morning\" to the\nStation Master, as you usually do to anyone you meet on a lonely road,\nbecause he had a hot feeling, which spread even to his ears, that the\nStation Master might not care to speak to a person who had stolen coals.\n'Stolen' is a nasty word, but Peter felt it was the right one. So he\nlooked down, and said Nothing.\n\nIt was the Station Master who said \"Good morning\" as he passed by. And\nPeter answered, \"Good morning.\" Then he thought:--\n\n\"Perhaps he doesn't know who I am by daylight, or he wouldn't be so\npolite.\"\n\nAnd he did not like the feeling which thinking this gave him. And then\nbefore he knew what he was going to do he ran after the Station Master,\nwho stopped when he heard Peter's hasty boots crunching the road,\nand coming up with him very breathless and with his ears now quite\nmagenta-coloured, he said:--\n\n\"I don't want you to be polite to me if you don't know me when you see\nme.\"\n\n\"Eh?\" said the Station Master.\n\n\"I thought perhaps you didn't know it was me that took the coals,\"\nPeter went on, \"when you said 'Good morning.' But it was, and I'm sorry.\nThere.\"\n\n\"Why,\" said the Station Master, \"I wasn't thinking anything at all about\nthe precious coals. Let bygones be bygones. And where were you off to in\nsuch a hurry?\"\n\n\"I'm going to buy buns for tea,\" said Peter.\n\n\"I thought you were all so poor,\" said the Station Master.\n\n\"So we are,\" said Peter, confidentially, \"but we always have three\npennyworth of halfpennies for tea whenever Mother sells a story or a\npoem or anything.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said the Station Master, \"so your Mother writes stories, does\nshe?\"\n\n\"The beautifulest you ever read,\" said Peter.\n\n\"You ought to be very proud to have such a clever Mother.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter, \"but she used to play with us more before she had to\nbe so clever.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the Station Master, \"I must be getting along. You give us\na look in at the Station whenever you feel so inclined. And as to coals,\nit's a word that--well--oh, no, we never mention it, eh?\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Peter. \"I'm very glad it's all straightened out\nbetween us.\" And he went on across the canal bridge to the village to\nget the buns, feeling more comfortable in his mind than he had felt\nsince the hand of the Station Master had fastened on his collar that\nnight among the coals.\n\nNext day when they had sent the threefold wave of greeting to Father by\nthe Green Dragon, and the old gentleman had waved back as usual, Peter\nproudly led the way to the station.\n\n\"But ought we?\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"After the coals, she means,\" Phyllis explained.\n\n\"I met the Station Master yesterday,\" said Peter, in an offhand way,\nand he pretended not to hear what Phyllis had said; \"he expresspecially\ninvited us to go down any time we liked.\"\n\n\"After the coals?\" repeated Phyllis. \"Stop a minute--my bootlace is\nundone again.\"\n\n\"It always IS undone again,\" said Peter, \"and the Station Master was\nmore of a gentleman than you'll ever be, Phil--throwing coal at a chap's\nhead like that.\"\n\nPhyllis did up her bootlace and went on in silence, but her shoulders\nshook, and presently a fat tear fell off her nose and splashed on the\nmetal of the railway line. Bobbie saw it.\n\n\"Why, what's the matter, darling?\" she said, stopping short and putting\nher arm round the heaving shoulders.\n\n\"He called me un-un-ungentlemanly,\" sobbed Phyllis. \"I didn't never call\nhim unladylike, not even when he tied my Clorinda to the firewood bundle\nand burned her at the stake for a martyr.\"\n\nPeter had indeed perpetrated this outrage a year or two before.\n\n\"Well, you began, you know,\" said Bobbie, honestly, \"about coals and all\nthat. Don't you think you'd better both unsay everything since the wave,\nand let honour be satisfied?\"\n\n\"I will if Peter will,\" said Phyllis, sniffling.\n\n\"All right,\" said Peter; \"honour is satisfied. Here, use my hankie,\nPhil, for goodness' sake, if you've lost yours as usual. I wonder what\nyou do with them.\"\n\n\"You had my last one,\" said Phyllis, indignantly, \"to tie up the\nrabbit-hutch door with. But you're very ungrateful. It's quite right\nwhat it says in the poetry book about sharper than a serpent it is to\nhave a toothless child--but it means ungrateful when it says toothless.\nMiss Lowe told me so.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Peter, impatiently, \"I'm sorry. THERE! Now will you\ncome on?\"\n\nThey reached the station and spent a joyous two hours with the Porter.\nHe was a worthy man and seemed never tired of answering the questions\nthat begin with \"Why--\" which many people in higher ranks of life often\nseem weary of.\n\nHe told them many things that they had not known before--as, for\ninstance, that the things that hook carriages together are called\ncouplings, and that the pipes like great serpents that hang over the\ncouplings are meant to stop the train with.\n\n\"If you could get a holt of one o' them when the train is going and pull\n'em apart,\" said he, \"she'd stop dead off with a jerk.\"\n\n\"Who's she?\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"The train, of course,\" said the Porter. After that the train was never\nagain 'It' to the children.\n\n\"And you know the thing in the carriages where it says on it, 'Five\npounds' fine for improper use.' If you was to improperly use that, the\ntrain 'ud stop.\"\n\n\"And if you used it properly?\" said Roberta.\n\n\"It 'ud stop just the same, I suppose,\" said he, \"but it isn't proper\nuse unless you're being murdered. There was an old lady once--someone\nkidded her on it was a refreshment-room bell, and she used it improper,\nnot being in danger of her life, though hungry, and when the train\nstopped and the guard came along expecting to find someone weltering in\ntheir last moments, she says, 'Oh, please, Mister, I'll take a glass of\nstout and a bath bun,' she says. And the train was seven minutes behind\nher time as it was.\"\n\n\"What did the guard say to the old lady?\"\n\n\"_I_ dunno,\" replied the Porter, \"but I lay she didn't forget it in a\nhurry, whatever it was.\"\n\nIn such delightful conversation the time went by all too quickly.\n\nThe Station Master came out once or twice from that sacred inner temple\nbehind the place where the hole is that they sell you tickets through,\nand was most jolly with them all.\n\n\"Just as if coal had never been discovered,\" Phyllis whispered to her\nsister.\n\nHe gave them each an orange, and promised to take them up into the\nsignal-box one of these days, when he wasn't so busy.\n\nSeveral trains went through the station, and Peter noticed for the first\ntime that engines have numbers on them, like cabs.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the Porter, \"I knowed a young gent as used to take down the\nnumbers of every single one he seed; in a green note-book with silver\ncorners it was, owing to his father being very well-to-do in the\nwholesale stationery.\"\n\nPeter felt that he could take down numbers, too, even if he was not\nthe son of a wholesale stationer. As he did not happen to have a green\nleather note-book with silver corners, the Porter gave him a yellow\nenvelope and on it he noted:--\n\n     379\n     663\n\nand felt that this was the beginning of what would be a most interesting\ncollection.\n\nThat night at tea he asked Mother if she had a green leather note-book\nwith silver corners. She had not; but when she heard what he wanted it\nfor she gave him a little black one.\n\n\"It has a few pages torn out,\" said she; \"but it will hold quite a lot\nof numbers, and when it's full I'll give you another. I'm so glad you\nlike the railway. Only, please, you mustn't walk on the line.\"\n\n\"Not if we face the way the train's coming?\" asked Peter, after a gloomy\npause, in which glances of despair were exchanged.\n\n\"No--really not,\" said Mother.\n\nThen Phyllis said, \"Mother, didn't YOU ever walk on the railway lines\nwhen you were little?\"\n\nMother was an honest and honourable Mother, so she had to say, \"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"But, darlings, you don't know how fond I am of you. What should I do if\nyou got hurt?\"\n\n\"Are you fonder of us than Granny was of you when you were little?\"\nPhyllis asked. Bobbie made signs to her to stop, but Phyllis never did\nsee signs, no matter how plain they might be.\n\nMother did not answer for a minute. She got up to put more water in the\nteapot.\n\n\"No one,\" she said at last, \"ever loved anyone more than my mother loved\nme.\"\n\nThen she was quiet again, and Bobbie kicked Phyllis hard under the\ntable, because Bobbie understood a little bit the thoughts that were\nmaking Mother so quiet--the thoughts of the time when Mother was a\nlittle girl and was all the world to HER mother. It seems so easy and\nnatural to run to Mother when one is in trouble. Bobbie understood a\nlittle how people do not leave off running to their mothers when they\nare in trouble even when they are grown up, and she thought she knew a\nlittle what it must be to be sad, and have no mother to run to any more.\n\nSo she kicked Phyllis, who said:--\n\n\"What are you kicking me like that for, Bob?\"\n\nAnd then Mother laughed a little and sighed and said:--\n\n\"Very well, then. Only let me be sure you do know which way the trains\ncome--and don't walk on the line near the tunnel or near corners.\"\n\n\"Trains keep to the left like carriages,\" said Peter, \"so if we keep to\nthe right, we're bound to see them coming.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Mother, and I dare say you think that she ought not\nto have said it. But she remembered about when she was a little girl\nherself, and she did say it--and neither her own children nor you nor\nany other children in the world could ever understand exactly what it\ncost her to do it. Only some few of you, like Bobbie, may understand a\nvery little bit.\n\nIt was the very next day that Mother had to stay in bed because her head\nached so. Her hands were burning hot, and she would not eat anything,\nand her throat was very sore.\n\n\"If I was you, Mum,\" said Mrs. Viney, \"I should take and send for the\ndoctor. There's a lot of catchy complaints a-going about just now. My\nsister's eldest--she took a chill and it went to her inside, two years\nago come Christmas, and she's never been the same gell since.\"\n\nMother wouldn't at first, but in the evening she felt so much worse that\nPeter was sent to the house in the village that had three laburnum trees\nby the gate, and on the gate a brass plate with W. W. Forrest, M.D., on\nit.\n\nW. W. Forrest, M.D., came at once. He talked to Peter on the way back.\nHe seemed a most charming and sensible man, interested in railways, and\nrabbits, and really important things.\n\nWhen he had seen Mother, he said it was influenza.\n\n\"Now, Lady Grave-airs,\" he said in the hall to Bobbie, \"I suppose you'll\nwant to be head-nurse.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said she.\n\n\"Well, then, I'll send down some medicine. Keep up a good fire. Have\nsome strong beef tea made ready to give her as soon as the fever goes\ndown. She can have grapes now, and beef essence--and soda-water and\nmilk, and you'd better get in a bottle of brandy. The best brandy. Cheap\nbrandy is worse than poison.\"\n\nShe asked him to write it all down, and he did.\n\nWhen Bobbie showed Mother the list he had written, Mother laughed. It\nWAS a laugh, Bobbie decided, though it was rather odd and feeble.\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Mother, laying in bed with eyes as bright as beads.\n\"I can't afford all that rubbish. Tell Mrs. Viney to boil two pounds of\nscrag-end of the neck for your dinners to-morrow, and I can have some\nof the broth. Yes, I should like some more water now, love. And will you\nget a basin and sponge my hands?\"\n\nRoberta obeyed. When she had done everything she could to make Mother\nless uncomfortable, she went down to the others. Her cheeks were very\nred, her lips set tight, and her eyes almost as bright as Mother's.\n\nShe told them what the Doctor had said, and what Mother had said.\n\n\"And now,\" said she, when she had told all, \"there's no one but us to do\nanything, and we've got to do it. I've got the shilling for the mutton.\"\n\n\"We can do without the beastly mutton,\" said Peter; \"bread and butter\nwill support life. People have lived on less on desert islands many a\ntime.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said his sister. And Mrs. Viney was sent to the village to\nget as much brandy and soda-water and beef tea as she could buy for a\nshilling.\n\n\"But even if we never have anything to eat at all,\" said Phyllis, \"you\ncan't get all those other things with our dinner money.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Bobbie, frowning, \"we must find out some other way. Now\nTHINK, everybody, just as hard as ever you can.\"\n\nThey did think. And presently they talked. And later, when Bobbie had\ngone up to sit with Mother in case she wanted anything, the other two\nwere very busy with scissors and a white sheet, and a paint brush, and\nthe pot of Brunswick black that Mrs. Viney used for grates and fenders.\nThey did not manage to do what they wished, exactly, with the first\nsheet, so they took another out of the linen cupboard. It did not occur\nto them that they were spoiling good sheets which cost good money. They\nonly knew that they were making a good--but what they were making comes\nlater.\n\nBobbie's bed had been moved into Mother's room, and several times in\nthe night she got up to mend the fire, and to give her mother milk and\nsoda-water. Mother talked to herself a good deal, but it did not seem\nto mean anything. And once she woke up suddenly and called out: \"Mamma,\nmamma!\" and Bobbie knew she was calling for Granny, and that she had\nforgotten that it was no use calling, because Granny was dead.\n\nIn the early morning Bobbie heard her name and jumped out of bed and ran\nto Mother's bedside.\n\n\"Oh--ah, yes--I think I was asleep,\" said Mother. \"My poor little duck,\nhow tired you'll be--I do hate to give you all this trouble.\"\n\n\"Trouble!\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Ah, don't cry, sweet,\" Mother said; \"I shall be all right in a day or\ntwo.\"\n\nAnd Bobbie said, \"Yes,\" and tried to smile.\n\nWhen you are used to ten hours of solid sleep, to get up three or four\ntimes in your sleep-time makes you feel as though you had been up all\nnight. Bobbie felt quite stupid and her eyes were sore and stiff, but\nshe tidied the room, and arranged everything neatly before the Doctor\ncame.\n\nThis was at half-past eight.\n\n\"Everything going on all right, little Nurse?\" he said at the front\ndoor. \"Did you get the brandy?\"\n\n\"I've got the brandy,\" said Bobbie, \"in a little flat bottle.\"\n\n\"I didn't see the grapes or the beef tea, though,\" said he.\n\n\"No,\" said Bobbie, firmly, \"but you will to-morrow. And there's some\nbeef stewing in the oven for beef tea.\"\n\n\"Who told you to do that?\" he asked.\n\n\"I noticed what Mother did when Phil had mumps.\"\n\n\"Right,\" said the Doctor. \"Now you get your old woman to sit with your\nmother, and then you eat a good breakfast, and go straight to bed and\nsleep till dinner-time. We can't afford to have the head-nurse ill.\"\n\nHe was really quite a nice doctor.\n\nWhen the 9.15 came out of the tunnel that morning the old gentleman in\nthe first-class carriage put down his newspaper, and got ready to wave\nhis hand to the three children on the fence. But this morning there were\nnot three. There was only one. And that was Peter.\n\nPeter was not on the railings either, as usual. He was standing in front\nof them in an attitude like that of a show-man showing off the animals\nin a menagerie, or of the kind clergyman when he points with a wand at\nthe 'Scenes from Palestine,' when there is a magic-lantern and he is\nexplaining it.\n\nPeter was pointing, too. And what he was pointing at was a large white\nsheet nailed against the fence. On the sheet there were thick black\nletters more than a foot long.\n\nSome of them had run a little, because of Phyllis having put the\nBrunswick black on too eagerly, but the words were quite easy to read.\n\nAnd this what the old gentleman and several other people in the train\nread in the large black letters on the white sheet:--\n\n     LOOK OUT AT THE STATION.\n\nA good many people did look out at the station and were disappointed,\nfor they saw nothing unusual. The old gentleman looked out, too, and at\nfirst he too saw nothing more unusual than the gravelled platform and\nthe sunshine and the wallflowers and forget-me-nots in the station\nborders. It was only just as the train was beginning to puff and pull\nitself together to start again that he saw Phyllis. She was quite out of\nbreath with running.\n\n\"Oh,\" she said, \"I thought I'd missed you. My bootlaces would keep\ncoming down and I fell over them twice. Here, take it.\"\n\nShe thrust a warm, dampish letter into his hand as the train moved.\n\nHe leaned back in his corner and opened the letter. This is what he\nread:--\n\n\"Dear Mr. We do not know your name.\n\nMother is ill and the doctor says to give her the things at the end of\nthe letter, but she says she can't aford it, and to get mutton for\nus and she will have the broth. We do not know anybody here but you,\nbecause Father is away and we do not know the address. Father will pay\nyou, or if he has lost all his money, or anything, Peter will pay you\nwhen he is a man. We promise it on our honer. I.O.U. for all the things\nMother wants.\n\n     \"sined Peter.\n\n\"Will you give the parsel to the Station Master, because of us not\nknowing what train you come down by? Say it is for Peter that was sorry\nabout the coals and he will know all right.\n\n     \"Roberta.\n     \"Phyllis.\n     \"Peter.\"\n\nThen came the list of things the Doctor had ordered.\n\nThe old gentleman read it through once, and his eyebrows went up. He\nread it twice and smiled a little. When he had read it thrice, he put it\nin his pocket and went on reading The Times.\n\nAt about six that evening there was a knock at the back door. The three\nchildren rushed to open it, and there stood the friendly Porter, who had\ntold them so many interesting things about railways. He dumped down a\nbig hamper on the kitchen flags.\n\n\"Old gent,\" he said; \"he asked me to fetch it up straight away.\"\n\n\"Thank you very much,\" said Peter, and then, as the Porter lingered, he\nadded:--\n\n\"I'm most awfully sorry I haven't got twopence to give you like Father\ndoes, but--\"\n\n\"You drop it if you please,\" said the Porter, indignantly. \"I wasn't\nthinking about no tuppences. I only wanted to say I was sorry your Mamma\nwasn't so well, and to ask how she finds herself this evening--and\nI've fetched her along a bit of sweetbrier, very sweet to smell it is.\nTwopence indeed,\" said he, and produced a bunch of sweetbrier from his\nhat, \"just like a conjurer,\" as Phyllis remarked afterwards.\n\n\"Thank you very much,\" said Peter, \"and I beg your pardon about the\ntwopence.\"\n\n\"No offence,\" said the Porter, untruly but politely, and went.\n\nThen the children undid the hamper. First there was straw, and then\nthere were fine shavings, and then came all the things they had asked\nfor, and plenty of them, and then a good many things they had not asked\nfor; among others peaches and port wine and two chickens, a cardboard\nbox of big red roses with long stalks, and a tall thin green bottle\nof lavender water, and three smaller fatter bottles of eau-de-Cologne.\nThere was a letter, too.\n\n\"Dear Roberta and Phyllis and Peter,\" it said; \"here are the things you\nwant. Your mother will want to know where they came from. Tell her they\nwere sent by a friend who heard she was ill. When she is well again you\nmust tell her all about it, of course. And if she says you ought not to\nhave asked for the things, tell her that I say you were quite right,\nand that I hope she will forgive me for taking the liberty of allowing\nmyself a very great pleasure.\"\n\nThe letter was signed G. P. something that the children couldn't read.\n\n\"I think we WERE right,\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"Right? Of course we were right,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"All the same,\" said Peter, with his hands in his pockets, \"I don't\nexactly look forward to telling Mother the whole truth about it.\"\n\n\"We're not to do it till she's well,\" said Bobbie, \"and when she's well\nwe shall be so happy we shan't mind a little fuss like that. Oh, just\nlook at the roses! I must take them up to her.\"\n\n\"And the sweetbrier,\" said Phyllis, sniffing it loudly; \"don't forget\nthe sweetbrier.\"\n\n\"As if I should!\" said Roberta. \"Mother told me the other day there was\na thick hedge of it at her mother's house when she was a little girl.\"\n\n\n\nChapter IV. The engine-burglar.\n\n\nWhat was left of the second sheet and the Brunswick black came in very\nnicely to make a banner bearing the legend\n\n     SHE IS NEARLY WELL THANK YOU\n\nand this was displayed to the Green Dragon about a fortnight after the\narrival of the wonderful hamper. The old gentleman saw it, and waved\na cheerful response from the train. And when this had been done the\nchildren saw that now was the time when they must tell Mother what they\nhad done when she was ill. And it did not seem nearly so easy as they\nhad thought it would be. But it had to be done. And it was done. Mother\nwas extremely angry. She was seldom angry, and now she was angrier than\nthey had ever known her. This was horrible. But it was much worse when\nshe suddenly began to cry. Crying is catching, I believe, like measles\nand whooping-cough. At any rate, everyone at once found itself taking\npart in a crying-party.\n\nMother stopped first. She dried her eyes and then she said:--\n\n\"I'm sorry I was so angry, darlings, because I know you didn't\nunderstand.\"\n\n\"We didn't mean to be naughty, Mammy,\" sobbed Bobbie, and Peter and\nPhyllis sniffed.\n\n\"Now, listen,\" said Mother; \"it's quite true that we're poor, but\nwe have enough to live on. You mustn't go telling everyone about our\naffairs--it's not right. And you must never, never, never ask strangers\nto give you things. Now always remember that--won't you?\"\n\nThey all hugged her and rubbed their damp cheeks against hers and\npromised that they would.\n\n\"And I'll write a letter to your old gentleman, and I shall tell him\nthat I didn't approve--oh, of course I shall thank him, too, for\nhis kindness. It's YOU I don't approve of, my darlings, not the old\ngentleman. He was as kind as ever he could be. And you can give the\nletter to the Station Master to give him--and we won't say any more\nabout it.\"\n\nAfterwards, when the children were alone, Bobbie said:--\n\n\"Isn't Mother splendid? You catch any other grown-up saying they were\nsorry they had been angry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter, \"she IS splendid; but it's rather awful when she's\nangry.\"\n\n\"She's like Avenging and Bright in the song,\" said Phyllis. \"I should\nlike to look at her if it wasn't so awful. She looks so beautiful when\nshe's really downright furious.\"\n\nThey took the letter down to the Station Master.\n\n\"I thought you said you hadn't got any friends except in London,\" said\nhe.\n\n\"We've made him since,\" said Peter.\n\n\"But he doesn't live hereabouts?\"\n\n\"No--we just know him on the railway.\"\n\nThen the Station Master retired to that sacred inner temple behind the\nlittle window where the tickets are sold, and the children went down\nto the Porters' room and talked to the Porter. They learned several\ninteresting things from him--among others that his name was Perks,\nthat he was married and had three children, that the lamps in front of\nengines are called head-lights and the ones at the back tail-lights.\n\n\"And that just shows,\" whispered Phyllis, \"that trains really ARE\ndragons in disguise, with proper heads and tails.\"\n\nIt was on this day that the children first noticed that all engines are\nnot alike.\n\n\"Alike?\" said the Porter, whose name was Perks, \"lor, love you, no,\nMiss. No more alike nor what you an' me are. That little 'un without\na tender as went by just now all on her own, that was a tank, that\nwas--she's off to do some shunting t'other side o' Maidbridge. That's as\nit might be you, Miss. Then there's goods engines, great, strong things\nwith three wheels each side--joined with rods to strengthen 'em--as it\nmight be me. Then there's main-line engines as it might be this\n'ere young gentleman when he grows up and wins all the races at 'is\nschool--so he will. The main-line engine she's built for speed as well\nas power. That's one to the 9.15 up.\"\n\n\"The Green Dragon,\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"We calls her the Snail, Miss, among ourselves,\" said the Porter. \"She's\noftener be'ind'and nor any train on the line.\"\n\n\"But the engine's green,\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"Yes, Miss,\" said Perks, \"so's a snail some seasons o' the year.\"\n\nThe children agreed as they went home to dinner that the Porter was most\ndelightful company.\n\nNext day was Roberta's birthday. In the afternoon she was politely but\nfirmly requested to get out of the way and keep there till tea-time.\n\n\"You aren't to see what we're going to do till it's done; it's a\nglorious surprise,\" said Phyllis.\n\nAnd Roberta went out into the garden all alone. She tried to be\ngrateful, but she felt she would much rather have helped in whatever it\nwas than have to spend her birthday afternoon by herself, no matter how\nglorious the surprise might be.\n\nNow that she was alone, she had time to think, and one of the things she\nthought of most was what mother had said in one of those feverish nights\nwhen her hands were so hot and her eyes so bright.\n\nThe words were: \"Oh, what a doctor's bill there'll be for this!\"\n\nShe walked round and round the garden among the rose-bushes that hadn't\nany roses yet, only buds, and the lilac bushes and syringas and American\ncurrants, and the more she thought of the doctor's bill, the less she\nliked the thought of it.\n\nAnd presently she made up her mind. She went out through the side door\nof the garden and climbed up the steep field to where the road runs\nalong by the canal. She walked along until she came to the bridge that\ncrosses the canal and leads to the village, and here she waited. It was\nvery pleasant in the sunshine to lean one's elbows on the warm stone\nof the bridge and look down at the blue water of the canal. Bobbie had\nnever seen any other canal, except the Regent's Canal, and the water of\nthat is not at all a pretty colour. And she had never seen any river at\nall except the Thames, which also would be all the better if its face\nwas washed.\n\nPerhaps the children would have loved the canal as much as the railway,\nbut for two things. One was that they had found the railway FIRST--on\nthat first, wonderful morning when the house and the country and the\nmoors and rocks and great hills were all new to them. They had not found\nthe canal till some days later. The other reason was that everyone on\nthe railway had been kind to them--the Station Master, the Porter, and\nthe old gentleman who waved. And the people on the canal were anything\nbut kind.\n\nThe people on the canal were, of course, the bargees, who steered the\nslow barges up and down, or walked beside the old horses that trampled\nup the mud of the towing-path, and strained at the long tow-ropes.\n\nPeter had once asked one of the bargees the time, and had been told\nto \"get out of that,\" in a tone so fierce that he did not stop to say\nanything about his having just as much right on the towing-path as the\nman himself. Indeed, he did not even think of saying it till some time\nlater.\n\nThen another day when the children thought they would like to fish in\nthe canal, a boy in a barge threw lumps of coal at them, and one of\nthese hit Phyllis on the back of the neck. She was just stooping down to\ntie up her bootlace--and though the coal hardly hurt at all it made her\nnot care very much about going on fishing.\n\nOn the bridge, however, Roberta felt quite safe, because she could look\ndown on the canal, and if any boy showed signs of meaning to throw coal,\nshe could duck behind the parapet.\n\nPresently there was a sound of wheels, which was just what she expected.\n\nThe wheels were the wheels of the Doctor's dogcart, and in the cart, of\ncourse, was the Doctor.\n\nHe pulled up, and called out:--\n\n\"Hullo, head nurse! Want a lift?\"\n\n\"I wanted to see you,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Your mother's not worse, I hope?\" said the Doctor.\n\n\"No--but--\"\n\n\"Well, skip in, then, and we'll go for a drive.\"\n\nRoberta climbed in and the brown horse was made to turn round--which it\ndid not like at all, for it was looking forward to its tea--I mean its\noats.\n\n\"This IS jolly,\" said Bobbie, as the dogcart flew along the road by the\ncanal.\n\n\"We could throw a stone down any one of your three chimneys,\" said the\nDoctor, as they passed the house.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Bobbie, \"but you'd have to be a jolly good shot.\"\n\n\"How do you know I'm not?\" said the Doctor. \"Now, then, what's the\ntrouble?\"\n\nBobbie fidgeted with the hook of the driving apron.\n\n\"Come, out with it,\" said the Doctor.\n\n\"It's rather hard, you see,\" said Bobbie, \"to out with it; because of\nwhat Mother said.\"\n\n\"What DID Mother say?\"\n\n\"She said I wasn't to go telling everyone that we're poor. But you\naren't everyone, are you?\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" said the Doctor, cheerfully. \"Well?\"\n\n\"Well, I know doctors are very extravagant--I mean expensive, and Mrs.\nViney told me that her doctoring only cost her twopence a week because\nshe belonged to a Club.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"You see she told me what a good doctor you were, and I asked her how\nshe could afford you, because she's much poorer than we are. I've been\nin her house and I know. And then she told me about the Club, and I\nthought I'd ask you--and--oh, I don't want Mother to be worried! Can't\nwe be in the Club, too, the same as Mrs. Viney?\"\n\nThe Doctor was silent. He was rather poor himself, and he had been\npleased at getting a new family to attend. So I think his feelings at\nthat minute were rather mixed.\n\n\"You aren't cross with me, are you?\" said Bobbie, in a very small voice.\n\nThe Doctor roused himself.\n\n\"Cross? How could I be? You're a very sensible little woman. Now look\nhere, don't you worry. I'll make it all right with your Mother, even if\nI have to make a special brand-new Club all for her. Look here, this is\nwhere the Aqueduct begins.\"\n\n\"What's an Aque--what's its name?\" asked Bobbie.\n\n\"A water bridge,\" said the Doctor. \"Look.\"\n\nThe road rose to a bridge over the canal. To the left was a steep rocky\ncliff with trees and shrubs growing in the cracks of the rock. And the\ncanal here left off running along the top of the hill and started to run\non a bridge of its own--a great bridge with tall arches that went right\nacross the valley.\n\nBobbie drew a long breath.\n\n\"It IS grand, isn't it?\" she said. \"It's like pictures in the History of\nRome.\"\n\n\"Right!\" said the Doctor, \"that's just exactly what it IS like.\nThe Romans were dead nuts on aqueducts. It's a splendid piece of\nengineering.\"\n\n\"I thought engineering was making engines.\"\n\n\"Ah, there are different sorts of engineering--making road and bridges\nand tunnels is one kind. And making fortifications is another. Well, we\nmust be turning back. And, remember, you aren't to worry about doctor's\nbills or you'll be ill yourself, and then I'll send you in a bill as\nlong as the aqueduct.\"\n\nWhen Bobbie had parted from the Doctor at the top of the field that ran\ndown from the road to Three Chimneys, she could not feel that she had\ndone wrong. She knew that Mother would perhaps think differently.\nBut Bobbie felt that for once she was the one who was right, and she\nscrambled down the rocky slope with a really happy feeling.\n\nPhyllis and Peter met her at the back door. They were unnaturally clean\nand neat, and Phyllis had a red bow in her hair. There was only just\ntime for Bobbie to make herself tidy and tie up her hair with a blue bow\nbefore a little bell rang.\n\n\"There!\" said Phyllis, \"that's to show the surprise is ready. Now\nyou wait till the bell rings again and then you may come into the\ndining-room.\"\n\nSo Bobbie waited.\n\n\"Tinkle, tinkle,\" said the little bell, and Bobbie went into the\ndining-room, feeling rather shy. Directly she opened the door she found\nherself, as it seemed, in a new world of light and flowers and singing.\nMother and Peter and Phyllis were standing in a row at the end of the\ntable. The shutters were shut and there were twelve candles on the\ntable, one for each of Roberta's years. The table was covered with a\nsort of pattern of flowers, and at Roberta's place was a thick wreath of\nforget-me-nots and several most interesting little packages. And Mother\nand Phyllis and Peter were singing--to the first part of the tune of St.\nPatrick's Day. Roberta knew that Mother had written the words on purpose\nfor her birthday. It was a little way of Mother's on birthdays. It\nhad begun on Bobbie's fourth birthday when Phyllis was a baby. Bobbie\nremembered learning the verses to say to Father 'for a surprise.' She\nwondered if Mother had remembered, too. The four-year-old verse had\nbeen:--\n\n     Daddy dear, I'm only four\n     And I'd rather not be more.\n     Four's the nicest age to be,\n     Two and two and one and three.\n     What I love is two and two,\n     Mother, Peter, Phil, and you.\n     What you love is one and three,\n     Mother, Peter, Phil, and me.\n     Give your little girl a kiss\n     Because she learned and told you this.\n\nThe song the others were singing now went like this:--\n\n     Our darling Roberta,\n     No sorrow shall hurt her\n     If we can prevent it\n        Her whole life long.\n     Her birthday's our fete day,\n     We'll make it our great day,\n     And give her our presents\n        And sing her our song.\n     May pleasures attend her\n     And may the Fates send her\n     The happiest journey\n        Along her life's way.\n     With skies bright above her\n     And dear ones to love her!\n     Dear Bob!  Many happy\n        Returns of the day!\n\nWhen they had finished singing they cried, \"Three cheers for our\nBobbie!\" and gave them very loudly. Bobbie felt exactly as though she\nwere going to cry--you know that odd feeling in the bridge of your nose\nand the pricking in your eyelids? But before she had time to begin they\nwere all kissing and hugging her.\n\n\"Now,\" said Mother, \"look at your presents.\"\n\nThey were very nice presents. There was a green and red needle-book that\nPhyllis had made herself in secret moments. There was a darling little\nsilver brooch of Mother's shaped like a buttercup, which Bobbie had\nknown and loved for years, but which she had never, never thought would\ncome to be her very own. There was also a pair of blue glass vases from\nMrs. Viney. Roberta had seen and admired them in the village shop. And\nthere were three birthday cards with pretty pictures and wishes.\n\nMother fitted the forget-me-not crown on Bobbie's brown head.\n\n\"And now look at the table,\" she said.\n\nThere was a cake on the table covered with white sugar, with 'Dear\nBobbie' on it in pink sweets, and there were buns and jam; but\nthe nicest thing was that the big table was almost covered with\nflowers--wallflowers were laid all round the tea-tray--there was a ring\nof forget-me-nots round each plate. The cake had a wreath of white lilac\nround it, and in the middle was something that looked like a pattern all\ndone with single blooms of lilac or wallflower or laburnum.\n\n\"It's a map--a map of the railway!\" cried Peter. \"Look--those lilac\nlines are the metals--and there's the station done in brown wallflowers.\nThe laburnum is the train, and there are the signal-boxes, and the road\nup to here--and those fat red daisies are us three waving to the old\ngentleman--that's him, the pansy in the laburnum train.\"\n\n\"And there's 'Three Chimneys' done in the purple primroses,\" said\nPhyllis. \"And that little tiny rose-bud is Mother looking out for us\nwhen we're late for tea. Peter invented it all, and we got all the\nflowers from the station. We thought you'd like it better.\"\n\n\"That's my present,\" said Peter, suddenly dumping down his adored\nsteam-engine on the table in front of her. Its tender had been lined\nwith fresh white paper, and was full of sweets.\n\n\"Oh, Peter!\" cried Bobbie, quite overcome by this munificence, \"not your\nown dear little engine that you're so fond of?\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Peter, very promptly, \"not the engine. Only the sweets.\"\n\nBobbie couldn't help her face changing a little--not so much because she\nwas disappointed at not getting the engine, as because she had thought\nit so very noble of Peter, and now she felt she had been silly to think\nit. Also she felt she must have seemed greedy to expect the engine as\nwell as the sweets. So her face changed. Peter saw it. He hesitated a\nminute; then his face changed, too, and he said: \"I mean not ALL the\nengine. I'll let you go halves if you like.\"\n\n\"You're a brick,\" cried Bobbie; \"it's a splendid present.\" She said no\nmore aloud, but to herself she said:--\n\n\"That was awfully jolly decent of Peter because I know he didn't mean\nto. Well, the broken half shall be my half of the engine, and I'll get\nit mended and give it back to Peter for his birthday.\"--\"Yes, Mother\ndear, I should like to cut the cake,\" she added, and tea began.\n\nIt was a delightful birthday. After tea Mother played games with\nthem--any game they liked--and of course their first choice was\nblindman's-buff, in the course of which Bobbie's forget-me-not wreath\ntwisted itself crookedly over one of her ears and stayed there. Then,\nwhen it was near bed-time and time to calm down, Mother had a lovely new\nstory to read to them.\n\n\"You won't sit up late working, will you, Mother?\" Bobbie asked as they\nsaid good night.\n\nAnd Mother said no, she wouldn't--she would only just write to Father\nand then go to bed.\n\nBut when Bobbie crept down later to bring up her presents--for she felt\nshe really could not be separated from them all night--Mother was not\nwriting, but leaning her head on her arms and her arms on the table. I\nthink it was rather good of Bobbie to slip quietly away, saying over and\nover, \"She doesn't want me to know she's unhappy, and I won't know; I\nwon't know.\" But it made a sad end to the birthday.\n\n          *          *          *          *          *          *\n\nThe very next morning Bobbie began to watch her opportunity to get\nPeter's engine mended secretly. And the opportunity came the very next\nafternoon.\n\nMother went by train to the nearest town to do shopping. When she went\nthere, she always went to the Post-office. Perhaps to post her letters\nto Father, for she never gave them to the children or Mrs. Viney to\npost, and she never went to the village herself. Peter and Phyllis went\nwith her. Bobbie wanted an excuse not to go, but try as she would she\ncouldn't think of a good one. And just when she felt that all was lost,\nher frock caught on a big nail by the kitchen door and there was a great\ncriss-cross tear all along the front of the skirt. I assure you this was\nreally an accident. So the others pitied her and went without her,\nfor there was no time for her to change, because they were rather late\nalready and had to hurry to the station to catch the train.\n\nWhen they had gone, Bobbie put on her everyday frock, and went down to\nthe railway. She did not go into the station, but she went along the\nline to the end of the platform where the engine is when the down train\nis alongside the platform--the place where there are a water tank and\na long, limp, leather hose, like an elephant's trunk. She hid behind a\nbush on the other side of the railway. She had the toy engine done up in\nbrown paper, and she waited patiently with it under her arm.\n\nThen when the next train came in and stopped, Bobbie went across the\nmetals of the up-line and stood beside the engine. She had never been so\nclose to an engine before. It looked much larger and harder than she\nhad expected, and it made her feel very small indeed, and, somehow, very\nsoft--as if she could very, very easily be hurt rather badly.\n\n\"I know what silk-worms feel like now,\" said Bobbie to herself.\n\nThe engine-driver and fireman did not see her. They were leaning out\non the other side, telling the Porter a tale about a dog and a leg of\nmutton.\n\n\"If you please,\" said Roberta--but the engine was blowing off steam and\nno one heard her.\n\n\"If you please, Mr. Engineer,\" she spoke a little louder, but the Engine\nhappened to speak at the same moment, and of course Roberta's soft\nlittle voice hadn't a chance.\n\nIt seemed to her that the only way would be to climb on to the engine\nand pull at their coats. The step was high, but she got her knee on it,\nand clambered into the cab; she stumbled and fell on hands and knees on\nthe base of the great heap of coals that led up to the square opening in\nthe tender. The engine was not above the weaknesses of its fellows; it\nwas making a great deal more noise than there was the slightest need\nfor. And just as Roberta fell on the coals, the engine-driver, who\nhad turned without seeing her, started the engine, and when Bobbie had\npicked herself up, the train was moving--not fast, but much too fast for\nher to get off.\n\nAll sorts of dreadful thoughts came to her all together in one horrible\nflash. There were such things as express trains that went on, she\nsupposed, for hundreds of miles without stopping. Suppose this should be\none of them? How would she get home again? She had no money to pay for\nthe return journey.\n\n\"And I've no business here. I'm an engine-burglar--that's what I am,\"\nshe thought. \"I shouldn't wonder if they could lock me up for this.\" And\nthe train was going faster and faster.\n\nThere was something in her throat that made it impossible for her to\nspeak. She tried twice. The men had their backs to her. They were doing\nsomething to things that looked like taps.\n\nSuddenly she put out her hand and caught hold of the nearest sleeve. The\nman turned with a start, and he and Roberta stood for a minute looking\nat each other in silence. Then the silence was broken by them both.\n\nThe man said, \"Here's a bloomin' go!\" and Roberta burst into tears.\n\nThe other man said he was blooming well blest--or something like it--but\nthough naturally surprised they were not exactly unkind.\n\n\"You're a naughty little gell, that's what you are,\" said the fireman,\nand the engine-driver said:--\n\n\"Daring little piece, I call her,\" but they made her sit down on an iron\nseat in the cab and told her to stop crying and tell them what she meant\nby it.\n\nShe did stop, as soon as she could. One thing that helped her was the\nthought that Peter would give almost his ears to be in her place--on a\nreal engine--really going. The children had often wondered whether any\nengine-driver could be found noble enough to take them for a ride on an\nengine--and now there she was. She dried her eyes and sniffed earnestly.\n\n\"Now, then,\" said the fireman, \"out with it. What do you mean by it,\neh?\"\n\n\"Oh, please,\" sniffed Bobbie.\n\n\"Try again,\" said the engine-driver, encouragingly.\n\nBobbie tried again.\n\n\"Please, Mr. Engineer,\" she said, \"I did call out to you from the\nline, but you didn't hear me--and I just climbed up to touch you on the\narm--quite gently I meant to do it--and then I fell into the coals--and\nI am so sorry if I frightened you. Oh, don't be cross--oh, please\ndon't!\" She sniffed again.\n\n\"We ain't so much CROSS,\" said the fireman, \"as interested like. It\nain't every day a little gell tumbles into our coal bunker outer the\nsky, is it, Bill? What did you DO it for--eh?\"\n\n\"That's the point,\" agreed the engine-driver; \"what did you do it FOR?\"\n\nBobbie found that she had not quite stopped crying. The engine-driver\npatted her on the back and said: \"Here, cheer up, Mate. It ain't so bad\nas all that 'ere, I'll be bound.\"\n\n\"I wanted,\" said Bobbie, much cheered to find herself addressed as\n'Mate'--\"I only wanted to ask you if you'd be so kind as to mend this.\"\nShe picked up the brown-paper parcel from among the coals and undid the\nstring with hot, red fingers that trembled.\n\nHer feet and legs felt the scorch of the engine fire, but her shoulders\nfelt the wild chill rush of the air. The engine lurched and shook and\nrattled, and as they shot under a bridge the engine seemed to shout in\nher ears.\n\nThe fireman shovelled on coals.\n\nBobbie unrolled the brown paper and disclosed the toy engine.\n\n\"I thought,\" she said wistfully, \"that perhaps you'd mend this for\nme--because you're an engineer, you know.\"\n\nThe engine-driver said he was blowed if he wasn't blest.\n\n\"I'm blest if I ain't blowed,\" remarked the fireman.\n\nBut the engine-driver took the little engine and looked at it--and the\nfireman ceased for an instant to shovel coal, and looked, too.\n\n\"It's like your precious cheek,\" said the engine-driver--\"whatever made\nyou think we'd be bothered tinkering penny toys?\"\n\n\"I didn't mean it for precious cheek,\" said Bobbie; \"only everybody that\nhas anything to do with railways is so kind and good, I didn't think\nyou'd mind. You don't really--do you?\" she added, for she had seen a not\nunkindly wink pass between the two.\n\n\"My trade's driving of an engine, not mending her, especially such a\nhout-size in engines as this 'ere,\" said Bill. \"An' 'ow are we a-goin'\nto get you back to your sorrowing friends and relations, and all be\nforgiven and forgotten?\"\n\n\"If you'll put me down next time you stop,\" said Bobbie, firmly, though\nher heart beat fiercely against her arm as she clasped her hands, \"and\nlend me the money for a third-class ticket, I'll pay you back--honour\nbright. I'm not a confidence trick like in the newspapers--really, I'm\nnot.\"\n\n\"You're a little lady, every inch,\" said Bill, relenting suddenly\nand completely. \"We'll see you gets home safe. An' about this\nengine--Jim--ain't you got ne'er a pal as can use a soldering iron?\nSeems to me that's about all the little bounder wants doing to it.\"\n\n\"That's what Father said,\" Bobbie explained eagerly. \"What's that for?\"\n\nShe pointed to a little brass wheel that he had turned as he spoke.\n\n\"That's the injector.\"\n\n\"In--what?\"\n\n\"Injector to fill up the boiler.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Bobbie, mentally registering the fact to tell the others;\n\"that IS interesting.\"\n\n\"This 'ere's the automatic brake,\" Bill went on, flattered by her\nenthusiasm. \"You just move this 'ere little handle--do it with one\nfinger, you can--and the train jolly soon stops. That's what they call\nthe Power of Science in the newspapers.\"\n\nHe showed her two little dials, like clock faces, and told her how one\nshowed how much steam was going, and the other showed if the brake was\nworking properly.\n\nBy the time she had seen him shut off steam with a big shining steel\nhandle, Bobbie knew more about the inside working of an engine than she\nhad ever thought there was to know, and Jim had promised that his second\ncousin's wife's brother should solder the toy engine, or Jim would know\nthe reason why. Besides all the knowledge she had gained Bobbie felt\nthat she and Bill and Jim were now friends for life, and that they had\nwholly and forever forgiven her for stumbling uninvited among the sacred\ncoals of their tender.\n\nAt Stacklepoole Junction she parted from them with warm expressions of\nmutual regard. They handed her over to the guard of a returning train--a\nfriend of theirs--and she had the joy of knowing what guards do in their\nsecret fastnesses, and understood how, when you pull the communication\ncord in railway carriages, a wheel goes round under the guard's nose and\na loud bell rings in his ears. She asked the guard why his van smelt\nso fishy, and learned that he had to carry a lot of fish every day, and\nthat the wetness in the hollows of the corrugated floor had all drained\nout of boxes full of plaice and cod and mackerel and soles and smelts.\n\nBobbie got home in time for tea, and she felt as though her mind would\nburst with all that had been put into it since she parted from the\nothers. How she blessed the nail that had torn her frock!\n\n\"Where have you been?\" asked the others.\n\n\"To the station, of course,\" said Roberta. But she would not tell a word\nof her adventures till the day appointed, when she mysteriously led them\nto the station at the hour of the 3.19's transit, and proudly introduced\nthem to her friends, Bill and Jim. Jim's second cousin's wife's brother\nhad not been unworthy of the sacred trust reposed in him. The toy engine\nwas, literally, as good as new.\n\n\"Good-bye--oh, good-bye,\" said Bobbie, just before the engine screamed\nITS good-bye. \"I shall always, always love you--and Jim's second\ncousin's wife's brother as well!\"\n\nAnd as the three children went home up the hill, Peter hugging the\nengine, now quite its own self again, Bobbie told, with joyous leaps of\nthe heart, the story of how she had been an Engine-burglar.\n\n\n\nChapter V. Prisoners and captives.\n\n\nIt was one day when Mother had gone to Maidbridge. She had gone alone,\nbut the children were to go to the station to meet her. And, loving the\nstation as they did, it was only natural that they should be there a\ngood hour before there was any chance of Mother's train arriving, even\nif the train were punctual, which was most unlikely. No doubt they would\nhave been just as early, even if it had been a fine day, and all the\ndelights of woods and fields and rocks and rivers had been open to them.\nBut it happened to be a very wet day and, for July, very cold. There was\na wild wind that drove flocks of dark purple clouds across the sky \"like\nherds of dream-elephants,\" as Phyllis said. And the rain stung sharply,\nso that the way to the station was finished at a run. Then the rain fell\nfaster and harder, and beat slantwise against the windows of the booking\noffice and of the chill place that had General Waiting Room on its door.\n\n\"It's like being in a besieged castle,\" Phyllis said; \"look at the\narrows of the foe striking against the battlements!\"\n\n\"It's much more like a great garden-squirt,\" said Peter.\n\nThey decided to wait on the up side, for the down platform looked very\nwet indeed, and the rain was driving right into the little bleak shelter\nwhere down-passengers have to wait for their trains.\n\nThe hour would be full of incident and of interest, for there would be\ntwo up trains and one down to look at before the one that should bring\nMother back.\n\n\"Perhaps it'll have stopped raining by then,\" said Bobbie; \"anyhow, I'm\nglad I brought Mother's waterproof and umbrella.\"\n\nThey went into the desert spot labelled General Waiting Room, and the\ntime passed pleasantly enough in a game of advertisements. You know the\ngame, of course? It is something like dumb Crambo. The players take\nit in turns to go out, and then come back and look as like some\nadvertisement as they can, and the others have to guess what\nadvertisement it is meant to be. Bobbie came in and sat down under\nMother's umbrella and made a sharp face, and everyone knew she was the\nfox who sits under the umbrella in the advertisement. Phyllis tried to\nmake a Magic Carpet of Mother's waterproof, but it would not stand out\nstiff and raft-like as a Magic Carpet should, and nobody could guess\nit. Everyone thought Peter was carrying things a little too far when he\nblacked his face all over with coal-dust and struck a spidery attitude\nand said he was the blot that advertises somebody's Blue Black Writing\nFluid.\n\nIt was Phyllis's turn again, and she was trying to look like the Sphinx\nthat advertises What's-his-name's Personally Conducted Tours up the Nile\nwhen the sharp ting of the signal announced the up train. The children\nrushed out to see it pass. On its engine were the particular driver\nand fireman who were now numbered among the children's dearest friends.\nCourtesies passed between them. Jim asked after the toy engine, and\nBobbie pressed on his acceptance a moist, greasy package of toffee that\nshe had made herself.\n\nCharmed by this attention, the engine-driver consented to consider her\nrequest that some day he would take Peter for a ride on the engine.\n\n\"Stand back, Mates,\" cried the engine-driver, suddenly, \"and horf she\ngoes.\"\n\nAnd sure enough, off the train went. The children watched the\ntail-lights of the train till it disappeared round the curve of the\nline, and then turned to go back to the dusty freedom of the General\nWaiting Room and the joys of the advertisement game.\n\nThey expected to see just one or two people, the end of the procession\nof passengers who had given up their tickets and gone away. Instead, the\nplatform round the door of the station had a dark blot round it, and the\ndark blot was a crowd of people.\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Peter, with a thrill of joyous excitement, \"something's\nhappened! Come on!\"\n\nThey ran down the platform. When they got to the crowd, they could, of\ncourse, see nothing but the damp backs and elbows of the people on the\ncrowd's outside. Everybody was talking at once. It was evident that\nsomething had happened.\n\n\"It's my belief he's nothing worse than a natural,\" said a\nfarmerish-looking person. Peter saw his red, clean-shaven face as he\nspoke.\n\n\"If you ask me, I should say it was a Police Court case,\" said a young\nman with a black bag.\n\n\"Not it; the Infirmary more like--\"\n\nThen the voice of the Station Master was heard, firm and official:--\n\n\"Now, then--move along there. I'll attend to this, if YOU please.\"\n\nBut the crowd did not move. And then came a voice that thrilled the\nchildren through and through. For it spoke in a foreign language. And,\nwhat is more, it was a language that they had never heard. They had\nheard French spoken and German. Aunt Emma knew German, and used to sing\na song about bedeuten and zeiten and bin and sin. Nor was it Latin.\nPeter had been in Latin for four terms.\n\nIt was some comfort, anyhow, to find that none of the crowd understood\nthe foreign language any better than the children did.\n\n\"What's that he's saying?\" asked the farmer, heavily.\n\n\"Sounds like French to me,\" said the Station Master, who had once been\nto Boulogne for the day.\n\n\"It isn't French!\" cried Peter.\n\n\"What is it, then?\" asked more than one voice. The crowd fell back a\nlittle to see who had spoken, and Peter pressed forward, so that when\nthe crowd closed up again he was in the front rank.\n\n\"I don't know what it is,\" said Peter, \"but it isn't French. I know\nthat.\" Then he saw what it was that the crowd had for its centre. It\nwas a man--the man, Peter did not doubt, who had spoken in that strange\ntongue. A man with long hair and wild eyes, with shabby clothes of a cut\nPeter had not seen before--a man whose hands and lips trembled, and who\nspoke again as his eyes fell on Peter.\n\n\"No, it's not French,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Try him with French if you know so much about it,\" said the farmer-man.\n\n\"Parlay voo Frongsay?\" began Peter, boldly, and the next moment the\ncrowd recoiled again, for the man with the wild eyes had left leaning\nagainst the wall, and had sprung forward and caught Peter's hands,\nand begun to pour forth a flood of words which, though he could not\nunderstand a word of them, Peter knew the sound of.\n\n\"There!\" said he, and turned, his hands still clasped in the hands of\nthe strange shabby figure, to throw a glance of triumph at the crowd;\n\"there; THAT'S French.\"\n\n\"What does he say?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\" Peter was obliged to own it.\n\n\"Here,\" said the Station Master again; \"you move on if you please. I'LL\ndeal with this case.\"\n\nA few of the more timid or less inquisitive travellers moved slowly and\nreluctantly away. And Phyllis and Bobbie got near to Peter. All three\nhad been TAUGHT French at school. How deeply they now wished that they\nhad LEARNED it! Peter shook his head at the stranger, but he also shook\nhis hands as warmly and looked at him as kindly as he could. A person\nin the crowd, after some hesitation, said suddenly, \"No comprenny!\" and\nthen, blushing deeply, backed out of the press and went away.\n\n\"Take him into your room,\" whispered Bobbie to the Station Master.\n\"Mother can talk French. She'll be here by the next train from\nMaidbridge.\"\n\nThe Station Master took the arm of the stranger, suddenly but not\nunkindly. But the man wrenched his arm away, and cowered back coughing\nand trembling and trying to push the Station Master away.\n\n\"Oh, don't!\" said Bobbie; \"don't you see how frightened he is? He thinks\nyou're going to shut him up. I know he does--look at his eyes!\"\n\n\"They're like a fox's eyes when the beast's in a trap,\" said the farmer.\n\n\"Oh, let me try!\" Bobbie went on; \"I do really know one or two French\nwords if I could only think of them.\"\n\nSometimes, in moments of great need, we can do wonderful things--things\nthat in ordinary life we could hardly even dream of doing. Bobbie had\nnever been anywhere near the top of her French class, but she must have\nlearned something without knowing it, for now, looking at those wild,\nhunted eyes, she actually remembered and, what is more, spoke, some\nFrench words. She said:--\n\n\"Vous attendre. Ma mere parlez Francais. Nous--what's the French for\n'being kind'?\"\n\nNobody knew.\n\n\"Bong is 'good,'\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"Nous etre bong pour vous.\"\n\nI do not know whether the man understood her words, but he understood\nthe touch of the hand she thrust into his, and the kindness of the other\nhand that stroked his shabby sleeve.\n\nShe pulled him gently towards the inmost sanctuary of the Station\nMaster. The other children followed, and the Station Master shut the\ndoor in the face of the crowd, which stood a little while in the booking\noffice talking and looking at the fast closed yellow door, and then by\nones and twos went its way, grumbling.\n\nInside the Station Master's room Bobbie still held the stranger's hand\nand stroked his sleeve.\n\n\"Here's a go,\" said the Station Master; \"no ticket--doesn't even know\nwhere he wants to go. I'm not sure now but what I ought to send for the\npolice.\"\n\n\"Oh, DON'T!\" all the children pleaded at once. And suddenly Bobbie\ngot between the others and the stranger, for she had seen that he was\ncrying.\n\nBy a most unusual piece of good fortune she had a handkerchief in\nher pocket. By a still more uncommon accident the handkerchief was\nmoderately clean. Standing in front of the stranger, she got out the\nhandkerchief and passed it to him so that the others did not see.\n\n\"Wait till Mother comes,\" Phyllis was saying; \"she does speak French\nbeautifully. You'd just love to hear her.\"\n\n\"I'm sure he hasn't done anything like you're sent to prison for,\" said\nPeter.\n\n\"Looks like without visible means to me,\" said the Station Master.\n\"Well, I don't mind giving him the benefit of the doubt till your Mamma\ncomes. I SHOULD like to know what nation's got the credit of HIM, that I\nshould.\"\n\nThen Peter had an idea. He pulled an envelope out of his pocket, and\nshowed that it was half full of foreign stamps.\n\n\"Look here,\" he said, \"let's show him these--\"\n\nBobbie looked and saw that the stranger had dried his eyes with her\nhandkerchief. So she said: \"All right.\"\n\nThey showed him an Italian stamp, and pointed from him to it and back\nagain, and made signs of question with their eyebrows. He shook his\nhead. Then they showed him a Norwegian stamp--the common blue kind it\nwas--and again he signed No. Then they showed him a Spanish one, and\nat that he took the envelope from Peter's hand and searched among the\nstamps with a hand that trembled. The hand that he reached out at last,\nwith a gesture as of one answering a question, contained a RUSSIAN\nstamp.\n\n\"He's Russian,\" cried Peter, \"or else he's like 'the man who was'--in\nKipling, you know.\"\n\nThe train from Maidbridge was signalled.\n\n\"I'll stay with him till you bring Mother in,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"You're not afraid, Missie?\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Bobbie, looking at the stranger, as she might have looked\nat a strange dog of doubtful temper. \"You wouldn't hurt me, would you?\"\n\nShe smiled at him, and he smiled back, a queer crooked smile. And then\nhe coughed again. And the heavy rattling swish of the incoming train\nswept past, and the Station Master and Peter and Phyllis went out to\nmeet it. Bobbie was still holding the stranger's hand when they came\nback with Mother.\n\nThe Russian rose and bowed very ceremoniously.\n\nThen Mother spoke in French, and he replied, haltingly at first, but\npresently in longer and longer sentences.\n\nThe children, watching his face and Mother's, knew that he was telling\nher things that made her angry and pitying, and sorry and indignant all\nat once.\n\n\"Well, Mum, what's it all about?\" The Station Master could not restrain\nhis curiosity any longer.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Mother, \"it's all right. He's a Russian, and he's lost his\nticket. And I'm afraid he's very ill. If you don't mind, I'll take him\nhome with me now. He's really quite worn out. I'll run down and tell you\nall about him to-morrow.\"\n\n\"I hope you won't find you're taking home a frozen viper,\" said the\nStation Master, doubtfully.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" Mother said brightly, and she smiled; \"I'm quite sure I'm\nnot. Why, he's a great man in his own country, writes books--beautiful\nbooks--I've read some of them; but I'll tell you all about it\nto-morrow.\"\n\nShe spoke again in French to the Russian, and everyone could see the\nsurprise and pleasure and gratitude in his eyes. He got up and politely\nbowed to the Station Master, and offered his arm most ceremoniously to\nMother. She took it, but anybody could have seen that she was helping\nhim along, and not he her.\n\n\"You girls run home and light a fire in the sitting-room,\" Mother said,\n\"and Peter had better go for the Doctor.\"\n\nBut it was Bobbie who went for the Doctor.\n\n\"I hate to tell you,\" she said breathlessly when she came upon him\nin his shirt sleeves, weeding his pansy-bed, \"but Mother's got a very\nshabby Russian, and I'm sure he'll have to belong to your Club. I'm\ncertain he hasn't got any money. We found him at the station.\"\n\n\"Found him! Was he lost, then?\" asked the Doctor, reaching for his coat.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Bobbie, unexpectedly, \"that's just what he was. He's been\ntelling Mother the sad, sweet story of his life in French; and she said\nwould you be kind enough to come directly if you were at home. He has a\ndreadful cough, and he's been crying.\"\n\nThe Doctor smiled.\n\n\"Oh, don't,\" said Bobbie; \"please don't. You wouldn't if you'd seen him.\nI never saw a man cry before. You don't know what it's like.\"\n\nDr. Forrest wished then that he hadn't smiled.\n\nWhen Bobbie and the Doctor got to Three Chimneys, the Russian was\nsitting in the arm-chair that had been Father's, stretching his feet\nto the blaze of a bright wood fire, and sipping the tea Mother had made\nhim.\n\n\"The man seems worn out, mind and body,\" was what the Doctor said; \"the\ncough's bad, but there's nothing that can't be cured. He ought to go\nstraight to bed, though--and let him have a fire at night.\"\n\n\"I'll make one in my room; it's the only one with a fireplace,\" said\nMother. She did, and presently the Doctor helped the stranger to bed.\n\nThere was a big black trunk in Mother's room that none of the children\nhad ever seen unlocked. Now, when she had lighted the fire, she unlocked\nit and took some clothes out--men's clothes--and set them to air by the\nnewly lighted fire. Bobbie, coming in with more wood for the fire, saw\nthe mark on the night-shirt, and looked over to the open trunk. All\nthe things she could see were men's clothes. And the name marked on the\nshirt was Father's name. Then Father hadn't taken his clothes with him.\nAnd that night-shirt was one of Father's new ones. Bobbie remembered its\nbeing made, just before Peter's birthday. Why hadn't Father taken his\nclothes? Bobbie slipped from the room. As she went she heard the key\nturned in the lock of the trunk. Her heart was beating horribly. WHY\nhadn't Father taken his clothes? When Mother came out of the room,\nBobbie flung tightly clasping arms round her waist, and whispered:--\n\n\"Mother--Daddy isn't--isn't DEAD, is he?\"\n\n\"My darling, no! What made you think of anything so horrible?\"\n\n\"I--I don't know,\" said Bobbie, angry with herself, but still clinging\nto that resolution of hers, not to see anything that Mother didn't mean\nher to see.\n\nMother gave her a hurried hug. \"Daddy was quite, QUITE well when I heard\nfrom him last,\" she said, \"and he'll come back to us some day. Don't\nfancy such horrible things, darling!\"\n\nLater on, when the Russian stranger had been made comfortable for the\nnight, Mother came into the girls' room. She was to sleep there in\nPhyllis's bed, and Phyllis was to have a mattress on the floor, a\nmost amusing adventure for Phyllis. Directly Mother came in, two white\nfigures started up, and two eager voices called:--\n\n\"Now, Mother, tell us all about the Russian gentleman.\"\n\nA white shape hopped into the room. It was Peter, dragging his quilt\nbehind him like the tail of a white peacock.\n\n\"We have been patient,\" he said, \"and I had to bite my tongue not to\ngo to sleep, and I just nearly went to sleep and I bit too hard, and it\nhurts ever so. DO tell us. Make a nice long story of it.\"\n\n\"I can't make a long story of it to-night,\" said Mother; \"I'm very\ntired.\"\n\nBobbie knew by her voice that Mother had been crying, but the others\ndidn't know.\n\n\"Well, make it as long as you can,\" said Phil, and Bobbie got her arms\nround Mother's waist and snuggled close to her.\n\n\"Well, it's a story long enough to make a whole book of. He's a writer;\nhe's written beautiful books. In Russia at the time of the Czar one\ndared not say anything about the rich people doing wrong, or about the\nthings that ought to be done to make poor people better and happier. If\none did one was sent to prison.\"\n\n\"But they CAN'T,\" said Peter; \"people only go to prison when they've\ndone wrong.\"\n\n\"Or when the Judges THINK they've done wrong,\" said Mother. \"Yes, that's\nso in England. But in Russia it was different. And he wrote a beautiful\nbook about poor people and how to help them. I've read it. There's\nnothing in it but goodness and kindness. And they sent him to prison for\nit. He was three years in a horrible dungeon, with hardly any light, and\nall damp and dreadful. In prison all alone for three years.\"\n\nMother's voice trembled a little and stopped suddenly.\n\n\"But, Mother,\" said Peter, \"that can't be true NOW. It sounds like\nsomething out of a history book--the Inquisition, or something.\"\n\n\"It WAS true,\" said Mother; \"it's all horribly true. Well, then they\ntook him out and sent him to Siberia, a convict chained to other\nconvicts--wicked men who'd done all sorts of crimes--a long chain of\nthem, and they walked, and walked, and walked, for days and weeks, till\nhe thought they'd never stop walking. And overseers went behind them\nwith whips--yes, whips--to beat them if they got tired. And some of them\nwent lame, and some fell down, and when they couldn't get up and go on,\nthey beat them, and then left them to die. Oh, it's all too terrible!\nAnd at last he got to the mines, and he was condemned to stay there for\nlife--for life, just for writing a good, noble, splendid book.\"\n\n\"How did he get away?\"\n\n\"When the war came, some of the Russian prisoners were allowed to\nvolunteer as soldiers. And he volunteered. But he deserted at the first\nchance he got and--\"\n\n\"But that's very cowardly, isn't it\"--said Peter--\"to desert? Especially\nwhen it's war.\"\n\n\"Do you think he owed anything to a country that had done THAT to him?\nIf he did, he owed more to his wife and children. He didn't know what\nhad become of them.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" cried Bobbie, \"he had THEM to think about and be miserable about\nTOO, then, all the time he was in prison?\"\n\n\"Yes, he had them to think about and be miserable about all the time he\nwas in prison. For anything he knew they might have been sent to prison,\ntoo. They did those things in Russia. But while he was in the mines some\nfriends managed to get a message to him that his wife and children had\nescaped and come to England. So when he deserted he came here to look\nfor them.\"\n\n\"Had he got their address?\" said practical Peter.\n\n\"No; just England. He was going to London, and he thought he had to\nchange at our station, and then he found he'd lost his ticket and his\npurse.\"\n\n\"Oh, DO you think he'll find them?--I mean his wife and children, not\nthe ticket and things.\"\n\n\"I hope so. Oh, I hope and pray that he'll find his wife and children\nagain.\"\n\nEven Phyllis now perceived that mother's voice was very unsteady.\n\n\"Why, Mother,\" she said, \"how very sorry you seem to be for him!\"\n\nMother didn't answer for a minute. Then she just said, \"Yes,\" and then\nshe seemed to be thinking. The children were quiet.\n\nPresently she said, \"Dears, when you say your prayers, I think you might\nask God to show His pity upon all prisoners and captives.\"\n\n\"To show His pity,\" Bobbie repeated slowly, \"upon all prisoners and\ncaptives. Is that right, Mother?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mother, \"upon all prisoners and captives. All prisoners and\ncaptives.\"\n\n\n\nChapter VI. Saviours of the train.\n\n\nThe Russian gentleman was better the next day, and the day after that\nbetter still, and on the third day he was well enough to come into the\ngarden. A basket chair was put for him and he sat there, dressed in\nclothes of Father's which were too big for him. But when Mother had\nhemmed up the ends of the sleeves and the trousers, the clothes did\nwell enough. His was a kind face now that it was no longer tired and\nfrightened, and he smiled at the children whenever he saw them. They\nwished very much that he could speak English. Mother wrote several\nletters to people she thought might know whereabouts in England a\nRussian gentleman's wife and family might possibly be; not to the people\nshe used to know before she came to live at Three Chimneys--she never\nwrote to any of them--but strange people--Members of Parliament and\nEditors of papers, and Secretaries of Societies.\n\nAnd she did not do much of her story-writing, only corrected proofs as\nshe sat in the sun near the Russian, and talked to him every now and\nthen.\n\nThe children wanted very much to show how kindly they felt to this man\nwho had been sent to prison and to Siberia just for writing a beautiful\nbook about poor people. They could smile at him, of course; they could\nand they did. But if you smile too constantly, the smile is apt to\nget fixed like the smile of the hyaena. And then it no longer looks\nfriendly, but simply silly. So they tried other ways, and brought him\nflowers till the place where he sat was surrounded by little fading\nbunches of clover and roses and Canterbury bells.\n\nAnd then Phyllis had an idea. She beckoned mysteriously to the others\nand drew them into the back yard, and there, in a concealed spot,\nbetween the pump and the water-butt, she said:--\n\n\"You remember Perks promising me the very first strawberries out of his\nown garden?\" Perks, you will recollect, was the Porter. \"Well, I should\nthink they're ripe now. Let's go down and see.\"\n\nMother had been down as she had promised to tell the Station Master the\nstory of the Russian Prisoner. But even the charms of the railway had\nbeen unable to tear the children away from the neighbourhood of the\ninteresting stranger. So they had not been to the station for three\ndays.\n\nThey went now.\n\nAnd, to their surprise and distress, were very coldly received by Perks.\n\n\"'Ighly honoured, I'm sure,\" he said when they peeped in at the door of\nthe Porters' room. And he went on reading his newspaper.\n\nThere was an uncomfortable silence.\n\n\"Oh, dear,\" said Bobbie, with a sigh, \"I do believe you're CROSS.\"\n\n\"What, me? Not me!\" said Perks loftily; \"it ain't nothing to me.\"\n\n\"What AIN'T nothing to you?\" said Peter, too anxious and alarmed to\nchange the form of words.\n\n\"Nothing ain't nothing. What 'appens either 'ere or elsewhere,\" said\nPerks; \"if you likes to 'ave your secrets, 'ave 'em and welcome. That's\nwhat I say.\"\n\nThe secret-chamber of each heart was rapidly examined during the pause\nthat followed. Three heads were shaken.\n\n\"We haven't got any secrets from YOU,\" said Bobbie at last.\n\n\"Maybe you 'ave, and maybe you 'aven't,\" said Perks; \"it ain't nothing\nto me. And I wish you all a very good afternoon.\" He held up the paper\nbetween him and them and went on reading.\n\n\"Oh, DON'T!\" said Phyllis, in despair; \"this is truly dreadful! Whatever\nit is, do tell us.\"\n\n\"We didn't mean to do it whatever it was.\"\n\nNo answer. The paper was refolded and Perks began on another column.\n\n\"Look here,\" said Peter, suddenly, \"it's not fair. Even people who do\ncrimes aren't punished without being told what it's for--as once they\nwere in Russia.\"\n\n\"I don't know nothing about Russia.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, you do, when Mother came down on purpose to tell you and Mr.\nGills all about OUR Russian.\"\n\n\"Can't you fancy it?\" said Perks, indignantly; \"don't you see 'im\na-asking of me to step into 'is room and take a chair and listen to what\n'er Ladyship 'as to say?\"\n\n\"Do you mean to say you've not heard?\"\n\n\"Not so much as a breath. I did go so far as to put a question. And he\nshuts me up like a rat-trap. 'Affairs of State, Perks,' says he. But I\ndid think one o' you would 'a' nipped down to tell me--you're here sharp\nenough when you want to get anything out of old Perks\"--Phyllis\nflushed purple as she thought of the strawberries--\"information about\nlocomotives or signals or the likes,\" said Perks.\n\n\"We didn't know you didn't know.\"\n\n\"We thought Mother had told you.\"\n\n\"Wewantedtotellyouonlywethoughtitwouldbestalenews.\"\n\nThe three spoke all at once.\n\nPerks said it was all very well, and still held up the paper. Then\nPhyllis suddenly snatched it away, and threw her arms round his neck.\n\n\"Oh, let's kiss and be friends,\" she said; \"we'll say we're sorry first,\nif you like, but we didn't really know that you didn't know.\"\n\n\"We are so sorry,\" said the others.\n\nAnd Perks at last consented to accept their apologies.\n\nThen they got him to come out and sit in the sun on the green Railway\nBank, where the grass was quite hot to touch, and there, sometimes\nspeaking one at a time, and sometimes all together, they told the Porter\nthe story of the Russian Prisoner.\n\n\"Well, I must say,\" said Perks; but he did not say it--whatever it was.\n\n\"Yes, it is pretty awful, isn't it?\" said Peter, \"and I don't wonder you\nwere curious about who the Russian was.\"\n\n\"I wasn't curious, not so much as interested,\" said the Porter.\n\n\"Well, I do think Mr. Gills might have told you about it. It was horrid\nof him.\"\n\n\"I don't keep no down on 'im for that, Missie,\" said the Porter; \"cos\nwhy? I see 'is reasons. 'E wouldn't want to give away 'is own side with\na tale like that 'ere. It ain't human nature. A man's got to stand\nup for his own side whatever they does. That's what it means by Party\nPolitics. I should 'a' done the same myself if that long-'aired chap 'ad\n'a' been a Jap.\"\n\n\"But the Japs didn't do cruel, wicked things like that,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"P'r'aps not,\" said Perks, cautiously; \"still you can't be sure with\nforeigners. My own belief is they're all tarred with the same brush.\"\n\n\"Then why were you on the side of the Japs?\" Peter asked.\n\n\"Well, you see, you must take one side or the other. Same as with\nLiberals and Conservatives. The great thing is to take your side and\nthen stick to it, whatever happens.\"\n\nA signal sounded.\n\n\"There's the 3.14 up,\" said Perks. \"You lie low till she's through,\nand then we'll go up along to my place, and see if there's any of them\nstrawberries ripe what I told you about.\"\n\n\"If there are any ripe, and you DO give them to me,\" said Phyllis, \"you\nwon't mind if I give them to the poor Russian, will you?\"\n\nPerks narrowed his eyes and then raised his eyebrows.\n\n\"So it was them strawberries you come down for this afternoon, eh?\" said\nhe.\n\nThis was an awkward moment for Phyllis. To say \"yes\" would seem rude and\ngreedy, and unkind to Perks. But she knew if she said \"no,\" she would\nnot be pleased with herself afterwards. So--\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"it was.\"\n\n\"Well done!\" said the Porter; \"speak the truth and shame the--\"\n\n\"But we'd have come down the very next day if we'd known you hadn't\nheard the story,\" Phyllis added hastily.\n\n\"I believe you, Missie,\" said Perks, and sprang across the line six feet\nin front of the advancing train.\n\nThe girls hated to see him do this, but Peter liked it. It was so\nexciting.\n\nThe Russian gentleman was so delighted with the strawberries that the\nthree racked their brains to find some other surprise for him. But all\nthe racking did not bring out any idea more novel than wild cherries.\nAnd this idea occurred to them next morning. They had seen the blossom\non the trees in the spring, and they knew where to look for wild\ncherries now that cherry time was here. The trees grew all up and along\nthe rocky face of the cliff out of which the mouth of the tunnel opened.\nThere were all sorts of trees there, birches and beeches and baby oaks\nand hazels, and among them the cherry blossom had shone like snow and\nsilver.\n\nThe mouth of the tunnel was some way from Three Chimneys, so Mother let\nthem take their lunch with them in a basket. And the basket would do\nto bring the cherries back in if they found any. She also lent them her\nsilver watch so that they should not be late for tea. Peter's Waterbury\nhad taken it into its head not to go since the day when Peter dropped it\ninto the water-butt. And they started. When they got to the top of the\ncutting, they leaned over the fence and looked down to where the railway\nlines lay at the bottom of what, as Phyllis said, was exactly like a\nmountain gorge.\n\n\"If it wasn't for the railway at the bottom, it would be as though the\nfoot of man had never been there, wouldn't it?\"\n\nThe sides of the cutting were of grey stone, very roughly hewn. Indeed,\nthe top part of the cutting had been a little natural glen that had been\ncut deeper to bring it down to the level of the tunnel's mouth. Among\nthe rocks, grass and flowers grew, and seeds dropped by birds in the\ncrannies of the stone had taken root and grown into bushes and trees\nthat overhung the cutting. Near the tunnel was a flight of steps leading\ndown to the line--just wooden bars roughly fixed into the earth--a very\nsteep and narrow way, more like a ladder than a stair.\n\n\"We'd better get down,\" said Peter; \"I'm sure the cherries would be\nquite easy to get at from the side of the steps. You remember it was\nthere we picked the cherry blossoms that we put on the rabbit's grave.\"\n\nSo they went along the fence towards the little swing gate that is at\nthe top of these steps. And they were almost at the gate when Bobbie\nsaid:--\n\n\"Hush. Stop! What's that?\"\n\n\"That\" was a very odd noise indeed--a soft noise, but quite plainly to\nbe heard through the sound of the wind in tree branches, and the hum\nand whir of the telegraph wires. It was a sort of rustling, whispering\nsound. As they listened it stopped, and then it began again.\n\nAnd this time it did not stop, but it grew louder and more rustling and\nrumbling.\n\n\"Look\"--cried Peter, suddenly--\"the tree over there!\"\n\nThe tree he pointed at was one of those that have rough grey leaves and\nwhite flowers. The berries, when they come, are bright scarlet, but if\nyou pick them, they disappoint you by turning black before you get them\nhome. And, as Peter pointed, the tree was moving--not just the way trees\nought to move when the wind blows through them, but all in one piece,\nas though it were a live creature and were walking down the side of the\ncutting.\n\n\"It's moving!\" cried Bobbie. \"Oh, look! and so are the others. It's like\nthe woods in Macbeth.\"\n\n\"It's magic,\" said Phyllis, breathlessly. \"I always knew this railway\nwas enchanted.\"\n\nIt really did seem a little like magic. For all the trees for about\ntwenty yards of the opposite bank seemed to be slowly walking down\ntowards the railway line, the tree with the grey leaves bringing up the\nrear like some old shepherd driving a flock of green sheep.\n\n\"What is it? Oh, what is it?\" said Phyllis; \"it's much too magic for me.\nI don't like it. Let's go home.\"\n\nBut Bobbie and Peter clung fast to the rail and watched breathlessly.\nAnd Phyllis made no movement towards going home by herself.\n\nThe trees moved on and on. Some stones and loose earth fell down and\nrattled on the railway metals far below.\n\n\"It's ALL coming down,\" Peter tried to say, but he found there was\nhardly any voice to say it with. And, indeed, just as he spoke, the\ngreat rock, on the top of which the walking trees were, leaned slowly\nforward. The trees, ceasing to walk, stood still and shivered. Leaning\nwith the rock, they seemed to hesitate a moment, and then rock and trees\nand grass and bushes, with a rushing sound, slipped right away from the\nface of the cutting and fell on the line with a blundering crash that\ncould have been heard half a mile off. A cloud of dust rose up.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Peter, in awestruck tones, \"isn't it exactly like when coals\ncome in?--if there wasn't any roof to the cellar and you could see\ndown.\"\n\n\"Look what a great mound it's made!\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter, slowly. He was still leaning on the fence. \"Yes,\" he\nsaid again, still more slowly.\n\nThen he stood upright.\n\n\"The 11.29 down hasn't gone by yet. We must let them know at the\nstation, or there'll be a most frightful accident.\"\n\n\"Let's run,\" said Bobbie, and began.\n\nBut Peter cried, \"Come back!\" and looked at Mother's watch. He was very\nprompt and businesslike, and his face looked whiter than they had ever\nseen it.\n\n\"No time,\" he said; \"it's two miles away, and it's past eleven.\"\n\n\"Couldn't we,\" suggested Phyllis, breathlessly, \"couldn't we climb up a\ntelegraph post and do something to the wires?\"\n\n\"We don't know how,\" said Peter.\n\n\"They do it in war,\" said Phyllis; \"I know I've heard of it.\"\n\n\"They only CUT them, silly,\" said Peter, \"and that doesn't do any good.\nAnd we couldn't cut them even if we got up, and we couldn't get up. If\nwe had anything red, we could get down on the line and wave it.\"\n\n\"But the train wouldn't see us till it got round the corner, and then it\ncould see the mound just as well as us,\" said Phyllis; \"better, because\nit's much bigger than us.\"\n\n\"If we only had something red,\" Peter repeated, \"we could go round the\ncorner and wave to the train.\"\n\n\"We might wave, anyway.\"\n\n\"They'd only think it was just US, as usual. We've waved so often\nbefore. Anyway, let's get down.\"\n\nThey got down the steep stairs. Bobbie was pale and shivering. Peter's\nface looked thinner than usual. Phyllis was red-faced and damp with\nanxiety.\n\n\"Oh, how hot I am!\" she said; \"and I thought it was going to be cold; I\nwish we hadn't put on our--\" she stopped short, and then ended in quite\na different tone--\"our flannel petticoats.\"\n\nBobbie turned at the bottom of the stairs.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" she cried; \"THEY'RE red! Let's take them off.\"\n\nThey did, and with the petticoats rolled up under their arms, ran along\nthe railway, skirting the newly fallen mound of stones and rock and\nearth, and bent, crushed, twisted trees. They ran at their best pace.\nPeter led, but the girls were not far behind. They reached the corner\nthat hid the mound from the straight line of railway that ran half a\nmile without curve or corner.\n\n\"Now,\" said Peter, taking hold of the largest flannel petticoat.\n\n\"You're not\"--Phyllis faltered--\"you're not going to TEAR them?\"\n\n\"Shut up,\" said Peter, with brief sternness.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said Bobbie, \"tear them into little bits if you like. Don't\nyou see, Phil, if we can't stop the train, there'll be a real live\naccident, with people KILLED. Oh, horrible! Here, Peter, you'll never\ntear it through the band!\"\n\nShe took the red flannel petticoat from him and tore it off an inch from\nthe band. Then she tore the other in the same way.\n\n\"There!\" said Peter, tearing in his turn. He divided each petticoat into\nthree pieces. \"Now, we've got six flags.\" He looked at the watch again.\n\"And we've got seven minutes. We must have flagstaffs.\"\n\nThe knives given to boys are, for some odd reason, seldom of the kind\nof steel that keeps sharp. The young saplings had to be broken off. Two\ncame up by the roots. The leaves were stripped from them.\n\n\"We must cut holes in the flags, and run the sticks through the holes,\"\nsaid Peter. And the holes were cut. The knife was sharp enough to cut\nflannel with. Two of the flags were set up in heaps of loose stones\nbetween the sleepers of the down line. Then Phyllis and Roberta took\neach a flag, and stood ready to wave it as soon as the train came in\nsight.\n\n\"I shall have the other two myself,\" said Peter, \"because it was my idea\nto wave something red.\"\n\n\"They're our petticoats, though,\" Phyllis was beginning, but Bobbie\ninterrupted--\n\n\"Oh, what does it matter who waves what, if we can only save the train?\"\n\nPerhaps Peter had not rightly calculated the number of minutes it would\ntake the 11.29 to get from the station to the place where they were, or\nperhaps the train was late. Anyway, it seemed a very long time that they\nwaited.\n\nPhyllis grew impatient. \"I expect the watch is wrong, and the train's\ngone by,\" said she.\n\nPeter relaxed the heroic attitude he had chosen to show off his two\nflags. And Bobbie began to feel sick with suspense.\n\nIt seemed to her that they had been standing there for hours and hours,\nholding those silly little red flannel flags that no one would ever\nnotice. The train wouldn't care. It would go rushing by them and tear\nround the corner and go crashing into that awful mound. And everyone\nwould be killed. Her hands grew very cold and trembled so that she could\nhardly hold the flag. And then came the distant rumble and hum of the\nmetals, and a puff of white steam showed far away along the stretch of\nline.\n\n\"Stand firm,\" said Peter, \"and wave like mad! When it gets to that\nbig furze bush step back, but go on waving! Don't stand ON the line,\nBobbie!\"\n\nThe train came rattling along very, very fast.\n\n\"They don't see us! They won't see us! It's all no good!\" cried Bobbie.\n\nThe two little flags on the line swayed as the nearing train shook and\nloosened the heaps of loose stones that held them up. One of them slowly\nleaned over and fell on the line. Bobbie jumped forward and caught it\nup, and waved it; her hands did not tremble now.\n\nIt seemed that the train came on as fast as ever. It was very near now.\n\n\"Keep off the line, you silly cuckoo!\" said Peter, fiercely.\n\n\"It's no good,\" Bobbie said again.\n\n\"Stand back!\" cried Peter, suddenly, and he dragged Phyllis back by the\narm.\n\nBut Bobbie cried, \"Not yet, not yet!\" and waved her two flags right over\nthe line. The front of the engine looked black and enormous. Its voice\nwas loud and harsh.\n\n\"Oh, stop, stop, stop!\" cried Bobbie. No one heard her. At least Peter\nand Phyllis didn't, for the oncoming rush of the train covered the sound\nof her voice with a mountain of sound. But afterwards she used to wonder\nwhether the engine itself had not heard her. It seemed almost as though\nit had--for it slackened swiftly, slackened and stopped, not twenty\nyards from the place where Bobbie's two flags waved over the line. She\nsaw the great black engine stop dead, but somehow she could not stop\nwaving the flags. And when the driver and the fireman had got off the\nengine and Peter and Phyllis had gone to meet them and pour out their\nexcited tale of the awful mound just round the corner, Bobbie still\nwaved the flags but more and more feebly and jerkily.\n\nWhen the others turned towards her she was lying across the line with\nher hands flung forward and still gripping the sticks of the little red\nflannel flags.\n\nThe engine-driver picked her up, carried her to the train, and laid her\non the cushions of a first-class carriage.\n\n\"Gone right off in a faint,\" he said, \"poor little woman. And no wonder.\nI'll just 'ave a look at this 'ere mound of yours, and then we'll run\nyou back to the station and get her seen to.\"\n\nIt was horrible to see Bobbie lying so white and quiet, with her lips\nblue, and parted.\n\n\"I believe that's what people look like when they're dead,\" whispered\nPhyllis.\n\n\"DON'T!\" said Peter, sharply.\n\nThey sat by Bobbie on the blue cushions, and the train ran back. Before\nit reached their station Bobbie had sighed and opened her eyes,\nand rolled herself over and begun to cry. This cheered the others\nwonderfully. They had seen her cry before, but they had never seen her\nfaint, nor anyone else, for the matter of that. They had not known what\nto do when she was fainting, but now she was only crying they could\nthump her on the back and tell her not to, just as they always did. And\npresently, when she stopped crying, they were able to laugh at her for\nbeing such a coward as to faint.\n\nWhen the station was reached, the three were the heroes of an agitated\nmeeting on the platform.\n\nThe praises they got for their \"prompt action,\" their \"common sense,\"\ntheir \"ingenuity,\" were enough to have turned anybody's head. Phyllis\nenjoyed herself thoroughly. She had never been a real heroine before,\nand the feeling was delicious. Peter's ears got very red. Yet he, too,\nenjoyed himself. Only Bobbie wished they all wouldn't. She wanted to get\naway.\n\n\"You'll hear from the Company about this, I expect,\" said the Station\nMaster.\n\nBobbie wished she might never hear of it again. She pulled at Peter's\njacket.\n\n\"Oh, come away, come away! I want to go home,\" she said.\n\nSo they went. And as they went Station Master and Porter and guards and\ndriver and fireman and passengers sent up a cheer.\n\n\"Oh, listen,\" cried Phyllis; \"that's for US!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter. \"I say, I am glad I thought about something red, and\nwaving it.\"\n\n\"How lucky we DID put on our red flannel petticoats!\" said Phyllis.\n\nBobbie said nothing. She was thinking of the horrible mound, and the\ntrustful train rushing towards it.\n\n\"And it was US that saved them,\" said Peter.\n\n\"How dreadful if they had all been killed!\" said Phyllis; \"wouldn't it,\nBobbie?\"\n\n\"We never got any cherries, after all,\" said Bobbie.\n\nThe others thought her rather heartless.\n\n\n\nChapter VII. For valour.\n\n\nI hope you don't mind my telling you a good deal about Roberta. The fact\nis I am growing very fond of her. The more I observe her the more I love\nher. And I notice all sorts of things about her that I like.\n\nFor instance, she was quite oddly anxious to make other people happy.\nAnd she could keep a secret, a tolerably rare accomplishment. Also she\nhad the power of silent sympathy. That sounds rather dull, I know, but\nit's not so dull as it sounds. It just means that a person is able\nto know that you are unhappy, and to love you extra on that account,\nwithout bothering you by telling you all the time how sorry she is\nfor you. That was what Bobbie was like. She knew that Mother was\nunhappy--and that Mother had not told her the reason. So she just loved\nMother more and never said a single word that could let Mother know how\nearnestly her little girl wondered what Mother was unhappy about. This\nneeds practice. It is not so easy as you might think.\n\nWhatever happened--and all sorts of nice, pleasant ordinary things\nhappened--such as picnics, games, and buns for tea, Bobbie always had\nthese thoughts at the back of her mind. \"Mother's unhappy. Why? I don't\nknow. She doesn't want me to know. I won't try to find out. But she\nIS unhappy. Why? I don't know. She doesn't--\" and so on, repeating and\nrepeating like a tune that you don't know the stopping part of.\n\nThe Russian gentleman still took up a good deal of everybody's thoughts.\nAll the editors and secretaries of Societies and Members of Parliament\nhad answered Mother's letters as politely as they knew how; but none of\nthem could tell where the wife and children of Mr. Szezcpansky would be\nlikely to be. (Did I tell you that the Russian's very Russian name was\nthat?)\n\nBobbie had another quality which you will hear differently described\nby different people. Some of them call it interfering in other people's\nbusiness--and some call it \"helping lame dogs over stiles,\" and some\ncall it \"loving-kindness.\" It just means trying to help people.\n\nShe racked her brains to think of some way of helping the Russian\ngentleman to find his wife and children. He had learned a few words\nof English now. He could say \"Good morning,\" and \"Good night,\" and\n\"Please,\" and \"Thank you,\" and \"Pretty,\" when the children brought him\nflowers, and \"Ver' good,\" when they asked him how he had slept.\n\nThe way he smiled when he \"said his English,\" was, Bobbie felt, \"just\ntoo sweet for anything.\" She used to think of his face because she\nfancied it would help her to some way of helping him. But it did not.\nYet his being there cheered her because she saw that it made Mother\nhappier.\n\n\"She likes to have someone to be good to, even beside us,\" said Bobbie.\n\"And I know she hated to let him have Father's clothes. But I suppose it\n'hurt nice,' or she wouldn't have.\"\n\nFor many and many a night after the day when she and Peter and Phyllis\nhad saved the train from wreck by waving their little red flannel flags,\nBobbie used to wake screaming and shivering, seeing again that horrible\nmound, and the poor, dear trustful engine rushing on towards it--just\nthinking that it was doing its swift duty, and that everything was clear\nand safe. And then a warm thrill of pleasure used to run through her\nat the remembrance of how she and Peter and Phyllis and the red flannel\npetticoats had really saved everybody.\n\nOne morning a letter came. It was addressed to Peter and Bobbie and\nPhyllis. They opened it with enthusiastic curiosity, for they did not\noften get letters.\n\nThe letter said:--\n\n\"Dear Sir, and Ladies,--It is proposed to make a small presentation to\nyou, in commemoration of your prompt and courageous action in warning\nthe train on the --- inst., and thus averting what must, humanly\nspeaking, have been a terrible accident. The presentation will take\nplace at the --- Station at three o'clock on the 30th inst., if this\ntime and place will be convenient to you.\n\n          \"Yours faithfully,\n\n                    \"Jabez Inglewood.\n\"Secretary, Great Northern and Southern Railway Co.\"\n\nThere never had been a prouder moment in the lives of the three\nchildren. They rushed to Mother with the letter, and she also felt proud\nand said so, and this made the children happier than ever.\n\n\"But if the presentation is money, you must say, 'Thank you, but we'd\nrather not take it,'\" said Mother. \"I'll wash your Indian muslins at\nonce,\" she added. \"You must look tidy on an occasion like this.\"\n\n\"Phil and I can wash them,\" said Bobbie, \"if you'll iron them, Mother.\"\n\nWashing is rather fun. I wonder whether you've ever done it? This\nparticular washing took place in the back kitchen, which had a stone\nfloor and a very big stone sink under its window.\n\n\"Let's put the bath on the sink,\" said Phyllis; \"then we can pretend\nwe're out-of-doors washerwomen like Mother saw in France.\"\n\n\"But they were washing in the cold river,\" said Peter, his hands in his\npockets, \"not in hot water.\"\n\n\"This is a HOT river, then,\" said Phyllis; \"lend a hand with the bath,\nthere's a dear.\"\n\n\"I should like to see a deer lending a hand,\" said Peter, but he lent\nhis.\n\n\"Now to rub and scrub and scrub and rub,\" said Phyllis, hopping joyously\nabout as Bobbie carefully carried the heavy kettle from the kitchen\nfire.\n\n\"Oh, no!\" said Bobbie, greatly shocked; \"you don't rub muslin. You put\nthe boiled soap in the hot water and make it all frothy-lathery--and\nthen you shake the muslin and squeeze it, ever so gently, and all the\ndirt comes out. It's only clumsy things like tablecloths and sheets that\nhave to be rubbed.\"\n\nThe lilac and the Gloire de Dijon roses outside the window swayed in the\nsoft breeze.\n\n\"It's a nice drying day--that's one thing,\" said Bobbie, feeling very\ngrown up. \"Oh, I do wonder what wonderful feelings we shall have when we\nWEAR the Indian muslin dresses!\"\n\n\"Yes, so do I,\" said Phyllis, shaking and squeezing the muslin in quite\na professional manner.\n\n\"NOW we squeeze out the soapy water. NO--we mustn't twist them--and then\nrinse them. I'll hold them while you and Peter empty the bath and get\nclean water.\"\n\n\"A presentation! That means presents,\" said Peter, as his sisters,\nhaving duly washed the pegs and wiped the line, hung up the dresses to\ndry. \"Whatever will it be?\"\n\n\"It might be anything,\" said Phyllis; \"what I've always wanted is a Baby\nelephant--but I suppose they wouldn't know that.\"\n\n\"Suppose it was gold models of steam-engines?\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Or a big model of the scene of the prevented accident,\" suggested\nPeter, \"with a little model train, and dolls dressed like us and the\nengine-driver and fireman and passengers.\"\n\n\"Do you LIKE,\" said Bobbie, doubtfully, drying her hands on the rough\ntowel that hung on a roller at the back of the scullery door, \"do you\nLIKE us being rewarded for saving a train?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do,\" said Peter, downrightly; \"and don't you try to come it over\nus that you don't like it, too. Because I know you do.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Bobbie, doubtfully, \"I know I do. But oughtn't we to be\nsatisfied with just having done it, and not ask for anything more?\"\n\n\"Who did ask for anything more, silly?\" said her brother; \"Victoria\nCross soldiers don't ASK for it; but they're glad enough to get it all\nthe same. Perhaps it'll be medals. Then, when I'm very old indeed, I\nshall show them to my grandchildren and say, 'We only did our duty,' and\nthey'll be awfully proud of me.\"\n\n\"You have to be married,\" warned Phyllis, \"or you don't have any\ngrandchildren.\"\n\n\"I suppose I shall HAVE to be married some day,\" said Peter, \"but it\nwill be an awful bother having her round all the time. I'd like to marry\na lady who had trances, and only woke up once or twice a year.\"\n\n\"Just to say you were the light of her life and then go to sleep again.\nYes. That wouldn't be bad,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"When _I_ get married,\" said Phyllis, \"I shall want him to want me to be\nawake all the time, so that I can hear him say how nice I am.\"\n\n\"I think it would be nice,\" said Bobbie, \"to marry someone very poor,\nand then you'd do all the work and he'd love you most frightfully, and\nsee the blue wood smoke curling up among the trees from the domestic\nhearth as he came home from work every night. I say--we've got to answer\nthat letter and say that the time and place WILL be convenient to us.\nThere's the soap, Peter. WE'RE both as clean as clean. That pink box of\nwriting paper you had on your birthday, Phil.\"\n\nIt took some time to arrange what should be said. Mother had gone back\nto her writing, and several sheets of pink paper with scalloped gilt\nedges and green four-leaved shamrocks in the corner were spoiled before\nthe three had decided what to say. Then each made a copy and signed it\nwith its own name.\n\nThe threefold letter ran:--\n\n\"Dear Mr. Jabez Inglewood,--Thank you very much. We did not want to be\nrewarded but only to save the train, but we are glad you think so and\nthank you very much. The time and place you say will be quite convenient\nto us. Thank you very much.\n\n          \"Your affecate little friend,\"\n\nThen came the name, and after it:--\n\n\"P.S. Thank you very much.\"\n\n\"Washing is much easier than ironing,\" said Bobbie, taking the clean dry\ndresses off the line. \"I do love to see things come clean. Oh--I don't\nknow how we shall wait till it's time to know what presentation they're\ngoing to present!\"\n\nWhen at last--it seemed a very long time after--it was THE day,\nthe three children went down to the station at the proper time. And\neverything that happened was so odd that it seemed like a dream. The\nStation Master came out to meet them--in his best clothes, as Peter\nnoticed at once--and led them into the waiting room where once they had\nplayed the advertisement game. It looked quite different now. A carpet\nhad been put down--and there were pots of roses on the mantelpiece and\non the window ledges--green branches stuck up, like holly and laurel\nare at Christmas, over the framed advertisement of Cook's Tours and the\nBeauties of Devon and the Paris Lyons Railway. There were quite a\nnumber of people there besides the Porter--two or three ladies in\nsmart dresses, and quite a crowd of gentlemen in high hats and frock\ncoats--besides everybody who belonged to the station. They recognized\nseveral people who had been in the train on the red-flannel-petticoat\nday. Best of all their own old gentleman was there, and his coat and hat\nand collar seemed more than ever different from anyone else's. He shook\nhands with them and then everybody sat down on chairs, and a gentleman\nin spectacles--they found out afterwards that he was the District\nSuperintendent--began quite a long speech--very clever indeed. I am not\ngoing to write the speech down. First, because you would think it dull;\nand secondly, because it made all the children blush so, and get so hot\nabout the ears that I am quite anxious to get away from this part of the\nsubject; and thirdly, because the gentleman took so many words to say\nwhat he had to say that I really haven't time to write them down. He\nsaid all sorts of nice things about the children's bravery and presence\nof mind, and when he had done he sat down, and everyone who was there\nclapped and said, \"Hear, hear.\"\n\nAnd then the old gentleman got up and said things, too. It was very like\na prize-giving. And then he called the children one by one, by their\nnames, and gave each of them a beautiful gold watch and chain. And\ninside the watches were engraved after the name of the watch's new\nowner:--\n\n\"From the Directors of the Northern and Southern Railway in grateful\nrecognition of the courageous and prompt action which averted an\naccident on --- 1905.\"\n\nThe watches were the most beautiful you can possibly imagine, and each\none had a blue leather case to live in when it was at home.\n\n\"You must make a speech now and thank everyone for their kindness,\"\nwhispered the Station Master in Peter's ear and pushed him forward.\n\"Begin 'Ladies and Gentlemen,'\" he added.\n\nEach of the children had already said \"Thank you,\" quite properly.\n\n\"Oh, dear,\" said Peter, but he did not resist the push.\n\n\"Ladies and Gentlemen,\" he said in a rather husky voice. Then there\nwas a pause, and he heard his heart beating in his throat. \"Ladies and\nGentlemen,\" he went on with a rush, \"it's most awfully good of you, and\nwe shall treasure the watches all our lives--but really we don't deserve\nit because what we did wasn't anything, really. At least, I mean it\nwas awfully exciting, and what I mean to say--thank you all very, very\nmuch.\"\n\nThe people clapped Peter more than they had done the District\nSuperintendent, and then everybody shook hands with them, and as soon as\npoliteness would let them, they got away, and tore up the hill to Three\nChimneys with their watches in their hands.\n\nIt was a wonderful day--the kind of day that very seldom happens to\nanybody and to most of us not at all.\n\n\"I did want to talk to the old gentleman about something else,\" said\nBobbie, \"but it was so public--like being in church.\"\n\n\"What did you want to say?\" asked Phyllis.\n\n\"I'll tell you when I've thought about it more,\" said Bobbie.\n\nSo when she had thought a little more she wrote a letter.\n\n\"My dearest old gentleman,\" it said; \"I want most awfully to ask you\nsomething. If you could get out of the train and go by the next, it\nwould do. I do not want you to give me anything. Mother says we ought\nnot to. And besides, we do not want any THINGS. Only to talk to you\nabout a Prisoner and Captive. Your loving little friend,\n\n          \"Bobbie.\"\n\nShe got the Station Master to give the letter to the old gentleman, and\nnext day she asked Peter and Phyllis to come down to the station with\nher at the time when the train that brought the old gentleman from town\nwould be passing through.\n\nShe explained her idea to them--and they approved thoroughly.\n\nThey had all washed their hands and faces, and brushed their hair, and\nwere looking as tidy as they knew how. But Phyllis, always unlucky, had\nupset a jug of lemonade down the front of her dress. There was no time\nto change--and the wind happening to blow from the coal yard, her frock\nwas soon powdered with grey, which stuck to the sticky lemonade stains\nand made her look, as Peter said, \"like any little gutter child.\"\n\nIt was decided that she should keep behind the others as much as\npossible.\n\n\"Perhaps the old gentleman won't notice,\" said Bobbie. \"The aged are\noften weak in the eyes.\"\n\nThere was no sign of weakness, however, in the eyes, or in any other\npart of the old gentleman, as he stepped from the train and looked up\nand down the platform.\n\nThe three children, now that it came to the point, suddenly felt that\nrush of deep shyness which makes your ears red and hot, your hands warm\nand wet, and the tip of your nose pink and shiny.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Phyllis, \"my heart's thumping like a steam-engine--right\nunder my sash, too.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Peter, \"people's hearts aren't under their sashes.\"\n\n\"I don't care--mine is,\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"If you're going to talk like a poetry-book,\" said Peter, \"my heart's in\nmy mouth.\"\n\n\"My heart's in my boots--if you come to that,\" said Roberta; \"but do\ncome on--he'll think we're idiots.\"\n\n\"He won't be far wrong,\" said Peter, gloomily. And they went forward to\nmeet the old gentleman.\n\n\"Hullo,\" he said, shaking hands with them all in turn. \"This is a very\ngreat pleasure.\"\n\n\"It WAS good of you to get out,\" Bobbie said, perspiring and polite.\n\nHe took her arm and drew her into the waiting room where she and the\nothers had played the advertisement game the day they found the Russian.\nPhyllis and Peter followed. \"Well?\" said the old gentleman, giving\nBobbie's arm a kind little shake before he let it go. \"Well? What is\nit?\"\n\n\"Oh, please!\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Yes?\" said the old gentleman.\n\n\"What I mean to say--\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Well?\" said the old gentleman.\n\n\"It's all very nice and kind,\" said she.\n\n\"But?\" he said.\n\n\"I wish I might say something,\" she said.\n\n\"Say it,\" said he.\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Bobbie--and out came the story of the Russian who\nhad written the beautiful book about poor people, and had been sent to\nprison and to Siberia for just that.\n\n\"And what we want more than anything in the world is to find his wife\nand children for him,\" said Bobbie, \"but we don't know how. But you must\nbe most horribly clever, or you wouldn't be a Direction of the Railway.\nAnd if YOU knew how--and would? We'd rather have that than anything else\nin the world. We'd go without the watches, even, if you could sell them\nand find his wife with the money.\"\n\nAnd the others said so, too, though not with so much enthusiasm.\n\n\"Hum,\" said the old gentleman, pulling down the white waistcoat that\nhad the big gilt buttons on it, \"what did you say the name\nwas--Fryingpansky?\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Bobbie earnestly. \"I'll write it down for you. It doesn't\nreally look at all like that except when you say it. Have you a bit of\npencil and the back of an envelope?\" she asked.\n\nThe old gentleman got out a gold pencil-case and a beautiful,\nsweet-smelling, green Russian leather note-book and opened it at a new\npage.\n\n\"Here,\" he said, \"write here.\"\n\nShe wrote down \"Szezcpansky,\" and said:--\n\n\"That's how you write it. You CALL it Shepansky.\"\n\nThe old gentleman took out a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and fitted\nthem on his nose. When he had read the name, he looked quite different.\n\n\"THAT man? Bless my soul!\" he said. \"Why, I've read his book! It's\ntranslated into every European language. A fine book--a noble book. And\nso your mother took him in--like the good Samaritan. Well, well. I'll\ntell you what, youngsters--your mother must be a very good woman.\"\n\n\"Of course she is,\" said Phyllis, in astonishment.\n\n\"And you're a very good man,\" said Bobbie, very shy, but firmly resolved\nto be polite.\n\n\"You flatter me,\" said the old gentleman, taking off his hat with a\nflourish. \"And now am I to tell you what I think of you?\"\n\n\"Oh, please don't,\" said Bobbie, hastily.\n\n\"Why?\" asked the old gentleman.\n\n\"I don't exactly know,\" said Bobbie. \"Only--if it's horrid, I don't want\nyou to; and if it's nice, I'd rather you didn't.\"\n\nThe old gentleman laughed.\n\n\"Well, then,\" he said, \"I'll only just say that I'm very glad you came\nto me about this--very glad, indeed. And I shouldn't be surprised if I\nfound out something very soon. I know a great many Russians in London,\nand every Russian knows HIS name. Now tell me all about yourselves.\"\n\nHe turned to the others, but there was only one other, and that was\nPeter. Phyllis had disappeared.\n\n\"Tell me all about yourself,\" said the old gentleman again. And, quite\nnaturally, Peter was stricken dumb.\n\n\"All right, we'll have an examination,\" said the old gentleman; \"you two\nsit on the table, and I'll sit on the bench and ask questions.\"\n\nHe did, and out came their names and ages--their Father's name and\nbusiness--how long they had lived at Three Chimneys and a great deal\nmore.\n\nThe questions were beginning to turn on a herring and a half for three\nhalfpence, and a pound of lead and a pound of feathers, when the door of\nthe waiting room was kicked open by a boot; as the boot entered everyone\ncould see that its lace was coming undone--and in came Phyllis, very\nslowly and carefully.\n\nIn one hand she carried a large tin can, and in the other a thick slice\nof bread and butter.\n\n\"Afternoon tea,\" she announced proudly, and held the can and the bread\nand butter out to the old gentleman, who took them and said:--\n\n\"Bless my soul!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"It's very thoughtful of you,\" said the old gentleman, \"very.\"\n\n\"But you might have got a cup,\" said Bobbie, \"and a plate.\"\n\n\"Perks always drinks out of the can,\" said Phyllis, flushing red. \"I\nthink it was very nice of him to give it me at all--let alone cups and\nplates,\" she added.\n\n\"So do I,\" said the old gentleman, and he drank some of the tea and\ntasted the bread and butter.\n\nAnd then it was time for the next train, and he got into it with many\ngood-byes and kind last words.\n\n\"Well,\" said Peter, when they were left on the platform, and the\ntail-lights of the train disappeared round the corner, \"it's my belief\nthat we've lighted a candle to-day--like Latimer, you know, when he was\nbeing burned--and there'll be fireworks for our Russian before long.\"\n\nAnd so there were.\n\nIt wasn't ten days after the interview in the waiting room that the\nthree children were sitting on the top of the biggest rock in the field\nbelow their house watching the 5.15 steam away from the station along\nthe bottom of the valley. They saw, too, the few people who had got out\nat the station straggling up the road towards the village--and they saw\none person leave the road and open the gate that led across the fields\nto Three Chimneys and to nowhere else.\n\n\"Who on earth!\" said Peter, scrambling down.\n\n\"Let's go and see,\" said Phyllis.\n\nSo they did. And when they got near enough to see who the person was,\nthey saw it was their old gentleman himself, his brass buttons winking\nin the afternoon sunshine, and his white waistcoat looking whiter than\never against the green of the field.\n\n\"Hullo!\" shouted the children, waving their hands.\n\n\"Hullo!\" shouted the old gentleman, waving his hat.\n\nThen the three started to run--and when they got to him they hardly had\nbreath left to say:--\n\n\"How do you do?\"\n\n\"Good news,\" said he. \"I've found your Russian friend's wife and\nchild--and I couldn't resist the temptation of giving myself the\npleasure of telling him.\"\n\nBut as he looked at Bobbie's face he felt that he COULD resist that\ntemptation.\n\n\"Here,\" he said to her, \"you run on and tell him. The other two will\nshow me the way.\"\n\nBobbie ran. But when she had breathlessly panted out the news to the\nRussian and Mother sitting in the quiet garden--when Mother's face had\nlighted up so beautifully, and she had said half a dozen quick French\nwords to the Exile--Bobbie wished that she had NOT carried the news. For\nthe Russian sprang up with a cry that made Bobbie's heart leap and then\ntremble--a cry of love and longing such as she had never heard. Then he\ntook Mother's hand and kissed it gently and reverently--and then he sank\ndown in his chair and covered his face with his hands and sobbed. Bobbie\ncrept away. She did not want to see the others just then.\n\nBut she was as gay as anybody when the endless French talking was over,\nwhen Peter had torn down to the village for buns and cakes, and the\ngirls had got tea ready and taken it out into the garden.\n\nThe old gentleman was most merry and delightful. He seemed to be able\nto talk in French and English almost at the same moment, and Mother did\nnearly as well. It was a delightful time. Mother seemed as if she could\nnot make enough fuss about the old gentleman, and she said yes at once\nwhen he asked if he might present some \"goodies\" to his little friends.\n\nThe word was new to the children--but they guessed that it meant sweets,\nfor the three large pink and green boxes, tied with green ribbon, which\nhe took out of his bag, held unheard-of layers of beautiful chocolates.\n\nThe Russian's few belongings were packed, and they all saw him off at\nthe station.\n\nThen Mother turned to the old gentleman and said:--\n\n\"I don't know how to thank you for EVERYTHING. It has been a real\npleasure to me to see you. But we live very quietly. I am so sorry that\nI can't ask you to come and see us again.\"\n\nThe children thought this very hard. When they HAD made a friend--and\nsuch a friend--they would dearly have liked him to come and see them\nagain.\n\nWhat the old gentleman thought they couldn't tell. He only said:--\n\n\"I consider myself very fortunate, Madam, to have been received once at\nyour house.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Mother, \"I know I must seem surly and ungrateful--but--\"\n\n\"You could never seem anything but a most charming and gracious lady,\"\nsaid the old gentleman, with another of his bows.\n\nAnd as they turned to go up the hill, Bobbie saw her Mother's face.\n\n\"How tired you look, Mammy,\" she said; \"lean on me.\"\n\n\"It's my place to give Mother my arm,\" said Peter. \"I'm the head man of\nthe family when Father's away.\"\n\nMother took an arm of each.\n\n\"How awfully nice,\" said Phyllis, skipping joyfully, \"to think of the\ndear Russian embracing his long-lost wife. The baby must have grown a\nlot since he saw it.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mother.\n\n\"I wonder whether Father will think I'VE grown,\" Phyllis went on,\nskipping still more gaily. \"I have grown already, haven't I, Mother?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mother, \"oh, yes,\" and Bobbie and Peter felt her hands\ntighten on their arms.\n\n\"Poor old Mammy, you ARE tired,\" said Peter.\n\nBobbie said, \"Come on, Phil; I'll race you to the gate.\"\n\nAnd she started the race, though she hated doing it. YOU know why Bobbie\ndid that. Mother only thought that Bobbie was tired of walking slowly.\nEven Mothers, who love you better than anyone else ever will, don't\nalways understand.\n\n\n\nChapter VIII. The amateur firemen.\n\n\n\"That's a likely little brooch you've got on, Miss,\" said Perks the\nPorter; \"I don't know as ever I see a thing more like a buttercup\nwithout it WAS a buttercup.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Bobbie, glad and flushed by this approval. \"I always thought\nit was more like a buttercup almost than even a real one--and I NEVER\nthought it would come to be mine, my very own--and then Mother gave it\nto me for my birthday.\"\n\n\"Oh, have you had a birthday?\" said Perks; and he seemed quite\nsurprised, as though a birthday were a thing only granted to a favoured\nfew.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Bobbie; \"when's your birthday, Mr. Perks?\" The children were\ntaking tea with Mr. Perks in the Porters' room among the lamps and\nthe railway almanacs. They had brought their own cups and some jam\nturnovers. Mr. Perks made tea in a beer can, as usual, and everyone felt\nvery happy and confidential.\n\n\"My birthday?\" said Perks, tipping some more dark brown tea out of the\ncan into Peter's cup. \"I give up keeping of my birthday afore you was\nborn.\"\n\n\"But you must have been born SOMETIME, you know,\" said Phyllis,\nthoughtfully, \"even if it was twenty years ago--or thirty or sixty or\nseventy.\"\n\n\"Not so long as that, Missie,\" Perks grinned as he answered. \"If you\nreally want to know, it was thirty-two years ago, come the fifteenth of\nthis month.\"\n\n\"Then why don't you keep it?\" asked Phyllis.\n\n\"I've got something else to keep besides birthdays,\" said Perks,\nbriefly.\n\n\"Oh! What?\" asked Phyllis, eagerly. \"Not secrets?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Perks, \"the kids and the Missus.\"\n\nIt was this talk that set the children thinking, and, presently,\ntalking. Perks was, on the whole, the dearest friend they had made. Not\nso grand as the Station Master, but more approachable--less powerful\nthan the old gentleman, but more confidential.\n\n\"It seems horrid that nobody keeps his birthday,\" said Bobbie. \"Couldn't\nWE do something?\"\n\n\"Let's go up to the Canal bridge and talk it over,\" said Peter. \"I got a\nnew gut line from the postman this morning. He gave it me for a bunch of\nroses that I gave him for his sweetheart. She's ill.\"\n\n\"Then I do think you might have given her the roses for nothing,\" said\nBobbie, indignantly.\n\n\"Nyang, nyang!\" said Peter, disagreeably, and put his hands in his\npockets.\n\n\"He did, of course,\" said Phyllis, in haste; \"directly we heard she was\nill we got the roses ready and waited by the gate. It was when you were\nmaking the brekker-toast. And when he'd said 'Thank you' for the roses\nso many times--much more than he need have--he pulled out the line and\ngave it to Peter. It wasn't exchange. It was the grateful heart.\"\n\n\"Oh, I BEG your pardon, Peter,\" said Bobbie, \"I AM so sorry.\"\n\n\"Don't mention it,\" said Peter, grandly, \"I knew you would be.\"\n\nSo then they all went up to the Canal bridge. The idea was to fish from\nthe bridge, but the line was not quite long enough.\n\n\"Never mind,\" said Bobbie. \"Let's just stay here and look at things.\nEverything's so beautiful.\"\n\nIt was. The sun was setting in red splendour over the grey and purple\nhills, and the canal lay smooth and shiny in the shadow--no ripple broke\nits surface. It was like a grey satin ribbon between the dusky green\nsilk of the meadows that were on each side of its banks.\n\n\"It's all right,\" said Peter, \"but somehow I can always see how pretty\nthings are much better when I've something to do. Let's get down on to\nthe towpath and fish from there.\"\n\nPhyllis and Bobbie remembered how the boys on the canal-boats had thrown\ncoal at them, and they said so.\n\n\"Oh, nonsense,\" said Peter. \"There aren't any boys here now. If there\nwere, I'd fight them.\"\n\nPeter's sisters were kind enough not to remind him how he had NOT fought\nthe boys when coal had last been thrown. Instead they said, \"All right,\nthen,\" and cautiously climbed down the steep bank to the towing-path.\nThe line was carefully baited, and for half an hour they fished\npatiently and in vain. Not a single nibble came to nourish hope in their\nhearts.\n\nAll eyes were intent on the sluggish waters that earnestly pretended\nthey had never harboured a single minnow when a loud rough shout made\nthem start.\n\n\"Hi!\" said the shout, in most disagreeable tones, \"get out of that,\ncan't you?\"\n\nAn old white horse coming along the towing-path was within half a dozen\nyards of them. They sprang to their feet and hastily climbed up the\nbank.\n\n\"We'll slip down again when they've gone by,\" said Bobbie.\n\nBut, alas, the barge, after the manner of barges, stopped under the\nbridge.\n\n\"She's going to anchor,\" said Peter; \"just our luck!\"\n\nThe barge did not anchor, because an anchor is not part of a\ncanal-boat's furniture, but she was moored with ropes fore and aft--and\nthe ropes were made fast to the palings and to crowbars driven into the\nground.\n\n\"What you staring at?\" growled the Bargee, crossly.\n\n\"We weren't staring,\" said Bobbie; \"we wouldn't be so rude.\"\n\n\"Rude be blessed,\" said the man; \"get along with you!\"\n\n\"Get along yourself,\" said Peter. He remembered what he had said about\nfighting boys, and, besides, he felt safe halfway up the bank. \"We've as\nmuch right here as anyone else.\"\n\n\"Oh, 'AVE you, indeed!\" said the man. \"We'll soon see about that.\" And\nhe came across his deck and began to climb down the side of his barge.\n\n\"Oh, come away, Peter, come away!\" said Bobbie and Phyllis, in agonised\nunison.\n\n\"Not me,\" said Peter, \"but YOU'D better.\"\n\nThe girls climbed to the top of the bank and stood ready to bolt for\nhome as soon as they saw their brother out of danger. The way home lay\nall down hill. They knew that they all ran well. The Bargee did not look\nas if HE did. He was red-faced, heavy, and beefy.\n\nBut as soon as his foot was on the towing-path the children saw that\nthey had misjudged him.\n\nHe made one spring up the bank and caught Peter by the leg, dragged him\ndown--set him on his feet with a shake--took him by the ear--and said\nsternly:--\n\n\"Now, then, what do you mean by it? Don't you know these 'ere waters is\npreserved? You ain't no right catching fish 'ere--not to say nothing of\nyour precious cheek.\"\n\nPeter was always proud afterwards when he remembered that, with the\nBargee's furious fingers tightening on his ear, the Bargee's crimson\ncountenance close to his own, the Bargee's hot breath on his neck, he\nhad the courage to speak the truth.\n\n\"I WASN'T catching fish,\" said Peter.\n\n\"That's not YOUR fault, I'll be bound,\" said the man, giving Peter's ear\na twist--not a hard one--but still a twist.\n\nPeter could not say that it was. Bobbie and Phyllis had been holding\non to the railings above and skipping with anxiety. Now suddenly Bobbie\nslipped through the railings and rushed down the bank towards Peter, so\nimpetuously that Phyllis, following more temperately, felt certain that\nher sister's descent would end in the waters of the canal. And so it\nwould have done if the Bargee hadn't let go of Peter's ear--and caught\nher in his jerseyed arm.\n\n\"Who are you a-shoving of?\" he said, setting her on her feet.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Bobbie, breathless, \"I'm not shoving anybody. At least, not\non purpose. Please don't be cross with Peter. Of course, if it's your\ncanal, we're sorry and we won't any more. But we didn't know it was\nyours.\"\n\n\"Go along with you,\" said the Bargee.\n\n\"Yes, we will; indeed we will,\" said Bobbie, earnestly; \"but we do beg\nyour pardon--and really we haven't caught a single fish. I'd tell you\ndirectly if we had, honour bright I would.\"\n\nShe held out her hands and Phyllis turned out her little empty pocket to\nshow that really they hadn't any fish concealed about them.\n\n\"Well,\" said the Bargee, more gently, \"cut along, then, and don't you do\nit again, that's all.\"\n\nThe children hurried up the bank.\n\n\"Chuck us a coat, M'ria,\" shouted the man. And a red-haired woman in a\ngreen plaid shawl came out from the cabin door with a baby in her arms\nand threw a coat to him. He put it on, climbed the bank, and slouched\nalong across the bridge towards the village.\n\n\"You'll find me up at the 'Rose and Crown' when you've got the kid to\nsleep,\" he called to her from the bridge.\n\nWhen he was out of sight the children slowly returned. Peter insisted on\nthis.\n\n\"The canal may belong to him,\" he said, \"though I don't believe it\ndoes. But the bridge is everybody's. Doctor Forrest told me it's public\nproperty. I'm not going to be bounced off the bridge by him or anyone\nelse, so I tell you.\"\n\nPeter's ear was still sore and so were his feelings.\n\nThe girls followed him as gallant soldiers might follow the leader of a\nforlorn hope.\n\n\"I do wish you wouldn't,\" was all they said.\n\n\"Go home if you're afraid,\" said Peter; \"leave me alone. I'M not\nafraid.\"\n\nThe sound of the man's footsteps died away along the quiet road. The\npeace of the evening was not broken by the notes of the sedge-warblers\nor by the voice of the woman in the barge, singing her baby to sleep. It\nwas a sad song she sang. Something about Bill Bailey and how she wanted\nhim to come home.\n\nThe children stood leaning their arms on the parapet of the bridge; they\nwere glad to be quiet for a few minutes because all three hearts were\nbeating much more quickly.\n\n\"I'm not going to be driven away by any old bargeman, I'm not,\" said\nPeter, thickly.\n\n\"Of course not,\" Phyllis said soothingly; \"you didn't give in to him! So\nnow we might go home, don't you think?\"\n\n\"NO,\" said Peter.\n\nNothing more was said till the woman got off the barge, climbed the\nbank, and came across the bridge.\n\nShe hesitated, looking at the three backs of the children, then she\nsaid, \"Ahem.\"\n\nPeter stayed as he was, but the girls looked round.\n\n\"You mustn't take no notice of my Bill,\" said the woman; \"'is bark's\nworse'n 'is bite. Some of the kids down Farley way is fair terrors. It\nwas them put 'is back up calling out about who ate the puppy-pie under\nMarlow bridge.\"\n\n\"Who DID?\" asked Phyllis.\n\n\"_I_ dunno,\" said the woman. \"Nobody don't know! But somehow, and I\ndon't know the why nor the wherefore of it, them words is p'ison to a\nbarge-master. Don't you take no notice. 'E won't be back for two hours\ngood. You might catch a power o' fish afore that. The light's good an'\nall,\" she added.\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Bobbie. \"You're very kind. Where's your baby?\"\n\n\"Asleep in the cabin,\" said the woman. \"'E's all right. Never wakes\nafore twelve. Reg'lar as a church clock, 'e is.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" said Bobbie; \"I would have liked to see him, close to.\"\n\n\"And a finer you never did see, Miss, though I says it.\" The woman's\nface brightened as she spoke.\n\n\"Aren't you afraid to leave it?\" said Peter.\n\n\"Lor' love you, no,\" said the woman; \"who'd hurt a little thing like\n'im? Besides, Spot's there. So long!\"\n\nThe woman went away.\n\n\"Shall we go home?\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"You can. I'm going to fish,\" said Peter briefly.\n\n\"I thought we came up here to talk about Perks's birthday,\" said\nPhyllis.\n\n\"Perks's birthday'll keep.\"\n\nSo they got down on the towing-path again and Peter fished. He did not\ncatch anything.\n\nIt was almost quite dark, the girls were getting tired, and as Bobbie\nsaid, it was past bedtime, when suddenly Phyllis cried, \"What's that?\"\n\nAnd she pointed to the canal boat. Smoke was coming from the chimney of\nthe cabin, had indeed been curling softly into the soft evening air all\nthe time--but now other wreaths of smoke were rising, and these were\nfrom the cabin door.\n\n\"It's on fire--that's all,\" said Peter, calmly. \"Serve him right.\"\n\n\"Oh--how CAN you?\" cried Phyllis. \"Think of the poor dear dog.\"\n\n\"The BABY!\" screamed Bobbie.\n\nIn an instant all three made for the barge.\n\nHer mooring ropes were slack, and the little breeze, hardly strong\nenough to be felt, had yet been strong enough to drift her stern against\nthe bank. Bobbie was first--then came Peter, and it was Peter who\nslipped and fell. He went into the canal up to his neck, and his feet\ncould not feel the bottom, but his arm was on the edge of the barge.\nPhyllis caught at his hair. It hurt, but it helped him to get out. Next\nminute he had leaped on to the barge, Phyllis following.\n\n\"Not you!\" he shouted to Bobbie; \"ME, because I'm wet.\"\n\nHe caught up with Bobbie at the cabin door, and flung her aside very\nroughly indeed; if they had been playing, such roughness would have made\nBobbie weep with tears of rage and pain. Now, though he flung her on\nto the edge of the hold, so that her knee and her elbow were grazed and\nbruised, she only cried:--\n\n\"No--not you--ME,\" and struggled up again. But not quickly enough.\n\nPeter had already gone down two of the cabin steps into the cloud of\nthick smoke. He stopped, remembered all he had ever heard of fires,\npulled his soaked handkerchief out of his breast pocket and tied it over\nhis mouth. As he pulled it out he said:--\n\n\"It's all right, hardly any fire at all.\"\n\nAnd this, though he thought it was a lie, was rather good of Peter. It\nwas meant to keep Bobbie from rushing after him into danger. Of course\nit didn't.\n\nThe cabin glowed red. A paraffin lamp was burning calmly in an orange\nmist.\n\n\"Hi,\" said Peter, lifting the handkerchief from his mouth for a moment.\n\"Hi, Baby--where are you?\" He choked.\n\n\"Oh, let ME go,\" cried Bobbie, close behind him. Peter pushed her back\nmore roughly than before, and went on.\n\nNow what would have happened if the baby hadn't cried I don't know--but\njust at that moment it DID cry. Peter felt his way through the dark\nsmoke, found something small and soft and warm and alive, picked it up\nand backed out, nearly tumbling over Bobbie who was close behind. A dog\nsnapped at his leg--tried to bark, choked.\n\n\"I've got the kid,\" said Peter, tearing off the handkerchief and\nstaggering on to the deck.\n\nBobbie caught at the place where the bark came from, and her hands met\non the fat back of a smooth-haired dog. It turned and fastened its teeth\non her hand, but very gently, as much as to say:--\n\n\"I'm bound to bark and bite if strangers come into my master's cabin,\nbut I know you mean well, so I won't REALLY bite.\"\n\nBobbie dropped the dog.\n\n\"All right, old man. Good dog,\" said she. \"Here--give me the baby,\nPeter; you're so wet you'll give it cold.\"\n\nPeter was only too glad to hand over the strange little bundle that\nsquirmed and whimpered in his arms.\n\n\"Now,\" said Bobbie, quickly, \"you run straight to the 'Rose and Crown'\nand tell them. Phil and I will stay here with the precious. Hush, then,\na dear, a duck, a darling! Go NOW, Peter! Run!\"\n\n\"I can't run in these things,\" said Peter, firmly; \"they're as heavy as\nlead. I'll walk.\"\n\n\"Then I'LL run,\" said Bobbie. \"Get on the bank, Phil, and I'll hand you\nthe dear.\"\n\nThe baby was carefully handed. Phyllis sat down on the bank and tried to\nhush the baby. Peter wrung the water from his sleeves and knickerbocker\nlegs as well as he could, and it was Bobbie who ran like the wind across\nthe bridge and up the long white quiet twilight road towards the 'Rose\nand Crown.'\n\nThere is a nice old-fashioned room at the 'Rose and Crown; where Bargees\nand their wives sit of an evening drinking their supper beer, and\ntoasting their supper cheese at a glowing basketful of coals that\nsticks out into the room under a great hooded chimney and is warmer and\nprettier and more comforting than any other fireplace _I_ ever saw.\n\nThere was a pleasant party of barge people round the fire. You might\nnot have thought it pleasant, but they did; for they were all friends\nor acquaintances, and they liked the same sort of things, and talked\nthe same sort of talk. This is the real secret of pleasant society. The\nBargee Bill, whom the children had found so disagreeable, was considered\nexcellent company by his mates. He was telling a tale of his own\nwrongs--always a thrilling subject. It was his barge he was speaking\nabout.\n\n\"And 'e sent down word 'paint her inside hout,' not namin' no colour,\nd'ye see? So I gets a lotter green paint and I paints her stem to stern,\nand I tell yer she looked A1. Then 'E comes along and 'e says, 'Wot yer\npaint 'er all one colour for?' 'e says. And I says, says I, 'Cause I\nthought she'd look fust-rate,' says I, 'and I think so still.' An' he\nsays, 'DEW yer? Then ye can just pay for the bloomin' paint yerself,'\nsays he. An' I 'ad to, too.\" A murmur of sympathy ran round the\nroom. Breaking noisily in on it came Bobbie. She burst open the swing\ndoor--crying breathlessly:--\n\n\"Bill! I want Bill the Bargeman.\"\n\nThere was a stupefied silence. Pots of beer were held in mid-air,\nparalysed on their way to thirsty mouths.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Bobbie, seeing the bargewoman and making for her. \"Your barge\ncabin's on fire. Go quickly.\"\n\nThe woman started to her feet, and put a big red hand to her waist, on\nthe left side, where your heart seems to be when you are frightened or\nmiserable.\n\n\"Reginald Horace!\" she cried in a terrible voice; \"my Reginald Horace!\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Bobbie, \"if you mean the baby; got him out safe. Dog,\ntoo.\" She had no breath for more, except, \"Go on--it's all alight.\"\n\nThen she sank on the ale-house bench and tried to get that breath of\nrelief after running which people call the 'second wind.' But she felt\nas though she would never breathe again.\n\nBill the Bargee rose slowly and heavily. But his wife was a hundred\nyards up the road before he had quite understood what was the matter.\n\nPhyllis, shivering by the canal side, had hardly heard the quick\napproaching feet before the woman had flung herself on the railing,\nrolled down the bank, and snatched the baby from her.\n\n\"Don't,\" said Phyllis, reproachfully; \"I'd just got him to sleep.\"\n\n          *          *          *          *          *          *\n\nBill came up later talking in a language with which the children were\nwholly unfamiliar. He leaped on to the barge and dipped up pails\nof water. Peter helped him and they put out the fire. Phyllis, the\nbargewoman, and the baby--and presently Bobbie, too--cuddled together in\na heap on the bank.\n\n\"Lord help me, if it was me left anything as could catch alight,\" said\nthe woman again and again.\n\nBut it wasn't she. It was Bill the Bargeman, who had knocked his pipe\nout and the red ash had fallen on the hearth-rug and smouldered there\nand at last broken into flame. Though a stern man he was just. He did\nnot blame his wife for what was his own fault, as many bargemen, and\nother men, too, would have done.\n\n         *          *          *          *          *          *\n\nMother was half wild with anxiety when at last the three children turned\nup at Three Chimneys, all very wet by now, for Peter seemed to have come\noff on the others. But when she had disentangled the truth of what had\nhappened from their mixed and incoherent narrative, she owned that they\nhad done quite right, and could not possibly have done otherwise. Nor\ndid she put any obstacles in the way of their accepting the cordial\ninvitation with which the bargeman had parted from them.\n\n\"Ye be here at seven to-morrow,\" he had said, \"and I'll take you the\nentire trip to Farley and back, so I will, and not a penny to pay.\nNineteen locks!\"\n\nThey did not know what locks were; but they were at the bridge at seven,\nwith bread and cheese and half a soda cake, and quite a quarter of a leg\nof mutton in a basket.\n\nIt was a glorious day. The old white horse strained at the ropes, the\nbarge glided smoothly and steadily through the still water. The sky was\nblue overhead. Mr. Bill was as nice as anyone could possibly be. No one\nwould have thought that he could be the same man who had held Peter by\nthe ear. As for Mrs. Bill, she had always been nice, as Bobbie said, and\nso had the baby, and even Spot, who might have bitten them quite badly\nif he had liked.\n\n\"It was simply ripping, Mother,\" said Peter, when they reached home very\nhappy, very tired, and very dirty, \"right over that glorious aqueduct.\nAnd locks--you don't know what they're like. You sink into the ground\nand then, when you feel you're never going to stop going down, two great\nblack gates open slowly, slowly--you go out, and there you are on the\ncanal just like you were before.\"\n\n\"I know,\" said Mother, \"there are locks on the Thames. Father and I used\nto go on the river at Marlow before we were married.\"\n\n\"And the dear, darling, ducky baby,\" said Bobbie; \"it let me nurse it\nfor ages and ages--and it WAS so good. Mother, I wish we had a baby to\nplay with.\"\n\n\"And everybody was so nice to us,\" said Phyllis, \"everybody we met. And\nthey say we may fish whenever we like. And Bill is going to show us the\nway next time he's in these parts. He says we don't know really.\"\n\n\"He said YOU didn't know,\" said Peter; \"but, Mother, he said he'd tell\nall the bargees up and down the canal that we were the real, right sort,\nand they were to treat us like good pals, as we were.\"\n\n\"So then I said,\" Phyllis interrupted, \"we'd always each wear a red\nribbon when we went fishing by the canal, so they'd know it was US, and\nwe were the real, right sort, and be nice to us!\"\n\n\"So you've made another lot of friends,\" said Mother; \"first the railway\nand then the canal!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said Bobbie; \"I think everyone in the world is friends if you\ncan only get them to see you don't want to be UN-friends.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you're right,\" said Mother; and she sighed. \"Come, Chicks. It's\nbedtime.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Phyllis. \"Oh dear--and we went up there to talk about what\nwe'd do for Perks's birthday. And we haven't talked a single thing about\nit!\"\n\n\"No more we have,\" said Bobbie; \"but Peter's saved Reginald Horace's\nlife. I think that's about good enough for one evening.\"\n\n\"Bobbie would have saved him if I hadn't knocked her down; twice I did,\"\nsaid Peter, loyally.\n\n\"So would I,\" said Phyllis, \"if I'd known what to do.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mother, \"you've saved a little child's life. I do think\nthat's enough for one evening. Oh, my darlings, thank God YOU'RE all\nsafe!\"\n\n\n\nChapter IX. The pride of Perks.\n\n\nIt was breakfast-time. Mother's face was very bright as she poured the\nmilk and ladled out the porridge.\n\n\"I've sold another story, Chickies,\" she said; \"the one about the King\nof the Mussels, so there'll be buns for tea. You can go and get them as\nsoon as they're baked. About eleven, isn't it?\"\n\nPeter, Phyllis, and Bobbie exchanged glances with each other, six\nglances in all. Then Bobbie said:--\n\n\"Mother, would you mind if we didn't have the buns for tea to-night, but\non the fifteenth? That's next Thursday.\"\n\n\"_I_ don't mind when you have them, dear,\" said Mother, \"but why?\"\n\n\"Because it's Perks's birthday,\" said Bobbie; \"he's thirty-two, and\nhe says he doesn't keep his birthday any more, because he's got other\nthings to keep--not rabbits or secrets--but the kids and the missus.\"\n\n\"You mean his wife and children,\" said Mother.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Phyllis; \"it's the same thing, isn't it?\"\n\n\"And we thought we'd make a nice birthday for him. He's been so awfully\njolly decent to us, you know, Mother,\" said Peter, \"and we agreed that\nnext bun-day we'd ask you if we could.\"\n\n\"But suppose there hadn't been a bun-day before the fifteenth?\" said\nMother.\n\n\"Oh, then, we meant to ask you to let us anti--antipate it, and go\nwithout when the bun-day came.\"\n\n\"Anticipate,\" said Mother. \"I see. Certainly. It would be nice to put\nhis name on the buns with pink sugar, wouldn't it?\"\n\n\"Perks,\" said Peter, \"it's not a pretty name.\"\n\n\"His other name's Albert,\" said Phyllis; \"I asked him once.\"\n\n\"We might put A. P.,\" said Mother; \"I'll show you how when the day\ncomes.\"\n\nThis was all very well as far as it went. But even fourteen halfpenny\nbuns with A. P. on them in pink sugar do not of themselves make a very\ngrand celebration.\n\n\"There are always flowers, of course,\" said Bobbie, later, when a really\nearnest council was being held on the subject in the hay-loft where\nthe broken chaff-cutting machine was, and the row of holes to drop hay\nthrough into the hay-racks over the mangers of the stables below.\n\n\"He's got lots of flowers of his own,\" said Peter.\n\n\"But it's always nice to have them given you,\" said Bobbie, \"however\nmany you've got of your own. We can use flowers for trimmings to the\nbirthday. But there must be something to trim besides buns.\"\n\n\"Let's all be quiet and think,\" said Phyllis; \"no one's to speak until\nit's thought of something.\"\n\nSo they were all quiet and so very still that a brown rat thought that\nthere was no one in the loft and came out very boldly. When Bobbie\nsneezed, the rat was quite shocked and hurried away, for he saw that a\nhay-loft where such things could happen was no place for a respectable\nmiddle-aged rat that liked a quiet life.\n\n\"Hooray!\" cried Peter, suddenly, \"I've got it.\" He jumped up and kicked\nat the loose hay.\n\n\"What?\" said the others, eagerly.\n\n\"Why, Perks is so nice to everybody. There must be lots of people in the\nvillage who'd like to help to make him a birthday. Let's go round and\nask everybody.\"\n\n\"Mother said we weren't to ask people for things,\" said Bobbie,\ndoubtfully.\n\n\"For ourselves, she meant, silly, not for other people. I'll ask the old\ngentleman too. You see if I don't,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Let's ask Mother first,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Oh, what's the use of bothering Mother about every little thing?\"\nsaid Peter, \"especially when she's busy. Come on. Let's go down to the\nvillage now and begin.\"\n\nSo they went. The old lady at the Post-office said she didn't see why\nPerks should have a birthday any more than anyone else.\n\n\"No,\" said Bobbie, \"I should like everyone to have one. Only we know\nwhen his is.\"\n\n\"Mine's to-morrow,\" said the old lady, \"and much notice anyone will take\nof it. Go along with you.\"\n\nSo they went.\n\nAnd some people were kind, and some were crusty. And some would give and\nsome would not. It is rather difficult work asking for things, even for\nother people, as you have no doubt found if you have ever tried it.\n\nWhen the children got home and counted up what had been given and what\nhad been promised, they felt that for the first day it was not so bad.\nPeter wrote down the lists of the things in the little pocket-book where\nhe kept the numbers of his engines. These were the lists:--\n\n     GIVEN.\n     A tobacco pipe from the sweet shop.\n     Half a pound of tea from the grocer's.\n     A woollen scarf slightly faded from the draper's, which was the\n         other side of the grocer's.\n     A stuffed squirrel from the Doctor.\n\n     PROMISED.\n     A piece of meat from the butcher.\n     Six fresh eggs from the woman who lived in the old turnpike cottage.\n     A piece of honeycomb and six bootlaces from the cobbler, and an\n         iron shovel from the blacksmith's.\n\nVery early next morning Bobbie got up and woke Phyllis. This had been\nagreed on between them. They had not told Peter because they thought he\nwould think it silly. But they told him afterwards, when it had turned\nout all right.\n\nThey cut a big bunch of roses, and put it in a basket with the\nneedle-book that Phyllis had made for Bobbie on her birthday, and a very\npretty blue necktie of Phyllis's. Then they wrote on a paper: 'For Mrs.\nRansome, with our best love, because it is her birthday,' and they put\nthe paper in the basket, and they took it to the Post-office, and went\nin and put it on the counter and ran away before the old woman at the\nPost-office had time to get into her shop.\n\nWhen they got home Peter had grown confidential over helping Mother to\nget the breakfast and had told her their plans.\n\n\"There's no harm in it,\" said Mother, \"but it depends HOW you do it. I\nonly hope he won't be offended and think it's CHARITY. Poor people are\nvery proud, you know.\"\n\n\"It isn't because he's poor,\" said Phyllis; \"it's because we're fond of\nhim.\"\n\n\"I'll find some things that Phyllis has outgrown,\" said Mother, \"if\nyou're quite sure you can give them to him without his being offended. I\nshould like to do some little thing for him because he's been so kind to\nyou. I can't do much because we're poor ourselves. What are you writing,\nBobbie?\"\n\n\"Nothing particular,\" said Bobbie, who had suddenly begun to scribble.\n\"I'm sure he'd like the things, Mother.\"\n\nThe morning of the fifteenth was spent very happily in getting the buns\nand watching Mother make A. P. on them with pink sugar. You know how\nit's done, of course? You beat up whites of eggs and mix powdered sugar\nwith them, and put in a few drops of cochineal. And then you make a cone\nof clean, white paper with a little hole at the pointed end, and put the\npink egg-sugar in at the big end. It runs slowly out at the pointed end,\nand you write the letters with it just as though it were a great fat pen\nfull of pink sugar-ink.\n\nThe buns looked beautiful with A. P. on every one, and, when they were\nput in a cool oven to set the sugar, the children went up to the village\nto collect the honey and the shovel and the other promised things.\n\nThe old lady at the Post-office was standing on her doorstep. The\nchildren said \"Good morning,\" politely, as they passed.\n\n\"Here, stop a bit,\" she said.\n\nSo they stopped.\n\n\"Those roses,\" said she.\n\n\"Did you like them?\" said Phyllis; \"they were as fresh as fresh. _I_\nmade the needle-book, but it was Bobbie's present.\" She skipped joyously\nas she spoke.\n\n\"Here's your basket,\" said the Post-office woman. She went in and\nbrought out the basket. It was full of fat, red gooseberries.\n\n\"I dare say Perks's children would like them,\" said she.\n\n\"You ARE an old dear,\" said Phyllis, throwing her arms around the old\nlady's fat waist. \"Perks WILL be pleased.\"\n\n\"He won't be half so pleased as I was with your needle-book and the tie\nand the pretty flowers and all,\" said the old lady, patting Phyllis's\nshoulder. \"You're good little souls, that you are. Look here. I've got a\npram round the back in the wood-lodge. It was got for my Emmie's first,\nthat didn't live but six months, and she never had but that one. I'd\nlike Mrs. Perks to have it. It 'ud be a help to her with that great boy\nof hers. Will you take it along?\"\n\n\"OH!\" said all the children together.\n\nWhen Mrs. Ransome had got out the perambulator and taken off the careful\npapers that covered it, and dusted it all over, she said:--\n\n\"Well, there it is. I don't know but what I'd have given it to her\nbefore if I'd thought of it. Only I didn't quite know if she'd accept of\nit from me. You tell her it was my Emmie's little one's pram--\"\n\n\"Oh, ISN'T it nice to think there is going to be a real live baby in it\nagain!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs. Ransome, sighing, and then laughing; \"here, I'll give\nyou some peppermint cushions for the little ones, and then you run along\nbefore I give you the roof off my head and the clothes off my back.\"\n\nAll the things that had been collected for Perks were packed into\nthe perambulator, and at half-past three Peter and Bobbie and Phyllis\nwheeled it down to the little yellow house where Perks lived.\n\nThe house was very tidy. On the window ledge was a jug of wild-flowers,\nbig daisies, and red sorrel, and feathery, flowery grasses.\n\nThere was a sound of splashing from the wash-house, and a partly washed\nboy put his head round the door.\n\n\"Mother's a-changing of herself,\" he said.\n\n\"Down in a minute,\" a voice sounded down the narrow, freshly scrubbed\nstairs.\n\nThe children waited. Next moment the stairs creaked and Mrs. Perks came\ndown, buttoning her bodice. Her hair was brushed very smooth and tight,\nand her face shone with soap and water.\n\n\"I'm a bit late changing, Miss,\" she said to Bobbie, \"owing to me having\nhad a extry clean-up to-day, along o' Perks happening to name its being\nhis birthday. I don't know what put it into his head to think of such\na thing. We keeps the children's birthdays, of course; but him and\nme--we're too old for such like, as a general rule.\"\n\n\"We knew it was his birthday,\" said Peter, \"and we've got some presents\nfor him outside in the perambulator.\"\n\nAs the presents were being unpacked, Mrs. Perks gasped. When they\nwere all unpacked, she surprised and horrified the children by sitting\nsuddenly down on a wooden chair and bursting into tears.\n\n\"Oh, don't!\" said everybody; \"oh, please don't!\" And Peter added,\nperhaps a little impatiently: \"What on earth is the matter? You don't\nmean to say you don't like it?\"\n\nMrs. Perks only sobbed. The Perks children, now as shiny-faced as anyone\ncould wish, stood at the wash-house door, and scowled at the intruders.\nThere was a silence, an awkward silence.\n\n\"DON'T you like it?\" said Peter, again, while his sisters patted Mrs.\nPerks on the back.\n\nShe stopped crying as suddenly as she had begun.\n\n\"There, there, don't you mind me. I'M all right!\" she said. \"Like it?\nWhy, it's a birthday such as Perks never 'ad, not even when 'e was a boy\nand stayed with his uncle, who was a corn chandler in his own account.\nHe failed afterwards. Like it? Oh--\" and then she went on and said all\nsorts of things that I won't write down, because I am sure that Peter\nand Bobbie and Phyllis would not like me to. Their ears got hotter and\nhotter, and their faces redder and redder, at the kind things Mrs. Perks\nsaid. They felt they had done nothing to deserve all this praise.\n\nAt last Peter said: \"Look here, we're glad you're pleased. But if you go\non saying things like that, we must go home. And we did want to stay and\nsee if Mr. Perks is pleased, too. But we can't stand this.\"\n\n\"I won't say another single word,\" said Mrs. Perks, with a beaming face,\n\"but that needn't stop me thinking, need it? For if ever--\"\n\n\"Can we have a plate for the buns?\" Bobbie asked abruptly. And then Mrs.\nPerks hastily laid the table for tea, and the buns and the honey and\nthe gooseberries were displayed on plates, and the roses were put in two\nglass jam jars, and the tea-table looked, as Mrs. Perks said, \"fit for a\nPrince.\"\n\n\"To think!\" she said, \"me getting the place tidy early, and the little\n'uns getting the wild-flowers and all--when never did I think there'd be\nanything more for him except the ounce of his pet particular that I\ngot o' Saturday and been saving up for 'im ever since. Bless us! 'e IS\nearly!\"\n\nPerks had indeed unlatched the latch of the little front gate.\n\n\"Oh,\" whispered Bobbie, \"let's hide in the back kitchen, and YOU tell\nhim about it. But give him the tobacco first, because you got it for\nhim. And when you've told him, we'll all come in and shout, 'Many happy\nreturns!'\"\n\nIt was a very nice plan, but it did not quite come off. To begin with,\nthere was only just time for Peter and Bobbie and Phyllis to rush into\nthe wash-house, pushing the young and open-mouthed Perks children in\nfront of them. There was not time to shut the door, so that, without at\nall meaning it, they had to listen to what went on in the kitchen. The\nwash-house was a tight fit for the Perks children and the Three Chimneys\nchildren, as well as all the wash-house's proper furniture, including\nthe mangle and the copper.\n\n\"Hullo, old woman!\" they heard Mr. Perks's voice say; \"here's a pretty\nset-out!\"\n\n\"It's your birthday tea, Bert,\" said Mrs. Perks, \"and here's a ounce of\nyour extry particular. I got it o' Saturday along o' your happening to\nremember it was your birthday to-day.\"\n\n\"Good old girl!\" said Mr. Perks, and there was a sound of a kiss.\n\n\"But what's that pram doing here? And what's all these bundles? And\nwhere did you get the sweetstuff, and--\"\n\nThe children did not hear what Mrs. Perks replied, because just then\nBobbie gave a start, put her hand in her pocket, and all her body grew\nstiff with horror.\n\n\"Oh!\" she whispered to the others, \"whatever shall we do? I forgot to\nput the labels on any of the things! He won't know what's from who.\nHe'll think it's all US, and that we're trying to be grand or charitable\nor something horrid.\"\n\n\"Hush!\" said Peter.\n\nAnd then they heard the voice of Mr. Perks, loud and rather angry.\n\n\"I don't care,\" he said; \"I won't stand it, and so I tell you straight.\"\n\n\"But,\" said Mrs. Perks, \"it's them children you make such a fuss\nabout--the children from the Three Chimneys.\"\n\n\"I don't care,\" said Perks, firmly, \"not if it was a angel from Heaven.\nWe've got on all right all these years and no favours asked. I'm not\ngoing to begin these sort of charity goings-on at my time of life, so\ndon't you think it, Nell.\"\n\n\"Oh, hush!\" said poor Mrs Perks; \"Bert, shut your silly tongue, for\ngoodness' sake. The all three of 'ems in the wash-house a-listening to\nevery word you speaks.\"\n\n\"Then I'll give them something to listen to,\" said the angry Perks;\n\"I've spoke my mind to them afore now, and I'll do it again,\" he added,\nand he took two strides to the wash-house door, and flung it wide\nopen--as wide, that is, as it would go, with the tightly packed children\nbehind it.\n\n\"Come out,\" said Perks, \"come out and tell me what you mean by it. 'Ave\nI ever complained to you of being short, as you comes this charity lay\nover me?\"\n\n\"OH!\" said Phyllis, \"I thought you'd be so pleased; I'll never try to be\nkind to anyone else as long as I live. No, I won't, not never.\"\n\nShe burst into tears.\n\n\"We didn't mean any harm,\" said Peter.\n\n\"It ain't what you means so much as what you does,\" said Perks.\n\n\"Oh, DON'T!\" cried Bobbie, trying hard to be braver than Phyllis, and to\nfind more words than Peter had done for explaining in. \"We thought you'd\nlove it. We always have things on our birthdays.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said Perks, \"your own relations; that's different.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" Bobbie answered. \"NOT our own relations. All the servants\nalways gave us things at home, and us to them when it was their\nbirthdays. And when it was mine, and Mother gave me the brooch like a\nbuttercup, Mrs. Viney gave me two lovely glass pots, and nobody thought\nshe was coming the charity lay over us.\"\n\n\"If it had been glass pots here,\" said Perks, \"I wouldn't ha' said so\nmuch. It's there being all this heaps and heaps of things I can't stand.\nNo--nor won't, neither.\"\n\n\"But they're not all from us--\" said Peter, \"only we forgot to put the\nlabels on. They're from all sorts of people in the village.\"\n\n\"Who put 'em up to it, I'd like to know?\" asked Perks.\n\n\"Why, we did,\" sniffed Phyllis.\n\nPerks sat down heavily in the elbow-chair and looked at them with what\nBobbie afterwards described as withering glances of gloomy despair.\n\n\"So you've been round telling the neighbours we can't make both\nends meet? Well, now you've disgraced us as deep as you can in the\nneighbourhood, you can just take the whole bag of tricks back w'ere it\ncome from. Very much obliged, I'm sure. I don't doubt but what you meant\nit kind, but I'd rather not be acquainted with you any longer if it's\nall the same to you.\" He deliberately turned the chair round so that\nhis back was turned to the children. The legs of the chair grated on the\nbrick floor, and that was the only sound that broke the silence.\n\nThen suddenly Bobbie spoke.\n\n\"Look here,\" she said, \"this is most awful.\"\n\n\"That's what I says,\" said Perks, not turning round.\n\n\"Look here,\" said Bobbie, desperately, \"we'll go if you like--and you\nneedn't be friends with us any more if you don't want, but--\"\n\n\"WE shall always be friends with YOU, however nasty you are to us,\"\nsniffed Phyllis, wildly.\n\n\"Be quiet,\" said Peter, in a fierce aside.\n\n\"But before we go,\" Bobbie went on desperately, \"do let us show you the\nlabels we wrote to put on the things.\"\n\n\"I don't want to see no labels,\" said Perks, \"except proper luggage ones\nin my own walk of life. Do you think I've kept respectable and outer\ndebt on what I gets, and her having to take in washing, to be give away\nfor a laughing-stock to all the neighbours?\"\n\n\"Laughing?\" said Peter; \"you don't know.\"\n\n\"You're a very hasty gentleman,\" whined Phyllis; \"you know you were\nwrong once before, about us not telling you the secret about the\nRussian. Do let Bobbie tell you about the labels!\"\n\n\"Well. Go ahead!\" said Perks, grudgingly.\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Bobbie, fumbling miserably, yet not without hope, in\nher tightly stuffed pocket, \"we wrote down all the things everybody said\nwhen they gave us the things, with the people's names, because Mother\nsaid we ought to be careful--because--but I wrote down what she\nsaid--and you'll see.\"\n\nBut Bobbie could not read the labels just at once. She had to swallow\nonce or twice before she could begin.\n\nMrs. Perks had been crying steadily ever since her husband had opened\nthe wash-house door. Now she caught her breath, choked, and said:--\n\n\"Don't you upset yourself, Missy. _I_ know you meant it kind if he\ndoesn't.\"\n\n\"May I read the labels?\" said Bobbie, crying on to the slips as she\ntried to sort them. \"Mother's first. It says:--\n\n\"'Little Clothes for Mrs. Perks's children.' Mother said, 'I'll find\nsome of Phyllis's things that she's grown out of if you're quite sure\nMr. Perks wouldn't be offended and think it's meant for charity. I'd\nlike to do some little thing for him, because he's so kind to you. I\ncan't do much because we're poor ourselves.'\"\n\nBobbie paused.\n\n\"That's all right,\" said Perks, \"your Ma's a born lady. We'll keep the\nlittle frocks, and what not, Nell.\"\n\n\"Then there's the perambulator and the gooseberries, and the sweets,\"\nsaid Bobbie, \"they're from Mrs. Ransome. She said: 'I dare say Mr.\nPerks's children would like the sweets. And the perambulator was got for\nmy Emmie's first--it didn't live but six months, and she's never had but\nthat one. I'd like Mrs. Perks to have it. It would be a help with her\nfine boy. I'd have given it before if I'd been sure she'd accept of\nit from me.' She told me to tell you,\" Bobbie added, \"that it was her\nEmmie's little one's pram.\"\n\n\"I can't send that pram back, Bert,\" said Mrs Perks, firmly, \"and I\nwon't. So don't you ask me--\"\n\n\"I'm not a-asking anything,\" said Perks, gruffly.\n\n\"Then the shovel,\" said Bobbie. \"Mr. James made it for you himself. And\nhe said--where is it? Oh, yes, here! He said, 'You tell Mr. Perks it's a\npleasure to make a little trifle for a man as is so much respected,' and\nthen he said he wished he could shoe your children and his own children,\nlike they do the horses, because, well, he knew what shoe leather was.\"\n\n\"James is a good enough chap,\" said Perks.\n\n\"Then the honey,\" said Bobbie, in haste, \"and the boot-laces. HE said\nhe respected a man that paid his way--and the butcher said the same. And\nthe old turnpike woman said many was the time you'd lent her a hand\nwith her garden when you were a lad--and things like that came home to\nroost--I don't know what she meant. And everybody who gave anything said\nthey liked you, and it was a very good idea of ours; and nobody said\nanything about charity or anything horrid like that. And the old\ngentleman gave Peter a gold pound for you, and said you were a man who\nknew your work. And I thought you'd LOVE to know how fond people are\nof you, and I never was so unhappy in my life. Good-bye. I hope you'll\nforgive us some day--\"\n\nShe could say no more, and she turned to go.\n\n\"Stop,\" said Perks, still with his back to them; \"I take back every word\nI've said contrary to what you'd wish. Nell, set on the kettle.\"\n\n\"We'll take the things away if you're unhappy about them,\" said Peter;\n\"but I think everybody'll be most awfully disappointed, as well as us.\"\n\n\"I'm not unhappy about them,\" said Perks; \"I don't know,\" he added,\nsuddenly wheeling the chair round and showing a very odd-looking\nscrewed-up face, \"I don't know as ever I was better pleased. Not so much\nwith the presents--though they're an A1 collection--but the kind respect\nof our neighbours. That's worth having, eh, Nell?\"\n\n\"I think it's all worth having,\" said Mrs. Perks, \"and you've made a\nmost ridiculous fuss about nothing, Bert, if you ask me.\"\n\n\"No, I ain't,\" said Perks, firmly; \"if a man didn't respect hisself, no\none wouldn't do it for him.\"\n\n\"But everyone respects you,\" said Bobbie; \"they all said so.\"\n\n\"I knew you'd like it when you really understood,\" said Phyllis,\nbrightly.\n\n\"Humph! You'll stay to tea?\" said Mr. Perks.\n\nLater on Peter proposed Mr. Perks's health. And Mr. Perks proposed a\ntoast, also honoured in tea, and the toast was, \"May the garland of\nfriendship be ever green,\" which was much more poetical than anyone had\nexpected from him.\n\n          *          *          *          *          *          *\n\n\"Jolly good little kids, those,\" said Mr. Perks to his wife as they went\nto bed.\n\n\"Oh, they're all right, bless their hearts,\" said his wife; \"it's you\nthat's the aggravatingest old thing that ever was. I was ashamed of\nyou--I tell you--\"\n\n\"You didn't need to be, old gal. I climbed down handsome soon as I\nunderstood it wasn't charity. But charity's what I never did abide, and\nwon't neither.\"\n\n          *          *          *          *          *          *\n\nAll sorts of people were made happy by that birthday party. Mr. Perks\nand Mrs. Perks and the little Perkses by all the nice things and by the\nkind thoughts of their neighbours; the Three Chimneys children by the\nsuccess, undoubted though unexpectedly delayed, of their plan; and Mrs.\nRansome every time she saw the fat Perks baby in the perambulator.\nMrs. Perks made quite a round of visits to thank people for their kind\nbirthday presents, and after each visit felt that she had a better\nfriend than she had thought.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Perks, reflectively, \"it's not so much what you does as what\nyou means; that's what I say. Now if it had been charity--\"\n\n\"Oh, drat charity,\" said Mrs. Perks; \"nobody won't offer you\ncharity, Bert, however much you was to want it, I lay. That was just\nfriendliness, that was.\"\n\nWhen the clergyman called on Mrs. Perks, she told him all about it. \"It\nWAS friendliness, wasn't it, Sir?\" said she.\n\n\"I think,\" said the clergyman, \"it was what is sometimes called\nloving-kindness.\"\n\nSo you see it was all right in the end. But if one does that sort of\nthing, one has to be careful to do it in the right way. For, as Mr.\nPerks said, when he had time to think it over, it's not so much what you\ndo, as what you mean.\n\n\n\nChapter X. The terrible secret.\n\n\nWhen they first went to live at Three Chimneys, the children had talked\na great deal about their Father, and had asked a great many questions\nabout him, and what he was doing and where he was and when he would come\nhome. Mother always answered their questions as well as she could. But\nas the time went on they grew to speak less of him. Bobbie had felt\nalmost from the first that for some strange miserable reason these\nquestions hurt Mother and made her sad. And little by little the others\ncame to have this feeling, too, though they could not have put it into\nwords.\n\nOne day, when Mother was working so hard that she could not leave off\neven for ten minutes, Bobbie carried up her tea to the big bare room\nthat they called Mother's workshop. It had hardly any furniture. Just\na table and a chair and a rug. But always big pots of flowers on the\nwindow-sills and on the mantelpiece. The children saw to that. And from\nthe three long uncurtained windows the beautiful stretch of meadow and\nmoorland, the far violet of the hills, and the unchanging changefulness\nof cloud and sky.\n\n\"Here's your tea, Mother-love,\" said Bobbie; \"do drink it while it's\nhot.\"\n\nMother laid down her pen among the pages that were scattered all over\nthe table, pages covered with her writing, which was almost as plain\nas print, and much prettier. She ran her hands into her hair, as if she\nwere going to pull it out by handfuls.\n\n\"Poor dear head,\" said Bobbie, \"does it ache?\"\n\n\"No--yes--not much,\" said Mother. \"Bobbie, do you think Peter and Phil\nare FORGETTING Father?\"\n\n\"NO,\" said Bobbie, indignantly. \"Why?\"\n\n\"You none of you ever speak of him now.\"\n\nBobbie stood first on one leg and then on the other.\n\n\"We often talk about him when we're by ourselves,\" she said.\n\n\"But not to me,\" said Mother. \"Why?\"\n\nBobbie did not find it easy to say why.\n\n\"I--you--\" she said and stopped. She went over to the window and looked\nout.\n\n\"Bobbie, come here,\" said her Mother, and Bobbie came.\n\n\"Now,\" said Mother, putting her arm round Bobbie and laying her ruffled\nhead against Bobbie's shoulder, \"try to tell me, dear.\"\n\nBobbie fidgeted.\n\n\"Tell Mother.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Bobbie, \"I thought you were so unhappy about Daddy\nnot being here, it made you worse when I talked about him. So I stopped\ndoing it.\"\n\n\"And the others?\"\n\n\"I don't know about the others,\" said Bobbie. \"I never said anything\nabout THAT to them. But I expect they felt the same about it as me.\"\n\n\"Bobbie dear,\" said Mother, still leaning her head against her, \"I'll\ntell you. Besides parting from Father, he and I have had a great\nsorrow--oh, terrible--worse than anything you can think of, and at first\nit did hurt to hear you all talking of him as if everything were just\nthe same. But it would be much more terrible if you were to forget him.\nThat would be worse than anything.\"\n\n\"The trouble,\" said Bobbie, in a very little voice--\"I promised I\nwould never ask you any questions, and I never have, have I? But--the\ntrouble--it won't last always?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Mother, \"the worst will be over when Father comes home to\nus.\"\n\n\"I wish I could comfort you,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Oh, my dear, do you suppose you don't? Do you think I haven't noticed\nhow good you've all been, not quarrelling nearly as much as you used\nto--and all the little kind things you do for me--the flowers, and\ncleaning my shoes, and tearing up to make my bed before I get time to do\nit myself?\"\n\nBobbie HAD sometimes wondered whether Mother noticed these things.\n\n\"That's nothing,\" she said, \"to what--\"\n\n\"I MUST get on with my work,\" said Mother, giving Bobbie one last\nsqueeze. \"Don't say anything to the others.\"\n\nThat evening in the hour before bed-time instead of reading to the\nchildren Mother told them stories of the games she and Father used\nto have when they were children and lived near each other in the\ncountry--tales of the adventures of Father with Mother's brothers when\nthey were all boys together. Very funny stories they were, and the\nchildren laughed as they listened.\n\n\"Uncle Edward died before he was grown up, didn't he?\" said Phyllis, as\nMother lighted the bedroom candles.\n\n\"Yes, dear,\" said Mother, \"you would have loved him. He was such a\nbrave boy, and so adventurous. Always in mischief, and yet friends with\neverybody in spite of it. And your Uncle Reggie's in Ceylon--yes, and\nFather's away, too. But I think they'd all like to think we'd enjoyed\ntalking about the things they used to do. Don't you think so?\"\n\n\"Not Uncle Edward,\" said Phyllis, in a shocked tone; \"he's in Heaven.\"\n\n\"You don't suppose he's forgotten us and all the old times, because God\nhas taken him, any more than I forget him. Oh, no, he remembers. He's\nonly away for a little time. We shall see him some day.\"\n\n\"And Uncle Reggie--and Father, too?\" said Peter.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mother. \"Uncle Reggie and Father, too. Good night, my\ndarlings.\"\n\n\"Good night,\" said everyone. Bobbie hugged her mother more closely even\nthan usual, and whispered in her ear, \"Oh, I do love you so, Mummy--I\ndo--I do--\"\n\nWhen Bobbie came to think it all over, she tried not to wonder what\nthe great trouble was. But she could not always help it. Father was not\ndead--like poor Uncle Edward--Mother had said so. And he was not ill, or\nMother would have been with him. Being poor wasn't the trouble. Bobbie\nknew it was something nearer the heart than money could be.\n\n\"I mustn't try to think what it is,\" she told herself; \"no, I mustn't. I\nAM glad Mother noticed about us not quarrelling so much. We'll keep that\nup.\"\n\nAnd alas, that very afternoon she and Peter had what Peter called a\nfirst-class shindy.\n\nThey had not been a week at Three Chimneys before they had asked Mother\nto let them have a piece of garden each for their very own, and she had\nagreed, and the south border under the peach trees had been divided into\nthree pieces and they were allowed to plant whatever they liked there.\n\nPhyllis had planted mignonette and nasturtium and Virginia Stock in\nhers. The seeds came up, and though they looked just like weeds, Phyllis\nbelieved that they would bear flowers some day. The Virginia Stock\njustified her faith quite soon, and her garden was gay with a band of\nbright little flowers, pink and white and red and mauve.\n\n\"I can't weed for fear I pull up the wrong things,\" she used to say\ncomfortably; \"it saves such a lot of work.\"\n\nPeter sowed vegetable seeds in his--carrots and onions and turnips.\nThe seed was given to him by the farmer who lived in the nice\nblack-and-white, wood-and-plaster house just beyond the bridge. He\nkept turkeys and guinea fowls, and was a most amiable man. But Peter's\nvegetables never had much of a chance, because he liked to use the earth\nof his garden for digging canals, and making forts and earthworks for\nhis toy soldiers. And the seeds of vegetables rarely come to much in\na soil that is constantly disturbed for the purposes of war and\nirrigation.\n\nBobbie planted rose-bushes in her garden, but all the little new leaves\nof the rose-bushes shrivelled and withered, perhaps because she moved\nthem from the other part of the garden in May, which is not at all the\nright time of year for moving roses. But she would not own that they\nwere dead, and hoped on against hope, until the day when Perks came up\nto see the garden, and told her quite plainly that all her roses were as\ndead as doornails.\n\n\"Only good for bonfires, Miss,\" he said. \"You just dig 'em up and burn\n'em, and I'll give you some nice fresh roots outer my garden; pansies,\nand stocks, and sweet willies, and forget-me-nots. I'll bring 'em along\nto-morrow if you get the ground ready.\"\n\nSo next day she set to work, and that happened to be the day when Mother\nhad praised her and the others about not quarrelling. She moved the\nrose-bushes and carried them to the other end of the garden, where the\nrubbish heap was that they meant to make a bonfire of when Guy Fawkes'\nDay came.\n\nMeanwhile Peter had decided to flatten out all his forts and earthworks,\nwith a view to making a model of the railway-tunnel, cutting,\nembankment, canal, aqueduct, bridges, and all.\n\nSo when Bobbie came back from her last thorny journey with the dead\nrose-bushes, he had got the rake and was using it busily.\n\n\"_I_ was using the rake,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Well, I'm using it now,\" said Peter.\n\n\"But I had it first,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Then it's my turn now,\" said Peter. And that was how the quarrel began.\n\n\"You're always being disagreeable about nothing,\" said Peter, after some\nheated argument.\n\n\"I had the rake first,\" said Bobbie, flushed and defiant, holding on to\nits handle.\n\n\"Don't--I tell you I said this morning I meant to have it. Didn't I,\nPhil?\"\n\nPhyllis said she didn't want to be mixed up in their rows. And\ninstantly, of course, she was.\n\n\"If you remember, you ought to say.\"\n\n\"Of course she doesn't remember--but she might say so.\"\n\n\"I wish I'd had a brother instead of two whiny little kiddy sisters,\"\nsaid Peter. This was always recognised as indicating the high-water mark\nof Peter's rage.\n\nBobbie made the reply she always made to it.\n\n\"I can't think why little boys were ever invented,\" and just as she said\nit she looked up, and saw the three long windows of Mother's workshop\nflashing in the red rays of the sun. The sight brought back those words\nof praise:--\n\n\"You don't quarrel like you used to do.\"\n\n\"OH!\" cried Bobbie, just as if she had been hit, or had caught her\nfinger in a door, or had felt the hideous sharp beginnings of toothache.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" said Phyllis.\n\nBobbie wanted to say: \"Don't let's quarrel. Mother hates it so,\" but\nthough she tried hard, she couldn't. Peter was looking too disagreeable\nand insulting.\n\n\"Take the horrid rake, then,\" was the best she could manage. And she\nsuddenly let go her hold on the handle. Peter had been holding on to\nit too firmly and pullingly, and now that the pull the other way was\nsuddenly stopped, he staggered and fell over backward, the teeth of the\nrake between his feet.\n\n\"Serve you right,\" said Bobbie, before she could stop herself.\n\nPeter lay still for half a moment--long enough to frighten Bobbie a\nlittle. Then he frightened her a little more, for he sat up--screamed\nonce--turned rather pale, and then lay back and began to shriek, faintly\nbut steadily. It sounded exactly like a pig being killed a quarter of a\nmile off.\n\nMother put her head out of the window, and it wasn't half a minute after\nthat she was in the garden kneeling by the side of Peter, who never for\nan instant ceased to squeal.\n\n\"What happened, Bobbie?\" Mother asked.\n\n\"It was the rake,\" said Phyllis. \"Peter was pulling at it, so was\nBobbie, and she let go and he went over.\"\n\n\"Stop that noise, Peter,\" said Mother. \"Come. Stop at once.\"\n\nPeter used up what breath he had left in a last squeal and stopped.\n\n\"Now,\" said Mother, \"are you hurt?\"\n\n\"If he was really hurt, he wouldn't make such a fuss,\" said Bobbie,\nstill trembling with fury; \"he's not a coward!\"\n\n\"I think my foot's broken off, that's all,\" said Peter, huffily, and sat\nup. Then he turned quite white. Mother put her arm round him.\n\n\"He IS hurt,\" she said; \"he's fainted. Here, Bobbie, sit down and take\nhis head on your lap.\"\n\nThen Mother undid Peter's boots. As she took the right one off,\nsomething dripped from his foot on to the ground. It was red blood. And\nwhen the stocking came off there were three red wounds in Peter's foot\nand ankle, where the teeth of the rake had bitten him, and his foot was\ncovered with red smears.\n\n\"Run for water--a basinful,\" said Mother, and Phyllis ran. She upset\nmost of the water out of the basin in her haste, and had to fetch more\nin a jug.\n\nPeter did not open his eyes again till Mother had tied her handkerchief\nround his foot, and she and Bobbie had carried him in and laid him on\nthe brown wooden settle in the dining-room. By this time Phyllis was\nhalfway to the Doctor's.\n\nMother sat by Peter and bathed his foot and talked to him, and Bobbie\nwent out and got tea ready, and put on the kettle.\n\n\"It's all I can do,\" she told herself. \"Oh, suppose Peter should die, or\nbe a helpless cripple for life, or have to walk with crutches, or wear a\nboot with a sole like a log of wood!\"\n\nShe stood by the back door reflecting on these gloomy possibilities, her\neyes fixed on the water-butt.\n\n\"I wish I'd never been born,\" she said, and she said it out loud.\n\n\"Why, lawk a mercy, what's that for?\" asked a voice, and Perks stood\nbefore her with a wooden trug basket full of green-leaved things and\nsoft, loose earth.\n\n\"Oh, it's you,\" she said. \"Peter's hurt his foot with a rake--three\ngreat gaping wounds, like soldiers get. And it was partly my fault.\"\n\n\"That it wasn't, I'll go bail,\" said Perks. \"Doctor seen him?\"\n\n\"Phyllis has gone for the Doctor.\"\n\n\"He'll be all right; you see if he isn't,\" said Perks. \"Why, my father's\nsecond cousin had a hay-fork run into him, right into his inside, and he\nwas right as ever in a few weeks, all except his being a bit weak in\nthe head afterwards, and they did say that it was along of his getting\na touch of the sun in the hay-field, and not the fork at all. I remember\nhim well. A kind-'earted chap, but soft, as you might say.\"\n\nBobbie tried to let herself be cheered by this heartening reminiscence.\n\n\"Well,\" said Perks, \"you won't want to be bothered with gardening just\nthis minute, I dare say. You show me where your garden is, and I'll\npop the bits of stuff in for you. And I'll hang about, if I may make so\nfree, to see the Doctor as he comes out and hear what he says. You cheer\nup, Missie. I lay a pound he ain't hurt, not to speak of.\"\n\nBut he was. The Doctor came and looked at the foot and bandaged it\nbeautifully, and said that Peter must not put it to the ground for at\nleast a week.\n\n\"He won't be lame, or have to wear crutches or a lump on his foot, will\nhe?\" whispered Bobbie, breathlessly, at the door.\n\n\"My aunt! No!\" said Dr. Forrest; \"he'll be as nimble as ever on his pins\nin a fortnight. Don't you worry, little Mother Goose.\"\n\nIt was when Mother had gone to the gate with the Doctor to take his last\ninstructions and Phyllis was filling the kettle for tea, that Peter and\nBobbie found themselves alone.\n\n\"He says you won't be lame or anything,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Oh, course I shan't, silly,\" said Peter, very much relieved all the\nsame.\n\n\"Oh, Peter, I AM so sorry,\" said Bobbie, after a pause.\n\n\"That's all right,\" said Peter, gruffly.\n\n\"It was ALL my fault,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Rot,\" said Peter.\n\n\"If we hadn't quarrelled, it wouldn't have happened. I knew it was wrong\nto quarrel. I wanted to say so, but somehow I couldn't.\"\n\n\"Don't drivel,\" said Peter. \"I shouldn't have stopped if you HAD said\nit. Not likely. And besides, us rowing hadn't anything to do with it.\nI might have caught my foot in the hoe, or taken off my fingers in the\nchaff-cutting machine or blown my nose off with fireworks. It would have\nbeen hurt just the same whether we'd been rowing or not.\"\n\n\"But I knew it was wrong to quarrel,\" said Bobbie, in tears, \"and now\nyou're hurt and--\"\n\n\"Now look here,\" said Peter, firmly, \"you just dry up. If you're not\ncareful, you'll turn into a beastly little Sunday-school prig, so I tell\nyou.\"\n\n\"I don't mean to be a prig. But it's so hard not to be when you're\nreally trying to be good.\"\n\n(The Gentle Reader may perhaps have suffered from this difficulty.)\n\n\"Not it,\" said Peter; \"it's a jolly good thing it wasn't you was hurt.\nI'm glad it was ME. There! If it had been you, you'd have been lying\non the sofa looking like a suffering angel and being the light of the\nanxious household and all that. And I couldn't have stood it.\"\n\n\"No, I shouldn't,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Yes, you would,\" said Peter.\n\n\"I tell you I shouldn't.\"\n\n\"I tell you you would.\"\n\n\"Oh, children,\" said Mother's voice at the door. \"Quarrelling again?\nAlready?\"\n\n\"We aren't quarrelling--not really,\" said Peter. \"I wish you wouldn't\nthink it's rows every time we don't agree!\" When Mother had gone out\nagain, Bobbie broke out:--\n\n\"Peter, I AM sorry you're hurt. But you ARE a beast to say I'm a prig.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Peter unexpectedly, \"perhaps I am. You did say I wasn't a\ncoward, even when you were in such a wax. The only thing is--don't\nyou be a prig, that's all. You keep your eyes open and if you feel\npriggishness coming on just stop in time. See?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Bobbie, \"I see.\"\n\n\"Then let's call it Pax,\" said Peter, magnanimously: \"bury the hatchet\nin the fathoms of the past. Shake hands on it. I say, Bobbie, old chap,\nI am tired.\"\n\nHe was tired for many days after that, and the settle seemed hard and\nuncomfortable in spite of all the pillows and bolsters and soft folded\nrugs. It was terrible not to be able to go out. They moved the settle\nto the window, and from there Peter could see the smoke of the trains\nwinding along the valley. But he could not see the trains.\n\nAt first Bobbie found it quite hard to be as nice to him as she wanted\nto be, for fear he should think her priggish. But that soon wore off,\nand both she and Phyllis were, as he observed, jolly good sorts. Mother\nsat with him when his sisters were out. And the words, \"he's not a\ncoward,\" made Peter determined not to make any fuss about the pain in\nhis foot, though it was rather bad, especially at night.\n\nPraise helps people very much, sometimes.\n\nThere were visitors, too. Mrs. Perks came up to ask how he was, and so\ndid the Station Master, and several of the village people. But the time\nwent slowly, slowly.\n\n\"I do wish there was something to read,\" said Peter. \"I've read all our\nbooks fifty times over.\"\n\n\"I'll go to the Doctor's,\" said Phyllis; \"he's sure to have some.\"\n\n\"Only about how to be ill, and about people's nasty insides, I expect,\"\nsaid Peter.\n\n\"Perks has a whole heap of Magazines that came out of trains when people\nare tired of them,\" said Bobbie. \"I'll run down and ask him.\"\n\nSo the girls went their two ways.\n\nBobbie found Perks busy cleaning lamps.\n\n\"And how's the young gent?\" said he.\n\n\"Better, thanks,\" said Bobbie, \"but he's most frightfully bored. I came\nto ask if you'd got any Magazines you could lend him.\"\n\n\"There, now,\" said Perks, regretfully, rubbing his ear with a black\nand oily lump of cotton waste, \"why didn't I think of that, now? I was\ntrying to think of something as 'ud amuse him only this morning, and I\ncouldn't think of anything better than a guinea-pig. And a young chap I\nknow's going to fetch that over for him this tea-time.\"\n\n\"How lovely! A real live guinea! He will be pleased. But he'd like the\nMagazines as well.\"\n\n\"That's just it,\" said Perks. \"I've just sent the pick of 'em to\nSnigson's boy--him what's just getting over the pewmonia. But I've lots\nof illustrated papers left.\"\n\nHe turned to the pile of papers in the corner and took up a heap six\ninches thick.\n\n\"There!\" he said. \"I'll just slip a bit of string and a bit of paper\nround 'em.\"\n\nHe pulled an old newspaper from the pile and spread it on the table, and\nmade a neat parcel of it.\n\n\"There,\" said he, \"there's lots of pictures, and if he likes to mess 'em\nabout with his paint-box, or coloured chalks or what not, why, let him.\n_I_ don't want 'em.\"\n\n\"You're a dear,\" said Bobbie, took the parcel, and started. The papers\nwere heavy, and when she had to wait at the level-crossing while a train\nwent by, she rested the parcel on the top of the gate. And idly she\nlooked at the printing on the paper that the parcel was wrapped in.\n\nSuddenly she clutched the parcel tighter and bent her head over it. It\nseemed like some horrible dream. She read on--the bottom of the column\nwas torn off--she could read no farther.\n\nShe never remembered how she got home. But she went on tiptoe to her\nroom and locked the door. Then she undid the parcel and read that\nprinted column again, sitting on the edge of her bed, her hands and feet\nicy cold and her face burning. When she had read all there was, she drew\na long, uneven breath.\n\n\"So now I know,\" she said.\n\nWhat she had read was headed, 'End of the Trial. Verdict. Sentence.'\n\nThe name of the man who had been tried was the name of her Father.\nThe verdict was 'Guilty.' And the sentence was 'Five years' Penal\nServitude.'\n\n\"Oh, Daddy,\" she whispered, crushing the paper hard, \"it's not true--I\ndon't believe it. You never did it! Never, never, never!\"\n\nThere was a hammering on the door.\n\n\"What is it?\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"It's me,\" said the voice of Phyllis; \"tea's ready, and a boy's brought\nPeter a guinea-pig. Come along down.\"\n\nAnd Bobbie had to.\n\n\n\nChapter XI. The hound in the red jersey.\n\n\nBobbie knew the secret now. A sheet of old newspaper wrapped round a\nparcel--just a little chance like that--had given the secret to her. And\nshe had to go down to tea and pretend that there was nothing the matter.\nThe pretence was bravely made, but it wasn't very successful.\n\nFor when she came in, everyone looked up from tea and saw her\npink-lidded eyes and her pale face with red tear-blotches on it.\n\n\"My darling,\" cried Mother, jumping up from the tea-tray, \"whatever IS\nthe matter?\"\n\n\"My head aches, rather,\" said Bobbie. And indeed it did.\n\n\"Has anything gone wrong?\" Mother asked.\n\n\"I'm all right, really,\" said Bobbie, and she telegraphed to her Mother\nfrom her swollen eyes this brief, imploring message--\"NOT before the\nothers!\"\n\nTea was not a cheerful meal. Peter was so distressed by the obvious fact\nthat something horrid had happened to Bobbie that he limited his speech\nto repeating, \"More bread and butter, please,\" at startlingly short\nintervals. Phyllis stroked her sister's hand under the table to express\nsympathy, and knocked her cup over as she did it. Fetching a cloth and\nwiping up the spilt milk helped Bobbie a little. But she thought that\ntea would never end. Yet at last it did end, as all things do at last,\nand when Mother took out the tray, Bobbie followed her.\n\n\"She's gone to own up,\" said Phyllis to Peter; \"I wonder what she's\ndone.\"\n\n\"Broken something, I suppose,\" said Peter, \"but she needn't be so silly\nover it. Mother never rows for accidents. Listen! Yes, they're going\nupstairs. She's taking Mother up to show her--the water-jug with storks\non it, I expect it is.\"\n\nBobbie, in the kitchen, had caught hold of Mother's hand as she set down\nthe tea-things.\n\n\"What is it?\" Mother asked.\n\nBut Bobbie only said, \"Come upstairs, come up where nobody can hear us.\"\n\nWhen she had got Mother alone in her room she locked the door and then\nstood quite still, and quite without words.\n\nAll through tea she had been thinking of what to say; she had decided\nthat \"I know all,\" or \"All is known to me,\" or \"The terrible secret is\na secret no longer,\" would be the proper thing. But now that she and\nher Mother and that awful sheet of newspaper were alone in the room\ntogether, she found that she could say nothing.\n\nSuddenly she went to Mother and put her arms round her and began to cry\nagain. And still she could find no words, only, \"Oh, Mammy, oh, Mammy,\noh, Mammy,\" over and over again.\n\nMother held her very close and waited.\n\nSuddenly Bobbie broke away from her and went to her bed. From under her\nmattress she pulled out the paper she had hidden there, and held it out,\npointing to her Father's name with a finger that shook.\n\n\"Oh, Bobbie,\" Mother cried, when one little quick look had shown her\nwhat it was, \"you don't BELIEVE it? You don't believe Daddy did it?\"\n\n\"NO,\" Bobbie almost shouted. She had stopped crying.\n\n\"That's all right,\" said Mother. \"It's not true. And they've shut him\nup in prison, but he's done nothing wrong. He's good and noble and\nhonourable, and he belongs to us. We have to think of that, and be proud\nof him, and wait.\"\n\nAgain Bobbie clung to her Mother, and again only one word came to her,\nbut now that word was \"Daddy,\" and \"Oh, Daddy, oh, Daddy, oh, Daddy!\"\nagain and again.\n\n\"Why didn't you tell me, Mammy?\" she asked presently.\n\n\"Are you going to tell the others?\" Mother asked.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because--\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" said Mother; \"so you understand why I didn't tell you. We two\nmust help each other to be brave.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Bobbie; \"Mother, will it make you more unhappy if you tell\nme all about it? I want to understand.\"\n\nSo then, sitting cuddled up close to her Mother, Bobbie heard \"all\nabout it.\" She heard how those men, who had asked to see Father on that\nremembered last night when the Engine was being mended, had come\nto arrest him, charging him with selling State secrets to the\nRussians--with being, in fact, a spy and a traitor. She heard about the\ntrial, and about the evidence--letters, found in Father's desk at the\noffice, letters that convinced the jury that Father was guilty.\n\n\"Oh, how could they look at him and believe it!\" cried Bobbie; \"and how\ncould ANY one do such a thing!\"\n\n\"SOMEONE did it,\" said Mother, \"and all the evidence was against Father.\nThose letters--\"\n\n\"Yes. How did the letters get into his desk?\"\n\n\"Someone put them there. And the person who put them there was the\nperson who was really guilty.\"\n\n\"HE must be feeling pretty awful all this time,\" said Bobbie,\nthoughtfully.\n\n\"I don't believe he had any feelings,\" Mother said hotly; \"he couldn't\nhave done a thing like that if he had.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he just shoved the letters into the desk to hide them when he\nthought he was going to be found out. Why don't you tell the lawyers,\nor someone, that it must have been that person? There wasn't anyone that\nwould have hurt Father on purpose, was there?\"\n\n\"I don't know--I don't know. The man under him who got Daddy's place\nwhen he--when the awful thing happened--he was always jealous of your\nFather because Daddy was so clever and everyone thought such a lot of\nhim. And Daddy never quite trusted that man.\"\n\n\"Couldn't we explain all that to someone?\"\n\n\"Nobody will listen,\" said Mother, very bitterly, \"nobody at all. Do you\nsuppose I've not tried everything? No, my dearest, there's nothing to be\ndone. All we can do, you and I and Daddy, is to be brave, and patient,\nand--\" she spoke very softly--\"to pray, Bobbie, dear.\"\n\n\"Mother, you've got very thin,\" said Bobbie, abruptly.\n\n\"A little, perhaps.\"\n\n\"And oh,\" said Bobbie, \"I do think you're the bravest person in the\nworld as well as the nicest!\"\n\n\"We won't talk of all this any more, will we, dear?\" said Mother; \"we\nmust bear it and be brave. And, darling, try not to think of it. Try to\nbe cheerful, and to amuse yourself and the others. It's much easier for\nme if you can be a little bit happy and enjoy things. Wash your poor\nlittle round face, and let's go out into the garden for a bit.\"\n\nThe other two were very gentle and kind to Bobbie. And they did not\nask her what was the matter. This was Peter's idea, and he had drilled\nPhyllis, who would have asked a hundred questions if she had been left\nto herself.\n\nA week later Bobbie managed to get away alone. And once more she wrote a\nletter. And once more it was to the old gentleman.\n\n\"My dear Friend,\" she said, \"you see what is in this paper. It is\nnot true. Father never did it. Mother says someone put the papers in\nFather's desk, and she says the man under him that got Father's place\nafterwards was jealous of Father, and Father suspected him a long time.\nBut nobody listens to a word she says, but you are so good and clever,\nand you found out about the Russian gentleman's wife directly. Can't you\nfind out who did the treason because he wasn't Father upon my honour;\nhe is an Englishman and uncapable to do such things, and then they would\nlet Father out of prison. It is dreadful, and Mother is getting so thin.\nShe told us once to pray for all prisoners and captives. I see now.\nOh, do help me--there is only just Mother and me know, and we can't do\nanything. Peter and Phil don't know. I'll pray for you twice every day\nas long as I live if you'll only try--just try to find out. Think if it\nwas YOUR Daddy, what you would feel. Oh, do, do, DO help me. With love\n\n\"I remain Your affectionately little friend\n\n\"Roberta.\n\nP.S. Mother would send her kind regards if she knew I am writing--but\nit is no use telling her I am, in case you can't do anything. But I know\nyou will. Bobbie with best love.\"\n\nShe cut the account of her Father's trial out of the newspaper with\nMother's big cutting-out scissors, and put it in the envelope with her\nletter.\n\nThen she took it down to the station, going out the back way and round\nby the road, so that the others should not see her and offer to come\nwith her, and she gave the letter to the Station Master to give to the\nold gentleman next morning.\n\n\"Where HAVE you been?\" shouted Peter, from the top of the yard wall\nwhere he and Phyllis were.\n\n\"To the station, of course,\" said Bobbie; \"give us a hand, Pete.\"\n\nShe set her foot on the lock of the yard door. Peter reached down a\nhand.\n\n\"What on earth?\" she asked as she reached the wall-top--for Phyllis and\nPeter were very muddy. A lump of wet clay lay between them on the wall,\nthey had each a slip of slate in a very dirty hand, and behind Peter,\nout of the reach of accidents, were several strange rounded objects\nrather like very fat sausages, hollow, but closed up at one end.\n\n\"It's nests,\" said Peter, \"swallows' nests. We're going to dry them\nin the oven and hang them up with string under the eaves of the\ncoach-house.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Phyllis; \"and then we're going to save up all the wool and\nhair we can get, and in the spring we'll line them, and then how pleased\nthe swallows will be!\"\n\n\"I've often thought people don't do nearly enough for dumb animals,\"\nsaid Peter with an air of virtue. \"I do think people might have thought\nof making nests for poor little swallows before this.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Bobbie, vaguely, \"if everybody thought of everything, there'd\nbe nothing left for anybody else to think about.\"\n\n\"Look at the nests--aren't they pretty?\" said Phyllis, reaching across\nPeter to grasp a nest.\n\n\"Look out, Phil, you goat,\" said her brother. But it was too late; her\nstrong little fingers had crushed the nest.\n\n\"There now,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Never mind,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"It IS one of my own,\" said Phyllis, \"so you needn't jaw, Peter. Yes,\nwe've put our initial names on the ones we've done, so that the swallows\nwill know who they've got to be so grateful to and fond of.\"\n\n\"Swallows can't read, silly,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Silly yourself,\" retorted Phyllis; \"how do you know?\"\n\n\"Who thought of making the nests, anyhow?\" shouted Peter.\n\n\"I did,\" screamed Phyllis.\n\n\"Nya,\" rejoined Peter, \"you only thought of making hay ones and sticking\nthem in the ivy for the sparrows, and they'd have been sopping LONG\nbefore egg-laying time. It was me said clay and swallows.\"\n\n\"I don't care what you said.\"\n\n\"Look,\" said Bobbie, \"I've made the nest all right again. Give me the\nbit of stick to mark your initial name on it. But how can you? Your\nletter and Peter's are the same. P. for Peter, P. for Phyllis.\"\n\n\"I put F. for Phyllis,\" said the child of that name. \"That's how\nit sounds. The swallows wouldn't spell Phyllis with a P., I'm\ncertain-sure.\"\n\n\"They can't spell at all,\" Peter was still insisting.\n\n\"Then why do you see them always on Christmas cards and valentines\nwith letters round their necks? How would they know where to go if they\ncouldn't read?\"\n\n\"That's only in pictures. You never saw one really with letters round\nits neck.\"\n\n\"Well, I have a pigeon, then; at least Daddy told me they did. Only it\nwas under their wings and not round their necks, but it comes to the\nsame thing, and--\"\n\n\"I say,\" interrupted Bobbie, \"there's to be a paperchase to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Who?\" Peter asked.\n\n\"Grammar School. Perks thinks the hare will go along by the line at\nfirst. We might go along the cutting. You can see a long way from\nthere.\"\n\nThe paperchase was found to be a more amusing subject of conversation\nthan the reading powers of swallows. Bobbie had hoped it might be. And\nnext morning Mother let them take their lunch and go out for the day to\nsee the paperchase.\n\n\"If we go to the cutting,\" said Peter, \"we shall see the workmen, even\nif we miss the paperchase.\"\n\nOf course it had taken some time to get the line clear from the rocks\nand earth and trees that had fallen on it when the great landslip\nhappened. That was the occasion, you will remember, when the three\nchildren saved the train from being wrecked by waving six little\nred-flannel-petticoat flags. It is always interesting to watch people\nworking, especially when they work with such interesting things as\nspades and picks and shovels and planks and barrows, when they have\ncindery red fires in iron pots with round holes in them, and red lamps\nhanging near the works at night. Of course the children were never\nout at night; but once, at dusk, when Peter had got out of his bedroom\nskylight on to the roof, he had seen the red lamp shining far away at\nthe edge of the cutting. The children had often been down to watch the\nwork, and this day the interest of picks and spades, and barrows being\nwheeled along planks, completely put the paperchase out of their heads,\nso that they quite jumped when a voice just behind them panted, \"Let me\npass, please.\" It was the hare--a big-boned, loose-limbed boy, with dark\nhair lying flat on a very damp forehead. The bag of torn paper under\nhis arm was fastened across one shoulder by a strap. The children stood\nback. The hare ran along the line, and the workmen leaned on their picks\nto watch him. He ran on steadily and disappeared into the mouth of the\ntunnel.\n\n\"That's against the by-laws,\" said the foreman.\n\n\"Why worry?\" said the oldest workman; \"live and let live's what I always\nsay. Ain't you never been young yourself, Mr. Bates?\"\n\n\"I ought to report him,\" said the foreman.\n\n\"Why spoil sport's what I always say.\"\n\n\"Passengers are forbidden to cross the line on any pretence,\" murmured\nthe foreman, doubtfully.\n\n\"He ain't no passenger,\" said one of the workmen.\n\n\"Nor 'e ain't crossed the line, not where we could see 'im do it,\" said\nanother.\n\n\"Nor yet 'e ain't made no pretences,\" said a third.\n\n\"And,\" said the oldest workman, \"'e's outer sight now. What the eye\ndon't see the 'art needn't take no notice of's what I always say.\"\n\nAnd now, following the track of the hare by the little white blots of\nscattered paper, came the hounds. There were thirty of them, and they\nall came down the steep, ladder-like steps by ones and twos and threes\nand sixes and sevens. Bobbie and Phyllis and Peter counted them as they\npassed. The foremost ones hesitated a moment at the foot of the ladder,\nthen their eyes caught the gleam of scattered whiteness along the line\nand they turned towards the tunnel, and, by ones and twos and threes and\nsixes and sevens, disappeared in the dark mouth of it. The last one, in\na red jersey, seemed to be extinguished by the darkness like a candle\nthat is blown out.\n\n\"They don't know what they're in for,\" said the foreman; \"it isn't so\neasy running in the dark. The tunnel takes two or three turns.\"\n\n\"They'll take a long time to get through, you think?\" Peter asked.\n\n\"An hour or more, I shouldn't wonder.\"\n\n\"Then let's cut across the top and see them come out at the other end,\"\nsaid Peter; \"we shall get there long before they do.\"\n\nThe counsel seemed good, and they went.\n\nThey climbed the steep steps from which they had picked the wild cherry\nblossom for the grave of the little wild rabbit, and reaching the top of\nthe cutting, set their faces towards the hill through which the tunnel\nwas cut. It was stiff work.\n\n\"It's like Alps,\" said Bobbie, breathlessly.\n\n\"Or Andes,\" said Peter.\n\n\"It's like Himmy what's its names?\" gasped Phyllis. \"Mount Everlasting.\nDo let's stop.\"\n\n\"Stick to it,\" panted Peter; \"you'll get your second wind in a minute.\"\n\nPhyllis consented to stick to it--and on they went, running when the\nturf was smooth and the slope easy, climbing over stones, helping\nthemselves up rocks by the branches of trees, creeping through narrow\nopenings between tree trunks and rocks, and so on and on, up and up,\ntill at last they stood on the very top of the hill where they had so\noften wished to be.\n\n\"Halt!\" cried Peter, and threw himself flat on the grass. For the very\ntop of the hill was a smooth, turfed table-land, dotted with mossy rocks\nand little mountain-ash trees.\n\nThe girls also threw themselves down flat.\n\n\"Plenty of time,\" Peter panted; \"the rest's all down hill.\"\n\nWhen they were rested enough to sit up and look round them, Bobbie\ncried:--\n\n\"Oh, look!\"\n\n\"What at?\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"The view,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"I hate views,\" said Phyllis, \"don't you, Peter?\"\n\n\"Let's get on,\" said Peter.\n\n\"But this isn't like a view they take you to in carriages when you're\nat the seaside, all sea and sand and bare hills. It's like the 'coloured\ncounties' in one of Mother's poetry books.\"\n\n\"It's not so dusty,\" said Peter; \"look at the Aqueduct straddling slap\nacross the valley like a giant centipede, and then the towns sticking\ntheir church spires up out of the trees like pens out of an inkstand.\n_I_ think it's more like\n\n     \"There could he see the banners\n      Of twelve fair cities shine.\"\n\n\"I love it,\" said Bobbie; \"it's worth the climb.\"\n\n\"The paperchase is worth the climb,\" said Phyllis, \"if we don't lose it.\nLet's get on. It's all down hill now.\"\n\n\"_I_ said that ten minutes ago,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Well, I'VE said it now,\" said Phyllis; \"come on.\"\n\n\"Loads of time,\" said Peter. And there was. For when they had got down\nto a level with the top of the tunnel's mouth--they were a couple of\nhundred yards out of their reckoning and had to creep along the face of\nthe hill--there was no sign of the hare or the hounds.\n\n\"They've gone long ago, of course,\" said Phyllis, as they leaned on the\nbrick parapet above the tunnel.\n\n\"I don't think so,\" said Bobbie, \"but even if they had, it's ripping\nhere, and we shall see the trains come out of the tunnel like dragons\nout of lairs. We've never seen that from the top side before.\"\n\n\"No more we have,\" said Phyllis, partially appeased.\n\nIt was really a most exciting place to be in. The top of the tunnel\nseemed ever so much farther from the line than they had expected, and\nit was like being on a bridge, but a bridge overgrown with bushes and\ncreepers and grass and wild-flowers.\n\n\"I KNOW the paperchase has gone long ago,\" said Phyllis every two\nminutes, and she hardly knew whether she was pleased or disappointed\nwhen Peter, leaning over the parapet, suddenly cried:--\n\n\"Look out. Here he comes!\"\n\nThey all leaned over the sun-warmed brick wall in time to see the hare,\ngoing very slowly, come out from the shadow of the tunnel.\n\n\"There, now,\" said Peter, \"what did I tell you? Now for the hounds!\"\n\nVery soon came the hounds--by ones and twos and threes and sixes and\nsevens--and they also were going slowly and seemed very tired. Two or\nthree who lagged far behind came out long after the others.\n\n\"There,\" said Bobbie, \"that's all--now what shall we do?\"\n\n\"Go along into the tulgy wood over there and have lunch,\" said Phyllis;\n\"we can see them for miles from up here.\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" said Peter. \"That's not the last. There's the one in the red\njersey to come yet. Let's see the last of them come out.\"\n\nBut though they waited and waited and waited, the boy in the red jersey\ndid not appear.\n\n\"Oh, let's have lunch,\" said Phyllis; \"I've got a pain in my front with\nbeing so hungry. You must have missed seeing the red-jerseyed one when\nhe came out with the others--\"\n\nBut Bobbie and Peter agreed that he had not come out with the others.\n\n\"Let's get down to the tunnel mouth,\" said Peter; \"then perhaps we shall\nsee him coming along from the inside. I expect he felt spun-chuck, and\nrested in one of the manholes. You stay up here and watch, Bob, and when\nI signal from below, you come down. We might miss seeing him on the way\ndown, with all these trees.\"\n\nSo the others climbed down and Bobbie waited till they signalled to her\nfrom the line below. And then she, too, scrambled down the roundabout\nslippery path among roots and moss till she stepped out between two\ndogwood trees and joined the others on the line. And still there was no\nsign of the hound with the red jersey.\n\n\"Oh, do, DO let's have something to eat,\" wailed Phyllis. \"I shall die\nif you don't, and then you'll be sorry.\"\n\n\"Give her the sandwiches, for goodness' sake, and stop her silly mouth,\"\nsaid Peter, not quite unkindly. \"Look here,\" he added, turning to\nBobbie, \"perhaps we'd better have one each, too. We may need all our\nstrength. Not more than one, though. There's no time.\"\n\n\"What?\" asked Bobbie, her mouth already full, for she was just as hungry\nas Phyllis.\n\n\"Don't you see,\" replied Peter, impressively, \"that red-jerseyed hound\nhas had an accident--that's what it is. Perhaps even as we speak he's\nlying with his head on the metals, an unresisting prey to any passing\nexpress--\"\n\n\"Oh, don't try to talk like a book,\" cried Bobbie, bolting what was left\nof her sandwich; \"come on. Phil, keep close behind me, and if a train\ncomes, stand flat against the tunnel wall and hold your petticoats close\nto you.\"\n\n\"Give me one more sandwich,\" pleaded Phyllis, \"and I will.\"\n\n\"I'm going first,\" said Peter; \"it was my idea,\" and he went.\n\nOf course you know what going into a tunnel is like? The engine gives\na scream and then suddenly the noise of the running, rattling train\nchanges and grows different and much louder. Grown-up people pull up the\nwindows and hold them by the strap. The railway carriage suddenly grows\nlike night--with lamps, of course, unless you are in a slow local train,\nin which case lamps are not always provided. Then by and by the darkness\noutside the carriage window is touched by puffs of cloudy whiteness,\nthen you see a blue light on the walls of the tunnel, then the sound of\nthe moving train changes once more, and you are out in the good open air\nagain, and grown-ups let the straps go. The windows, all dim with the\nyellow breath of the tunnel, rattle down into their places, and you see\nonce more the dip and catch of the telegraph wires beside the line, and\nthe straight-cut hawthorn hedges with the tiny baby trees growing up out\nof them every thirty yards.\n\nAll this, of course, is what a tunnel means when you are in a train. But\neverything is quite different when you walk into a tunnel on your own\nfeet, and tread on shifting, sliding stones and gravel on a path that\ncurves downwards from the shining metals to the wall. Then you see\nslimy, oozy trickles of water running down the inside of the tunnel,\nand you notice that the bricks are not red or brown, as they are at the\ntunnel's mouth, but dull, sticky, sickly green. Your voice, when you\nspeak, is quite changed from what it was out in the sunshine, and it is\na long time before the tunnel is quite dark.\n\nIt was not yet quite dark in the tunnel when Phyllis caught at Bobbie's\nskirt, ripping out half a yard of gathers, but no one noticed this at\nthe time.\n\n\"I want to go back,\" she said, \"I don't like it. It'll be pitch dark\nin a minute. I WON'T go on in the dark. I don't care what you say, I\nWON'T.\"\n\n\"Don't be a silly cuckoo,\" said Peter; \"I've got a candle end and\nmatches, and--what's that?\"\n\n\"That\" was a low, humming sound on the railway line, a trembling of the\nwires beside it, a buzzing, humming sound that grew louder and louder as\nthey listened.\n\n\"It's a train,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Which line?\"\n\n\"Let me go back,\" cried Phyllis, struggling to get away from the hand by\nwhich Bobbie held her.\n\n\"Don't be a coward,\" said Bobbie; \"it's quite safe. Stand back.\"\n\n\"Come on,\" shouted Peter, who was a few yards ahead. \"Quick! Manhole!\"\n\nThe roar of the advancing train was now louder than the noise you hear\nwhen your head is under water in the bath and both taps are running, and\nyou are kicking with your heels against the bath's tin sides. But Peter\nhad shouted for all he was worth, and Bobbie heard him. She dragged\nPhyllis along to the manhole. Phyllis, of course, stumbled over the\nwires and grazed both her legs. But they dragged her in, and all three\nstood in the dark, damp, arched recess while the train roared louder and\nlouder. It seemed as if it would deafen them. And, in the distance, they\ncould see its eyes of fire growing bigger and brighter every instant.\n\n\"It IS a dragon--I always knew it was--it takes its own shape in here,\nin the dark,\" shouted Phyllis. But nobody heard her. You see the train\nwas shouting, too, and its voice was bigger than hers.\n\nAnd now, with a rush and a roar and a rattle and a long dazzling flash\nof lighted carriage windows, a smell of smoke, and blast of hot air, the\ntrain hurtled by, clanging and jangling and echoing in the vaulted roof\nof the tunnel. Phyllis and Bobbie clung to each other. Even Peter\ncaught hold of Bobbie's arm, \"in case she should be frightened,\" as he\nexplained afterwards.\n\nAnd now, slowly and gradually, the tail-lights grew smaller and smaller,\nand so did the noise, till with one last WHIZ the train got itself out\nof the tunnel, and silence settled again on its damp walls and dripping\nroof.\n\n\"OH!\" said the children, all together in a whisper.\n\nPeter was lighting the candle end with a hand that trembled.\n\n\"Come on,\" he said; but he had to clear his throat before he could speak\nin his natural voice.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Phyllis, \"if the red-jerseyed one was in the way of the\ntrain!\"\n\n\"We've got to go and see,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Couldn't we go and send someone from the station?\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"Would you rather wait here for us?\" asked Bobbie, severely, and of\ncourse that settled the question.\n\nSo the three went on into the deeper darkness of the tunnel. Peter led,\nholding his candle end high to light the way. The grease ran down his\nfingers, and some of it right up his sleeve. He found a long streak from\nwrist to elbow when he went to bed that night.\n\nIt was not more than a hundred and fifty yards from the spot where\nthey had stood while the train went by that Peter stood still, shouted\n\"Hullo,\" and then went on much quicker than before. When the others\ncaught him up, he stopped. And he stopped within a yard of what they had\ncome into the tunnel to look for. Phyllis saw a gleam of red, and\nshut her eyes tight. There, by the curved, pebbly down line, was the\nred-jerseyed hound. His back was against the wall, his arms hung limply\nby his sides, and his eyes were shut.\n\n\"Was the red, blood? Is he all killed?\" asked Phyllis, screwing her\neyelids more tightly together.\n\n\"Killed? Nonsense!\" said Peter. \"There's nothing red about him except\nhis jersey. He's only fainted. What on earth are we to do?\"\n\n\"Can we move him?\" asked Bobbie.\n\n\"I don't know; he's a big chap.\"\n\n\"Suppose we bathe his forehead with water. No, I know we haven't any,\nbut milk's just as wet. There's a whole bottle.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter, \"and they rub people's hands, I believe.\"\n\n\"They burn feathers, I know,\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"What's the good of saying that when we haven't any feathers?\"\n\n\"As it happens,\" said Phyllis, in a tone of exasperated triumph, \"I've\ngot a shuttlecock in my pocket. So there!\"\n\nAnd now Peter rubbed the hands of the red-jerseyed one. Bobbie burned\nthe feathers of the shuttlecock one by one under his nose, Phyllis\nsplashed warmish milk on his forehead, and all three kept on saying as\nfast and as earnestly as they could:--\n\n\"Oh, look up, speak to me! For my sake, speak!\"\n\n\n\nChapter XII. What Bobbie brought home.\n\n\n\"Oh, look up! Speak to me! For MY sake, speak!\" The children said the\nwords over and over again to the unconscious hound in a red jersey, who\nsat with closed eyes and pale face against the side of the tunnel.\n\n\"Wet his ears with milk,\" said Bobbie. \"I know they do it to people that\nfaint--with eau-de-Cologne. But I expect milk's just as good.\"\n\nSo they wetted his ears, and some of the milk ran down his neck under\nthe red jersey. It was very dark in the tunnel. The candle end Peter had\ncarried, and which now burned on a flat stone, gave hardly any light at\nall.\n\n\"Oh, DO look up,\" said Phyllis. \"For MY sake! I believe he's dead.\"\n\n\"For MY sake,\" repeated Bobbie. \"No, he isn't.\"\n\n\"For ANY sake,\" said Peter; \"come out of it.\" And he shook the sufferer\nby the arm.\n\nAnd then the boy in the red jersey sighed, and opened his eyes, and shut\nthem again and said in a very small voice, \"Chuck it.\"\n\n\"Oh, he's NOT dead,\" said Phyllis. \"I KNEW he wasn't,\" and she began to\ncry.\n\n\"What's up? I'm all right,\" said the boy.\n\n\"Drink this,\" said Peter, firmly, thrusting the nose of the milk bottle\ninto the boy's mouth. The boy struggled, and some of the milk was upset\nbefore he could get his mouth free to say:--\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"It's milk,\" said Peter. \"Fear not, you are in the hands of friends.\nPhil, you stop bleating this minute.\"\n\n\"Do drink it,\" said Bobbie, gently; \"it'll do you good.\"\n\nSo he drank. And the three stood by without speaking to him.\n\n\"Let him be a minute,\" Peter whispered; \"he'll be all right as soon as\nthe milk begins to run like fire through his veins.\"\n\nHe was.\n\n\"I'm better now,\" he announced. \"I remember all about it.\" He tried to\nmove, but the movement ended in a groan. \"Bother! I believe I've broken\nmy leg,\" he said.\n\n\"Did you tumble down?\" asked Phyllis, sniffing.\n\n\"Of course not--I'm not a kiddie,\" said the boy, indignantly; \"it was\none of those beastly wires tripped me up, and when I tried to get up\nagain I couldn't stand, so I sat down. Gee whillikins! it does hurt,\nthough. How did YOU get here?\"\n\n\"We saw you all go into the tunnel and then we went across the hill to\nsee you all come out. And the others did--all but you, and you didn't.\nSo we are a rescue party,\" said Peter, with pride.\n\n\"You've got some pluck, I will say,\" remarked the boy.\n\n\"Oh, that's nothing,\" said Peter, with modesty. \"Do you think you could\nwalk if we helped you?\"\n\n\"I could try,\" said the boy.\n\nHe did try. But he could only stand on one foot; the other dragged in a\nvery nasty way.\n\n\"Here, let me sit down. I feel like dying,\" said the boy. \"Let go of\nme--let go, quick--\" He lay down and closed his eyes. The others looked\nat each other by the dim light of the little candle.\n\n\"What on earth!\" said Peter.\n\n\"Look here,\" said Bobbie, quickly, \"you must go and get help. Go to the\nnearest house.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's the only thing,\" said Peter. \"Come on.\"\n\n\"If you take his feet and Phil and I take his head, we could carry him\nto the manhole.\"\n\nThey did it. It was perhaps as well for the sufferer that he had fainted\nagain.\n\n\"Now,\" said Bobbie, \"I'll stay with him. You take the longest bit of\ncandle, and, oh--be quick, for this bit won't burn long.\"\n\n\"I don't think Mother would like me leaving you,\" said Peter,\ndoubtfully. \"Let me stay, and you and Phil go.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Bobbie, \"you and Phil go--and lend me your knife. I'll\ntry to get his boot off before he wakes up again.\"\n\n\"I hope it's all right what we're doing,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Of course it's right,\" said Bobbie, impatiently. \"What else WOULD you\ndo? Leave him here all alone because it's dark? Nonsense. Hurry up,\nthat's all.\"\n\nSo they hurried up.\n\nBobbie watched their dark figures and the little light of the little\ncandle with an odd feeling of having come to the end of everything. She\nknew now, she thought, what nuns who were bricked up alive in convent\nwalls felt like. Suddenly she gave herself a little shake.\n\n\"Don't be a silly little girl,\" she said. She was always very angry when\nanyone else called her a little girl, even if the adjective that went\nfirst was not \"silly\" but \"nice\" or \"good\" or \"clever.\" And it was only\nwhen she was very angry with herself that she allowed Roberta to use\nthat expression to Bobbie.\n\nShe fixed the little candle end on a broken brick near the red-jerseyed\nboy's feet. Then she opened Peter's knife. It was always hard to\nmanage--a halfpenny was generally needed to get it open at all. This\ntime Bobbie somehow got it open with her thumbnail. She broke the nail,\nand it hurt horribly. Then she cut the boy's bootlace, and got the boot\noff. She tried to pull off his stocking, but his leg was dreadfully\nswollen, and it did not seem to be the proper shape. So she cut the\nstocking down, very slowly and carefully. It was a brown, knitted\nstocking, and she wondered who had knitted it, and whether it was the\nboy's mother, and whether she was feeling anxious about him, and how she\nwould feel when he was brought home with his leg broken. When Bobbie had\ngot the stocking off and saw the poor leg, she felt as though the tunnel\nwas growing darker, and the ground felt unsteady, and nothing seemed\nquite real.\n\n\"SILLY little girl!\" said Roberta to Bobbie, and felt better.\n\n\"The poor leg,\" she told herself; \"it ought to have a cushion--ah!\"\n\nShe remembered the day when she and Phyllis had torn up their red\nflannel petticoats to make danger signals to stop the train and prevent\nan accident. Her flannel petticoat to-day was white, but it would be\nquite as soft as a red one. She took it off.\n\n\"Oh, what useful things flannel petticoats are!\" she said; \"the man who\ninvented them ought to have a statue directed to him.\" And she said\nit aloud, because it seemed that any voice, even her own, would be a\ncomfort in that darkness.\n\n\"WHAT ought to be directed? Who to?\" asked the boy, suddenly and very\nfeebly.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Bobbie, \"now you're better! Hold your teeth and don't let it\nhurt too much. Now!\"\n\nShe had folded the petticoat, and lifting his leg laid it on the cushion\nof folded flannel.\n\n\"Don't faint again, PLEASE don't,\" said Bobbie, as he groaned. She\nhastily wetted her handkerchief with milk and spread it over the poor\nleg.\n\n\"Oh, that hurts,\" cried the boy, shrinking. \"Oh--no, it doesn't--it's\nnice, really.\"\n\n\"What's your name?\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Jim.\"\n\n\"Mine's Bobbie.\"\n\n\"But you're a girl, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, my long name's Roberta.\"\n\n\"I say--Bobbie.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Wasn't there some more of you just now?\"\n\n\"Yes, Peter and Phil--that's my brother and sister. They've gone to get\nsomeone to carry you out.\"\n\n\"What rum names. All boys'.\"\n\n\"Yes--I wish I was a boy, don't you?\"\n\n\"I think you're all right as you are.\"\n\n\"I didn't mean that--I meant don't you wish YOU were a boy, but of\ncourse you are without wishing.\"\n\n\"You're just as brave as a boy. Why didn't you go with the others?\"\n\n\"Somebody had to stay with you,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Tell you what, Bobbie,\" said Jim, \"you're a brick. Shake.\" He reached\nout a red-jerseyed arm and Bobbie squeezed his hand.\n\n\"I won't shake it,\" she explained, \"because it would shake YOU, and that\nwould shake your poor leg, and that would hurt. Have you got a hanky?\"\n\n\"I don't expect I have.\" He felt in his pocket. \"Yes, I have. What for?\"\n\nShe took it and wetted it with milk and put it on his forehead.\n\n\"That's jolly,\" he said; \"what is it?\"\n\n\"Milk,\" said Bobbie. \"We haven't any water--\"\n\n\"You're a jolly good little nurse,\" said Jim.\n\n\"I do it for Mother sometimes,\" said Bobbie--\"not milk, of course,\nbut scent, or vinegar and water. I say, I must put the candle out now,\nbecause there mayn't be enough of the other one to get you out by.\"\n\n\"By George,\" said he, \"you think of everything.\"\n\nBobbie blew. Out went the candle. You have no idea how black-velvety the\ndarkness was.\n\n\"I say, Bobbie,\" said a voice through the blackness, \"aren't you afraid\nof the dark?\"\n\n\"Not--not very, that is--\"\n\n\"Let's hold hands,\" said the boy, and it was really rather good of him,\nbecause he was like most boys of his age and hated all material tokens\nof affection, such as kissing and holding of hands. He called all such\nthings \"pawings,\" and detested them.\n\nThe darkness was more bearable to Bobbie now that her hand was held in\nthe large rough hand of the red-jerseyed sufferer; and he, holding her\nlittle smooth hot paw, was surprised to find that he did not mind it so\nmuch as he expected. She tried to talk, to amuse him, and \"take his mind\noff\" his sufferings, but it is very difficult to go on talking in the\ndark, and presently they found themselves in a silence, only broken now\nand then by a--\n\n\"You all right, Bobbie?\"\n\nor an--\n\n\"I'm afraid it's hurting you most awfully, Jim. I AM so sorry.\"\n\nAnd it was very cold.\n\n          *          *          *          *          *          *\n\nPeter and Phyllis tramped down the long way of the tunnel towards\ndaylight, the candle-grease dripping over Peter's fingers. There were no\naccidents unless you count Phyllis's catching her frock on a wire, and\ntearing a long, jagged slit in it, and tripping over her bootlace when\nit came undone, or going down on her hands and knees, all four of which\nwere grazed.\n\n\"There's no end to this tunnel,\" said Phyllis--and indeed it did seem\nvery very long.\n\n\"Stick to it,\" said Peter; \"everything has an end, and you get to it if\nyou only keep all on.\"\n\nWhich is quite true, if you come to think of it, and a useful thing\nto remember in seasons of trouble--such as measles, arithmetic,\nimpositions, and those times when you are in disgrace, and feel as\nthough no one would ever love you again, and you could never--never\nagain--love anybody.\n\n\"Hurray,\" said Peter, suddenly, \"there's the end of the tunnel--looks\njust like a pin-hole in a bit of black paper, doesn't it?\"\n\nThe pin-hole got larger--blue lights lay along the sides of the tunnel.\nThe children could see the gravel way that lay in front of them; the air\ngrew warmer and sweeter. Another twenty steps and they were out in the\ngood glad sunshine with the green trees on both sides.\n\nPhyllis drew a long breath.\n\n\"I'll never go into a tunnel again as long as ever I live,\" said she,\n\"not if there are twenty hundred thousand millions hounds inside with\nred jerseys and their legs broken.\"\n\n\"Don't be a silly cuckoo,\" said Peter, as usual. \"You'd HAVE to.\"\n\n\"I think it was very brave and good of me,\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"Not it,\" said Peter; \"you didn't go because you were brave, but because\nBobbie and I aren't skunks. Now where's the nearest house, I wonder? You\ncan't see anything here for the trees.\"\n\n\"There's a roof over there,\" said Phyllis, pointing down the line.\n\n\"That's the signal-box,\" said Peter, \"and you know you're not allowed to\nspeak to signalmen on duty. It's wrong.\"\n\n\"I'm not near so afraid of doing wrong as I was of going into that\ntunnel,\" said Phyllis. \"Come on,\" and she started to run along the line.\nSo Peter ran, too.\n\nIt was very hot in the sunshine, and both children were hot and\nbreathless by the time they stopped, and bending their heads back to\nlook up at the open windows of the signal-box, shouted \"Hi!\" as loud\nas their breathless state allowed. But no one answered. The signal-box\nstood quiet as an empty nursery, and the handrail of its steps was hot\nto the hands of the children as they climbed softly up. They peeped\nin at the open door. The signalman was sitting on a chair tilted back\nagainst the wall. His head leaned sideways, and his mouth was open. He\nwas fast asleep.\n\n\"My hat!\" cried Peter; \"wake up!\" And he cried it in a terrible voice,\nfor he knew that if a signalman sleeps on duty, he risks losing his\nsituation, let alone all the other dreadful risks to trains which expect\nhim to tell them when it is safe for them to go their ways.\n\nThe signalman never moved. Then Peter sprang to him and shook him. And\nslowly, yawning and stretching, the man awoke. But the moment he WAS\nawake he leapt to his feet, put his hands to his head \"like a mad\nmaniac,\" as Phyllis said afterwards, and shouted:--\n\n\"Oh, my heavens--what's o'clock?\"\n\n\"Twelve thirteen,\" said Peter, and indeed it was by the white-faced,\nround-faced clock on the wall of the signal-box.\n\nThe man looked at the clock, sprang to the levers, and wrenched them\nthis way and that. An electric bell tingled--the wires and cranks\ncreaked, and the man threw himself into a chair. He was very pale,\nand the sweat stood on his forehead \"like large dewdrops on a white\ncabbage,\" as Phyllis remarked later. He was trembling, too; the children\ncould see his big hairy hands shake from side to side, \"with quite\nextra-sized trembles,\" to use the subsequent words of Peter. He drew\nlong breaths. Then suddenly he cried, \"Thank God, thank God you come in\nwhen you did--oh, thank God!\" and his shoulders began to heave and his\nface grew red again, and he hid it in those large hairy hands of his.\n\n\"Oh, don't cry--don't,\" said Phyllis, \"it's all right now,\" and she\npatted him on one big, broad shoulder, while Peter conscientiously\nthumped the other.\n\nBut the signalman seemed quite broken down, and the children had to\npat him and thump him for quite a long time before he found his\nhandkerchief--a red one with mauve and white horseshoes on it--and\nmopped his face and spoke. During this patting and thumping interval a\ntrain thundered by.\n\n\"I'm downright shamed, that I am,\" were the words of the big signalman\nwhen he had stopped crying; \"snivelling like a kid.\" Then suddenly he\nseemed to get cross. \"And what was you doing up here, anyway?\" he said;\n\"you know it ain't allowed.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Phyllis, \"we knew it was wrong--but I wasn't afraid of doing\nwrong, and so it turned out right. You aren't sorry we came.\"\n\n\"Lor' love you--if you hadn't 'a' come--\" he stopped and then went on.\n\"It's a disgrace, so it is, sleeping on duty. If it was to come to be\nknown--even as it is, when no harm's come of it.\"\n\n\"It won't come to be known,\" said Peter; \"we aren't sneaks. All the\nsame, you oughtn't to sleep on duty--it's dangerous.\"\n\n\"Tell me something I don't know,\" said the man, \"but I can't help it.\nI know'd well enough just how it 'ud be. But I couldn't get off. They\ncouldn't get no one to take on my duty. I tell you I ain't had ten\nminutes' sleep this last five days. My little chap's ill--pewmonia, the\nDoctor says--and there's no one but me and 'is little sister to do for\nhim. That's where it is. The gell must 'ave her sleep. Dangerous? Yes, I\nbelieve you. Now go and split on me if you like.\"\n\n\"Of course we won't,\" said Peter, indignantly, but Phyllis ignored the\nwhole of the signalman's speech, except the first six words.\n\n\"You asked us,\" she said, \"to tell you something you don't know. Well,\nI will. There's a boy in the tunnel over there with a red jersey and his\nleg broken.\"\n\n\"What did he want to go into the blooming tunnel for, then?\" said the\nman.\n\n\"Don't you be so cross,\" said Phyllis, kindly. \"WE haven't done anything\nwrong except coming and waking you up, and that was right, as it\nhappens.\"\n\nThen Peter told how the boy came to be in the tunnel.\n\n\"Well,\" said the man, \"I don't see as I can do anything. I can't leave\nthe box.\"\n\n\"You might tell us where to go after someone who isn't in a box,\nthough,\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"There's Brigden's farm over yonder--where you see the smoke a-coming\nup through the trees,\" said the man, more and more grumpy, as Phyllis\nnoticed.\n\n\"Well, good-bye, then,\" said Peter.\n\nBut the man said, \"Wait a minute.\" He put his hand in his pocket and\nbrought out some money--a lot of pennies and one or two shillings and\nsixpences and half-a-crown. He picked out two shillings and held them\nout.\n\n\"Here,\" he said. \"I'll give you this to hold your tongues about what's\ntaken place to-day.\"\n\nThere was a short, unpleasant pause. Then:--\n\n\"You ARE a nasty man, though, aren't you?\" said Phyllis.\n\nPeter took a step forward and knocked the man's hand up, so that the\nshillings leapt out of it and rolled on the floor.\n\n\"If anything COULD make me sneak, THAT would!\" he said. \"Come, Phil,\"\nand marched out of the signal-box with flaming cheeks.\n\nPhyllis hesitated. Then she took the hand, still held out stupidly, that\nthe shillings had been in.\n\n\"I forgive you,\" she said, \"even if Peter doesn't. You're not in your\nproper senses, or you'd never have done that. I know want of sleep sends\npeople mad. Mother told me. I hope your little boy will soon be better,\nand--\"\n\n\"Come on, Phil,\" cried Peter, eagerly.\n\n\"I give you my sacred honour-word we'll never tell anyone. Kiss and be\nfriends,\" said Phyllis, feeling how noble it was of her to try to make\nup a quarrel in which she was not to blame.\n\nThe signalman stooped and kissed her.\n\n\"I do believe I'm a bit off my head, Sissy,\" he said. \"Now run along\nhome to Mother. I didn't mean to put you about--there.\"\n\nSo Phil left the hot signal-box and followed Peter across the fields to\nthe farm.\n\nWhen the farm men, led by Peter and Phyllis and carrying a hurdle\ncovered with horse-cloths, reached the manhole in the tunnel, Bobbie\nwas fast asleep and so was Jim. Worn out with the pain, the Doctor said\nafterwards.\n\n\"Where does he live?\" the bailiff from the farm asked, when Jim had been\nlifted on to the hurdle.\n\n\"In Northumberland,\" answered Bobbie.\n\n\"I'm at school at Maidbridge,\" said Jim. \"I suppose I've got to get back\nthere, somehow.\"\n\n\"Seems to me the Doctor ought to have a look in first,\" said the\nbailiff.\n\n\"Oh, bring him up to our house,\" said Bobbie. \"It's only a little way by\nthe road. I'm sure Mother would say we ought to.\"\n\n\"Will your Ma like you bringing home strangers with broken legs?\"\n\n\"She took the poor Russian home herself,\" said Bobbie. \"I know she'd say\nwe ought.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said the bailiff, \"you ought to know what your Ma 'ud like.\nI wouldn't take it upon me to fetch him up to our place without I asked\nthe Missus first, and they call me the Master, too.\"\n\n\"Are you sure your Mother won't mind?\" whispered Jim.\n\n\"Certain,\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"Then we're to take him up to Three Chimneys?\" said the bailiff.\n\n\"Of course,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Then my lad shall nip up to Doctor's on his bike, and tell him to come\ndown there. Now, lads, lift him quiet and steady. One, two, three!\"\n\n          *          *          *          *          *          *\n\nThus it happened that Mother, writing away for dear life at a story\nabout a Duchess, a designing villain, a secret passage, and a missing\nwill, dropped her pen as her work-room door burst open, and turned to\nsee Bobbie hatless and red with running.\n\n\"Oh, Mother,\" she cried, \"do come down. We found a hound in a red jersey\nin the tunnel, and he's broken his leg and they're bringing him home.\"\n\n\"They ought to take him to the vet,\" said Mother, with a worried frown;\n\"I really CAN'T have a lame dog here.\"\n\n\"He's not a dog, really--he's a boy,\" said Bobbie, between laughing and\nchoking.\n\n\"Then he ought to be taken home to his mother.\"\n\n\"His mother's dead,\" said Bobbie, \"and his father's in Northumberland.\nOh, Mother, you will be nice to him? I told him I was sure you'd want us\nto bring him home. You always want to help everybody.\"\n\nMother smiled, but she sighed, too. It is nice that your children should\nbelieve you willing to open house and heart to any and every one who\nneeds help. But it is rather embarrassing sometimes, too, when they act\non their belief.\n\n\"Oh, well,\" said Mother, \"we must make the best of it.\"\n\nWhen Jim was carried in, dreadfully white and with set lips whose red\nhad faded to a horrid bluey violet colour, Mother said:--\n\n\"I am glad you brought him here. Now, Jim, let's get you comfortable in\nbed before the Doctor comes!\"\n\nAnd Jim, looking at her kind eyes, felt a little, warm, comforting flush\nof new courage.\n\n\"It'll hurt rather, won't it?\" he said. \"I don't mean to be a coward.\nYou won't think I'm a coward if I faint again, will you? I really\nand truly don't do it on purpose. And I do hate to give you all this\ntrouble.\"\n\n\"Don't you worry,\" said Mother; \"it's you that have the trouble, you\npoor dear--not us.\"\n\nAnd she kissed him just as if he had been Peter. \"We love to have you\nhere--don't we, Bobbie?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Bobbie--and she saw by her Mother's face how right she had\nbeen to bring home the wounded hound in the red jersey.\n\n\n\nChapter XIII. The hound's grandfather.\n\n\nMother did not get back to her writing all that day, for the\nred-jerseyed hound whom the children had brought to Three Chimneys had\nto be put to bed. And then the Doctor came, and hurt him most horribly.\nMother was with him all through it, and that made it a little better\nthan it would have been, but \"bad was the best,\" as Mrs. Viney said.\n\nThe children sat in the parlour downstairs and heard the sound of the\nDoctor's boots going backwards and forwards over the bedroom floor. And\nonce or twice there was a groan.\n\n\"It's horrible,\" said Bobbie. \"Oh, I wish Dr. Forrest would make haste.\nOh, poor Jim!\"\n\n\"It IS horrible,\" said Peter, \"but it's very exciting. I wish Doctors\nweren't so stuck-up about who they'll have in the room when they're\ndoing things. I should most awfully like to see a leg set. I believe the\nbones crunch like anything.\"\n\n\"Don't!\" said the two girls at once.\n\n\"Rubbish!\" said Peter. \"How are you going to be Red Cross Nurses, like\nyou were talking of coming home, if you can't even stand hearing me say\nabout bones crunching? You'd have to HEAR them crunch on the field of\nbattle--and be steeped in gore up to the elbows as likely as not, and--\"\n\n\"Stop it!\" cried Bobbie, with a white face; \"you don't know how funny\nyou're making me feel.\"\n\n\"Me, too,\" said Phyllis, whose face was pink.\n\n\"Cowards!\" said Peter.\n\n\"I'm not,\" said Bobbie. \"I helped Mother with your rake-wounded foot,\nand so did Phil--you know we did.\"\n\n\"Well, then!\" said Peter. \"Now look here. It would be a jolly good thing\nfor you if I were to talk to you every day for half an hour about broken\nbones and people's insides, so as to get you used to it.\"\n\nA chair was moved above.\n\n\"Listen,\" said Peter, \"that's the bone crunching.\"\n\n\"I do wish you wouldn't,\" said Phyllis. \"Bobbie doesn't like it.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what they do,\" said Peter. I can't think what made him so\nhorrid. Perhaps it was because he had been so very nice and kind all the\nearlier part of the day, and now he had to have a change. This is called\nreaction. One notices it now and then in oneself. Sometimes when one has\nbeen extra good for a longer time than usual, one is suddenly attacked\nby a violent fit of not being good at all. \"I'll tell you what they do,\"\nsaid Peter; \"they strap the broken man down so that he can't resist or\ninterfere with their doctorish designs, and then someone holds his head,\nand someone holds his leg--the broken one, and pulls it till the bones\nfit in--with a crunch, mind you! Then they strap it up and--let's play\nat bone-setting!\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" said Phyllis.\n\nBut Bobbie said suddenly: \"All right--LET'S! I'll be the doctor, and\nPhil can be the nurse. You can be the broken boner; we can get at your\nlegs more easily, because you don't wear petticoats.\"\n\n\"I'll get the splints and bandages,\" said Peter; \"you get the couch of\nsuffering ready.\"\n\nThe ropes that had tied up the boxes that had come from home were all\nin a wooden packing-case in the cellar. When Peter brought in a trailing\ntangle of them, and two boards for splints, Phyllis was excitedly\ngiggling.\n\n\"Now, then,\" he said, and lay down on the settle, groaning most\ngrievously.\n\n\"Not so loud!\" said Bobbie, beginning to wind the rope round him and the\nsettle. \"You pull, Phil.\"\n\n\"Not so tight,\" moaned Peter. \"You'll break my other leg.\"\n\nBobbie worked on in silence, winding more and more rope round him.\n\n\"That's enough,\" said Peter. \"I can't move at all. Oh, my poor leg!\" He\ngroaned again.\n\n\"SURE you can't move?\" asked Bobbie, in a rather strange tone.\n\n\"Quite sure,\" replied Peter. \"Shall we play it's bleeding freely or\nnot?\" he asked cheerfully.\n\n\"YOU can play what you like,\" said Bobbie, sternly, folding her arms and\nlooking down at him where he lay all wound round and round with cord.\n\"Phil and I are going away. And we shan't untie you till you promise\nnever, never to talk to us about blood and wounds unless we say you may.\nCome, Phil!\"\n\n\"You beast!\" said Peter, writhing. \"I'll never promise, never. I'll\nyell, and Mother will come.\"\n\n\"Do,\" said Bobbie, \"and tell her why we tied you up! Come on, Phil. No,\nI'm not a beast, Peter. But you wouldn't stop when we asked you and--\"\n\n\"Yah,\" said Peter, \"it wasn't even your own idea. You got it out of\nStalky!\"\n\nBobbie and Phil, retiring in silent dignity, were met at the door by the\nDoctor. He came in rubbing his hands and looking pleased with himself.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"THAT job's done. It's a nice clean fracture, and it'll\ngo on all right, I've no doubt. Plucky young chap, too--hullo! what's\nall this?\"\n\nHis eye had fallen on Peter who lay mousy-still in his bonds on the\nsettle.\n\n\"Playing at prisoners, eh?\" he said; but his eyebrows had gone up a\nlittle. Somehow he had not thought that Bobbie would be playing while in\nthe room above someone was having a broken bone set.\n\n\"Oh, no!\" said Bobbie, \"not at PRISONERS. We were playing at setting\nbones. Peter's the broken boner, and I was the doctor.\"\n\nThe Doctor frowned.\n\n\"Then I must say,\" he said, and he said it rather sternly, \"that's it's\na very heartless game. Haven't you enough imagination even to faintly\npicture what's been going on upstairs? That poor chap, with the drops\nof sweat on his forehead, and biting his lips so as not to cry out, and\nevery touch on his leg agony and--\"\n\n\"YOU ought to be tied up,\" said Phyllis; \"you're as bad as--\"\n\n\"Hush,\" said Bobbie; \"I'm sorry, but we weren't heartless, really.\"\n\n\"I was, I suppose,\" said Peter, crossly. \"All right, Bobbie, don't you\ngo on being noble and screening me, because I jolly well won't have it.\nIt was only that I kept on talking about blood and wounds. I wanted to\ntrain them for Red Cross Nurses. And I wouldn't stop when they asked\nme.\"\n\n\"Well?\" said Dr. Forrest, sitting down.\n\n\"Well--then I said, 'Let's play at setting bones.' It was all rot. I\nknew Bobbie wouldn't. I only said it to tease her. And then when she\nsaid 'yes,' of course I had to go through with it. And they tied me up.\nThey got it out of Stalky. And I think it's a beastly shame.\"\n\nHe managed to writhe over and hide his face against the wooden back of\nthe settle.\n\n\"I didn't think that anyone would know but us,\" said Bobbie, indignantly\nanswering Peter's unspoken reproach. \"I never thought of your coming in.\nAnd hearing about blood and wounds does really make me feel most awfully\nfunny. It was only a joke our tying him up. Let me untie you, Pete.\"\n\n\"I don't care if you never untie me,\" said Peter; \"and if that's your\nidea of a joke--\"\n\n\"If I were you,\" said the Doctor, though really he did not quite know\nwhat to say, \"I should be untied before your Mother comes down. You\ndon't want to worry her just now, do you?\"\n\n\"I don't promise anything about not saying about wounds, mind,\" said\nPeter, in very surly tones, as Bobbie and Phyllis began to untie the\nknots.\n\n\"I'm very sorry, Pete,\" Bobbie whispered, leaning close to him as she\nfumbled with the big knot under the settle; \"but if you only knew how\nsick you made me feel.\"\n\n\"You've made ME feel pretty sick, I can tell you,\" Peter rejoined. Then\nhe shook off the loose cords, and stood up.\n\n\"I looked in,\" said Dr. Forrest, \"to see if one of you would come along\nto the surgery. There are some things that your Mother will want at\nonce, and I've given my man a day off to go and see the circus; will you\ncome, Peter?\"\n\nPeter went without a word or a look to his sisters.\n\nThe two walked in silence up to the gate that led from the Three\nChimneys field to the road. Then Peter said:--\n\n\"Let me carry your bag. I say, it is heavy--what's in it?\"\n\n\"Oh, knives and lancets and different instruments for hurting people.\nAnd the ether bottle. I had to give him ether, you know--the agony was\nso intense.\"\n\nPeter was silent.\n\n\"Tell me all about how you found that chap,\" said Dr. Forrest.\n\nPeter told. And then Dr. Forrest told him stories of brave rescues; he\nwas a most interesting man to talk to, as Peter had often remarked.\n\nThen in the surgery Peter had a better chance than he had ever had of\nexamining the Doctor's balance, and his microscope, and his scales and\nmeasuring glasses. When all the things were ready that Peter was to take\nback, the Doctor said suddenly:--\n\n\"You'll excuse my shoving my oar in, won't you? But I should like to say\nsomething to you.\"\n\n\"Now for a rowing,\" thought Peter, who had been wondering how it was\nthat he had escaped one.\n\n\"Something scientific,\" added the Doctor.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter, fiddling with the fossil ammonite that the Doctor\nused for a paper-weight.\n\n\"Well then, you see. Boys and girls are only little men and women. And\nWE are much harder and hardier than they are--\" (Peter liked the \"we.\"\nPerhaps the Doctor had known he would.)--\"and much stronger, and things\nthat hurt THEM don't hurt US. You know you mustn't hit a girl--\"\n\n\"I should think not, indeed,\" muttered Peter, indignantly.\n\n\"Not even if she's your own sister. That's because girls are so much\nsofter and weaker than we are; they have to be, you know,\" he added,\n\"because if they weren't, it wouldn't be nice for the babies. And that's\nwhy all the animals are so good to the mother animals. They never fight\nthem, you know.\"\n\n\"I know,\" said Peter, interested; \"two buck rabbits will fight all day\nif you let them, but they won't hurt a doe.\"\n\n\"No; and quite wild beasts--lions and elephants--they're immensely\ngentle with the female beasts. And we've got to be, too.\"\n\n\"I see,\" said Peter.\n\n\"And their hearts are soft, too,\" the Doctor went on, \"and things that\nwe shouldn't think anything of hurt them dreadfully. So that a man has\nto be very careful, not only of his fists, but of his words. They're\nawfully brave, you know,\" he went on. \"Think of Bobbie waiting alone in\nthe tunnel with that poor chap. It's an odd thing--the softer and more\neasily hurt a woman is the better she can screw herself up to do what\nHAS to be done. I've seen some brave women--your Mother's one,\" he ended\nabruptly.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter.\n\n\"Well, that's all. Excuse my mentioning it. But nobody knows everything\nwithout being told. And you see what I mean, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter. \"I'm sorry. There!\"\n\n\"Of course you are! People always are--directly they understand.\nEveryone ought to be taught these scientific facts. So long!\"\n\nThey shook hands heartily. When Peter came home, his sisters looked at\nhim doubtfully.\n\n\"It's Pax,\" said Peter, dumping down the basket on the table. \"Dr.\nForrest has been talking scientific to me. No, it's no use my telling\nyou what he said; you wouldn't understand. But it all comes to you girls\nbeing poor, soft, weak, frightened things like rabbits, so us men have\njust got to put up with them. He said you were female beasts. Shall I\ntake this up to Mother, or will you?\"\n\n\"I know what BOYS are,\" said Phyllis, with flaming cheeks; \"they're just\nthe nastiest, rudest--\"\n\n\"They're very brave,\" said Bobbie, \"sometimes.\"\n\n\"Ah, you mean the chap upstairs? I see. Go ahead, Phil--I shall put\nup with you whatever you say because you're a poor, weak, frightened,\nsoft--\"\n\n\"Not if I pull your hair you won't,\" said Phyllis, springing at him.\n\n\"He said 'Pax,'\" said Bobbie, pulling her away. \"Don't you see,\" she\nwhispered as Peter picked up the basket and stalked out with it, \"he's\nsorry, really, only he won't say so? Let's say we're sorry.\"\n\n\"It's so goody goody,\" said Phyllis, doubtfully; \"he said we were female\nbeasts, and soft and frightened--\"\n\n\"Then let's show him we're not frightened of him thinking us goody\ngoody,\" said Bobbie; \"and we're not any more beasts than he is.\"\n\nAnd when Peter came back, still with his chin in the air, Bobbie said:--\n\n\"We're sorry we tied you up, Pete.\"\n\n\"I thought you would be,\" said Peter, very stiff and superior.\n\nThis was hard to bear. But--\n\n\"Well, so we are,\" said Bobbie. \"Now let honour be satisfied on both\nsides.\"\n\n\"I did call it Pax,\" said Peter, in an injured tone.\n\n\"Then let it BE Pax,\" said Bobbie. \"Come on, Phil, let's get the tea.\nPete, you might lay the cloth.\"\n\n\"I say,\" said Phyllis, when peace was really restored, which was not\ntill they were washing up the cups after tea, \"Dr. Forrest didn't REALLY\nsay we were female beasts, did he?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Peter, firmly, \"but I think he meant we men were wild\nbeasts, too.\"\n\n\"How funny of him!\" said Phyllis, breaking a cup.\n\n          *          *          *          *          *          *\n\n\"May I come in, Mother?\" Peter was at the door of Mother's writing room,\nwhere Mother sat at her table with two candles in front of her. Their\nflames looked orange and violet against the clear grey blue of the sky\nwhere already a few stars were twinkling.\n\n\"Yes, dear,\" said Mother, absently, \"anything wrong?\" She wrote a few\nmore words and then laid down her pen and began to fold up what she had\nwritten. \"I was just writing to Jim's grandfather. He lives near here,\nyou know.\"\n\n\"Yes, you said so at tea. That's what I want to say. Must you write to\nhim, Mother? Couldn't we keep Jim, and not say anything to his people\ntill he's well? It would be such a surprise for them.\"\n\n\"Well, yes,\" said Mother, laughing, \"I think it would.\"\n\n\"You see,\" Peter went on, \"of course the girls are all right and all\nthat--I'm not saying anything against THEM. But I should like it if I\nhad another chap to talk to sometimes.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mother, \"I know it's dull for you, dear. But I can't\nhelp it. Next year perhaps I can send you to school--you'd like that,\nwouldn't you?\"\n\n\"I do miss the other chaps, rather,\" Peter confessed; \"but if Jim could\nstay after his leg was well, we could have awful larks.\"\n\n\"I've no doubt of it,\" said Mother. \"Well--perhaps he could, but you\nknow, dear, we're not rich. I can't afford to get him everything he'll\nwant. And he must have a nurse.\"\n\n\"Can't you nurse him, Mother? You do nurse people so beautifully.\"\n\n\"That's a pretty compliment, Pete--but I can't do nursing and my writing\nas well. That's the worst of it.\"\n\n\"Then you MUST send the letter to his grandfather?\"\n\n\"Of course--and to his schoolmaster, too. We telegraphed to them both,\nbut I must write as well. They'll be most dreadfully anxious.\"\n\n\"I say, Mother, why can't his grandfather pay for a nurse?\" Peter\nsuggested. \"That would be ripping. I expect the old boy's rolling in\nmoney. Grandfathers in books always are.\"\n\n\"Well, this one isn't in a book,\" said Mother, \"so we mustn't expect him\nto roll much.\"\n\n\"I say,\" said Peter, musingly, \"wouldn't it be jolly if we all WERE in\na book, and you were writing it? Then you could make all sorts of jolly\nthings happen, and make Jim's legs get well at once and be all right\nto-morrow, and Father come home soon and--\"\n\n\"Do you miss your Father very much?\" Mother asked, rather coldly, Peter\nthought.\n\n\"Awfully,\" said Peter, briefly.\n\nMother was enveloping and addressing the second letter.\n\n\"You see,\" Peter went on slowly, \"you see, it's not only him BEING\nFather, but now he's away there's no other man in the house but\nme--that's why I want Jim to stay so frightfully much. Wouldn't you like\nto be writing that book with us all in it, Mother, and make Daddy come\nhome soon?\"\n\nPeter's Mother put her arm round him suddenly, and hugged him in silence\nfor a minute. Then she said:--\n\n\"Don't you think it's rather nice to think that we're in a book that\nGod's writing? If I were writing the book, I might make mistakes. But\nGod knows how to make the story end just right--in the way that's best\nfor us.\"\n\n\"Do you really believe that, Mother?\" Peter asked quietly.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"I do believe it--almost always--except when I'm so sad\nthat I can't believe anything. But even when I can't believe it, I know\nit's true--and I try to believe. You don't know how I try, Peter. Now\ntake the letters to the post, and don't let's be sad any more. Courage,\ncourage! That's the finest of all the virtues! I dare say Jim will be\nhere for two or three weeks yet.\"\n\nFor what was left of the evening Peter was so angelic that Bobbie feared\nhe was going to be ill. She was quite relieved in the morning to find\nhim plaiting Phyllis's hair on to the back of her chair in quite his old\nmanner.\n\nIt was soon after breakfast that a knock came at the door. The children\nwere hard at work cleaning the brass candlesticks in honour of Jim's\nvisit.\n\n\"That'll be the Doctor,\" said Mother; \"I'll go. Shut the kitchen\ndoor--you're not fit to be seen.\"\n\nBut it wasn't the Doctor. They knew that by the voice and by the sound\nof the boots that went upstairs. They did not recognise the sound of the\nboots, but everyone was certain that they had heard the voice before.\n\nThere was a longish interval. The boots and the voice did not come down\nagain.\n\n\"Who can it possibly be?\" they kept on asking themselves and each other.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Peter at last, \"Dr. Forrest has been attacked by\nhighwaymen and left for dead, and this is the man he's telegraphed for\nto take his place. Mrs. Viney said he had a local tenant to do his work\nwhen he went for a holiday, didn't you, Mrs. Viney?\"\n\n\"I did so, my dear,\" said Mrs. Viney from the back kitchen.\n\n\"He's fallen down in a fit, more likely,\" said Phyllis, \"all human aid\ndespaired of. And this is his man come to break the news to Mother.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said Peter, briskly; \"Mother wouldn't have taken the man\nup into Jim's bedroom. Why should she? Listen--the door's opening. Now\nthey'll come down. I'll open the door a crack.\"\n\nHe did.\n\n\"It's not listening,\" he replied indignantly to Bobbie's scandalised\nremarks; \"nobody in their senses would talk secrets on the stairs. And\nMother can't have secrets to talk with Dr. Forrest's stable-man--and you\nsaid it was him.\"\n\n\"Bobbie,\" called Mother's voice.\n\nThey opened the kitchen door, and Mother leaned over the stair railing.\n\n\"Jim's grandfather has come,\" she said; \"wash your hands and faces and\nthen you can see him. He wants to see you!\" The bedroom door shut again.\n\n\"There now!\" said Peter; \"fancy us not even thinking of that! Let's have\nsome hot water, Mrs. Viney. I'm as black as your hat.\"\n\nThe three were indeed dirty, for the stuff you clean brass candlesticks\nwith is very far from cleaning to the cleaner.\n\nThey were still busy with soap and flannel when they heard the boots\nand the voice come down the stairs and go into the dining-room. And when\nthey were clean, though still damp--because it takes such a long time\nto dry your hands properly, and they were very impatient to see the\ngrandfather--they filed into the dining-room.\n\nMother was sitting in the window-seat, and in the leather-covered\narmchair that Father always used to sit in at the other house sat--\n\n     THEIR OWN OLD GENTLEMAN!\n\n\"Well, I never did,\" said Peter, even before he said, \"How do you do?\"\nHe was, as he explained afterwards, too surprised even to remember that\nthere was such a thing as politeness--much less to practise it.\n\n\"It's our own old gentleman!\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"Oh, it's you!\" said Bobbie. And then they remembered themselves and\ntheir manners and said, \"How do you do?\" very nicely.\n\n\"This is Jim's grandfather, Mr. ----\" said Mother, naming the old\ngentleman's name.\n\n\"How splendid!\" said Peter; \"that's just exactly like a book, isn't it,\nMother?\"\n\n\"It is, rather,\" said Mother, smiling; \"things do happen in real life\nthat are rather like books, sometimes.\"\n\n\"I am so awfully glad it IS you,\" said Phyllis; \"when you think of the\ntons of old gentlemen there are in the world--it might have been almost\nanyone.\"\n\n\"I say, though,\" said Peter, \"you're not going to take Jim away, though,\nare you?\"\n\n\"Not at present,\" said the old gentleman. \"Your Mother has most kindly\nconsented to let him stay here. I thought of sending a nurse, but your\nMother is good enough to say that she will nurse him herself.\"\n\n\"But what about her writing?\" said Peter, before anyone could stop him.\n\"There won't be anything for him to eat if Mother doesn't write.\"\n\n\"That's all right,\" said Mother, hastily.\n\nThe old gentleman looked very kindly at Mother.\n\n\"I see,\" he said, \"you trust your children, and confide in them.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Mother.\n\n\"Then I may tell them of our little arrangement,\" he said. \"Your Mother,\nmy dears, has consented to give up writing for a little while and to\nbecome a Matron of my Hospital.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Phyllis, blankly; \"and shall we have to go away from Three\nChimneys and the Railway and everything?\"\n\n\"No, no, darling,\" said Mother, hurriedly.\n\n\"The Hospital is called Three Chimneys Hospital,\" said the old\ngentleman, \"and my unlucky Jim's the only patient, and I hope he'll\ncontinue to be so. Your Mother will be Matron, and there'll be a\nhospital staff of a housemaid and a cook--till Jim's well.\"\n\n\"And then will Mother go on writing again?\" asked Peter.\n\n\"We shall see,\" said the old gentleman, with a slight, swift glance at\nBobbie; \"perhaps something nice may happen and she won't have to.\"\n\n\"I love my writing,\" said Mother, very quickly.\n\n\"I know,\" said the old gentleman; \"don't be afraid that I'm going to try\nto interfere. But one never knows. Very wonderful and beautiful things\ndo happen, don't they? And we live most of our lives in the hope of\nthem. I may come again to see the boy?\"\n\n\"Surely,\" said Mother, \"and I don't know how to thank you for making it\npossible for me to nurse him. Dear boy!\"\n\n\"He kept calling Mother, Mother, in the night,\" said Phyllis. \"I woke up\ntwice and heard him.\"\n\n\"He didn't mean me,\" said Mother, in a low voice to the old gentleman;\n\"that's why I wanted so much to keep him.\"\n\nThe old gentleman rose.\n\n\"I'm so glad,\" said Peter, \"that you're going to keep him, Mother.\"\n\n\"Take care of your Mother, my dears,\" said the old gentleman. \"She's a\nwoman in a million.\"\n\n\"Yes, isn't she?\" whispered Bobbie.\n\n\"God bless her,\" said the old gentleman, taking both Mother's hands,\n\"God bless her! Ay, and she shall be blessed. Dear me, where's my hat?\nWill Bobbie come with me to the gate?\"\n\nAt the gate he stopped and said:--\n\n\"You're a good child, my dear--I got your letter. But it wasn't needed.\nWhen I read about your Father's case in the papers at the time, I had my\ndoubts. And ever since I've known who you were, I've been trying to find\nout things. I haven't done very much yet. But I have hopes, my dear--I\nhave hopes.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Bobbie, choking a little.\n\n\"Yes--I may say great hopes. But keep your secret a little longer.\nWouldn't do to upset your Mother with a false hope, would it?\"\n\n\"Oh, but it isn't false!\" said Bobbie; \"I KNOW you can do it. I knew you\ncould when I wrote. It isn't a false hope, is it?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"I don't think it's a false hope, or I wouldn't have told\nyou. And I think you deserve to be told that there IS a hope.\"\n\n\"And you don't think Father did it, do you? Oh, say you don't think he\ndid.\"\n\n\"My dear,\" he said, \"I'm perfectly CERTAIN he didn't.\"\n\nIf it was a false hope, it was none the less a very radiant one that lay\nwarm at Bobbie's heart, and through the days that followed lighted her\nlittle face as a Japanese lantern is lighted by the candle within.\n\n\n\nChapter XIV. The End.\n\n\nLife at the Three Chimneys was never quite the same again after the old\ngentleman came to see his grandson. Although they now knew his name,\nthe children never spoke of him by it--at any rate, when they were by\nthemselves. To them he was always the old gentleman, and I think he had\nbetter be the old gentleman to us, too. It wouldn't make him seem any\nmore real to you, would it, if I were to tell you that his name was\nSnooks or Jenkins (which it wasn't)?--and, after all, I must be allowed\nto keep one secret. It's the only one; I have told you everything else,\nexcept what I am going to tell you in this chapter, which is the last.\nAt least, of course, I haven't told you EVERYTHING. If I were to do\nthat, the book would never come to an end, and that would be a pity,\nwouldn't it?\n\nWell, as I was saying, life at Three Chimneys was never quite the same\nagain. The cook and the housemaid were very nice (I don't mind telling\nyou their names--they were Clara and Ethelwyn), but they told Mother\nthey did not seem to want Mrs. Viney, and that she was an old muddler.\nSo Mrs. Viney came only two days a week to do washing and ironing. Then\nClara and Ethelwyn said they could do the work all right if they weren't\ninterfered with, and that meant that the children no longer got the tea\nand cleared it away and washed up the tea-things and dusted the rooms.\n\nThis would have left quite a blank in their lives, although they\nhad often pretended to themselves and to each other that they hated\nhousework. But now that Mother had no writing and no housework to do,\nshe had time for lessons. And lessons the children had to do. However\nnice the person who is teaching you may be, lessons are lessons all the\nworld over, and at their best are worse fun than peeling potatoes or\nlighting a fire.\n\nOn the other hand, if Mother now had time for lessons, she also had time\nfor play, and to make up little rhymes for the children as she used\nto do. She had not had much time for rhymes since she came to Three\nChimneys.\n\nThere was one very odd thing about these lessons. Whatever the children\nwere doing, they always wanted to be doing something else. When Peter\nwas doing his Latin, he thought it would be nice to be learning History\nlike Bobbie. Bobbie would have preferred Arithmetic, which was what\nPhyllis happened to be doing, and Phyllis of course thought Latin much\nthe most interesting kind of lesson. And so on.\n\nSo, one day, when they sat down to lessons, each of them found a little\nrhyme at its place. I put the rhymes in to show you that their Mother\nreally did understand a little how children feel about things, and also\nthe kind of words they use, which is the case with very few grown-up\npeople. I suppose most grown-ups have very bad memories, and have\nforgotten how they felt when they were little. Of course, the verses are\nsupposed to be spoken by the children.\n\n               PETER\n\n     I once thought Caesar easy pap--\n       How very soft I must have been!\n     When they start Caesar with a chap\n       He little know what that will mean.\n     Oh, verbs are silly stupid things.\n     I'd rather learn the dates of kings!\n\n               BOBBIE\n\n     The worst of all my lesson things\n       Is learning who succeeded who\n     In all the rows of queens and kings,\n       With dates to everything they do:\n     With dates enough to make you sick;--\n     I wish it was Arithmetic!\n\n               PHYLLIS\n\n     Such pounds and pounds of apples fill\n       My slate--what is the price you'd spend?\n     You scratch the figures out until\n       You cry upon the dividend.\n     I'd break the slate and scream for joy\n     If I did Latin like a boy!\n\nThis kind of thing, of course, made lessons much jollier. It is\nsomething to know that the person who is teaching you sees that it is\nnot all plain sailing for you, and does not think that it is just your\nstupidness that makes you not know your lessons till you've learned\nthem!\n\nThen as Jim's leg got better it was very pleasant to go up and sit with\nhim and hear tales about his school life and the other boys. There\nwas one boy, named Parr, of whom Jim seemed to have formed the lowest\npossible opinion, and another boy named Wigsby Minor, for whose views\nJim had a great respect. Also there were three brothers named Paley, and\nthe youngest was called Paley Terts, and was much given to fighting.\n\nPeter drank in all this with deep joy, and Mother seemed to have\nlistened with some interest, for one day she gave Jim a sheet of paper\non which she had written a rhyme about Parr, bringing in Paley and\nWigsby by name in a most wonderful way, as well as all the reasons Jim\nhad for not liking Parr, and Wigsby's wise opinion on the matter. Jim\nwas immensely pleased. He had never had a rhyme written expressly for\nhim before. He read it till he knew it by heart and then he sent it to\nWigsby, who liked it almost as much as Jim did. Perhaps you may like it,\ntoo.\n\n               THE NEW BOY\n\n     His name is Parr:  he says that he\n     Is given bread and milk for tea.\n     He says his father killed a bear.\n     He says his mother cuts his hair.\n\n     He wears goloshes when it's wet.\n     I've heard his people call him \"Pet\"!\n     He has no proper sense of shame;\n     He told the chaps his Christian name.\n\n     He cannot wicket-keep at all,\n     He's frightened of a cricket ball.\n     He reads indoors for hours and hours.\n     He knows the names of beastly flowers.\n\n     He says his French just like Mossoo--\n     A beastly stuck-up thing to do--\n     He won't keep _cave_, shirks his turn\n     And says he came to school to learn!\n\n     He won't play football, says it hurts;\n     He wouldn't fight with Paley Terts;\n     He couldn't whistle if he tried,\n     And when we laughed at him he cried!\n\n     Now Wigsby Minor says that Parr\n     Is only like all new boys are.\n     I know when _I_ first came to school\n     I wasn't such a jolly fool!\n\nJim could never understand how Mother could have been clever enough\nto do it. To the others it seemed nice, but natural. You see they had\nalways been used to having a mother who could write verses just like\nthe way people talk, even to the shocking expression at the end of the\nrhyme, which was Jim's very own.\n\nJim taught Peter to play chess and draughts and dominoes, and altogether\nit was a nice quiet time.\n\nOnly Jim's leg got better and better, and a general feeling began to\nspring up among Bobbie, Peter, and Phyllis that something ought to be\ndone to amuse him; not just games, but something really handsome. But it\nwas extraordinarily difficult to think of anything.\n\n\"It's no good,\" said Peter, when all of them had thought and thought\ntill their heads felt quite heavy and swollen; \"if we can't think of\nanything to amuse him, we just can't, and there's an end of it. Perhaps\nsomething will just happen of its own accord that he'll like.\"\n\n\"Things DO happen by themselves sometimes, without your making them,\"\nsaid Phyllis, rather as though, usually, everything that happened in the\nworld was her doing.\n\n\"I wish something would happen,\" said Bobbie, dreamily, \"something\nwonderful.\"\n\nAnd something wonderful did happen exactly four days after she had said\nthis. I wish I could say it was three days after, because in fairy tales\nit is always three days after that things happen. But this is not a\nfairy story, and besides, it really was four and not three, and I am\nnothing if not strictly truthful.\n\nThey seemed to be hardly Railway children at all in those days, and as\nthe days went on each had an uneasy feeling about this which Phyllis\nexpressed one day.\n\n\"I wonder if the Railway misses us,\" she said, plaintively. \"We never go\nto see it now.\"\n\n\"It seems ungrateful,\" said Bobbie; \"we loved it so when we hadn't\nanyone else to play with.\"\n\n\"Perks is always coming up to ask after Jim,\" said Peter, \"and the\nsignalman's little boy is better. He told me so.\"\n\n\"I didn't mean the people,\" explained Phyllis; \"I meant the dear Railway\nitself.\"\n\n\"The thing I don't like,\" said Bobbie, on this fourth day, which was a\nTuesday, \"is our having stopped waving to the 9.15 and sending our love\nto Father by it.\"\n\n\"Let's begin again,\" said Phyllis. And they did.\n\nSomehow the change of everything that was made by having servants in\nthe house and Mother not doing any writing, made the time seem extremely\nlong since that strange morning at the beginning of things, when they\nhad got up so early and burnt the bottom out of the kettle and had apple\npie for breakfast and first seen the Railway.\n\nIt was September now, and the turf on the slope to the Railway was dry\nand crisp. Little long grass spikes stood up like bits of gold wire,\nfrail blue harebells trembled on their tough, slender stalks, Gipsy\nroses opened wide and flat their lilac-coloured discs, and the golden\nstars of St. John's Wort shone at the edges of the pool that lay halfway\nto the Railway. Bobbie gathered a generous handful of the flowers and\nthought how pretty they would look lying on the green-and-pink blanket\nof silk-waste that now covered Jim's poor broken leg.\n\n\"Hurry up,\" said Peter, \"or we shall miss the 9.15!\"\n\n\"I can't hurry more than I am doing,\" said Phyllis. \"Oh, bother it! My\nbootlace has come undone AGAIN!\"\n\n\"When you're married,\" said Peter, \"your bootlace will come undone going\nup the church aisle, and your man that you're going to get married to\nwill tumble over it and smash his nose in on the ornamented pavement;\nand then you'll say you won't marry him, and you'll have to be an old\nmaid.\"\n\n\"I shan't,\" said Phyllis. \"I'd much rather marry a man with his nose\nsmashed in than not marry anybody.\"\n\n\"It would be horrid to marry a man with a smashed nose, all the same,\"\nwent on Bobbie. \"He wouldn't be able to smell the flowers at the\nwedding. Wouldn't that be awful!\"\n\n\"Bother the flowers at the wedding!\" cried Peter. \"Look! the signal's\ndown. We must run!\"\n\nThey ran. And once more they waved their handkerchiefs, without at all\nminding whether the handkerchiefs were clean or not, to the 9.15.\n\n\"Take our love to Father!\" cried Bobbie. And the others, too, shouted:--\n\n\"Take our love to Father!\"\n\nThe old gentleman waved from his first-class carriage window. Quite\nviolently he waved. And there was nothing odd in that, for he always\nhad waved. But what was really remarkable was that from every window\nhandkerchiefs fluttered, newspapers signalled, hands waved wildly. The\ntrain swept by with a rustle and roar, the little pebbles jumped and\ndanced under it as it passed, and the children were left looking at each\nother.\n\n\"Well!\" said Peter.\n\n\"WELL!\" said Bobbie.\n\n\"_WELL!_\" said Phyllis.\n\n\"Whatever on earth does that mean?\" asked Peter, but he did not expect\nany answer.\n\n\"_I_ don't know,\" said Bobbie. \"Perhaps the old gentleman told the\npeople at his station to look out for us and wave. He knew we should\nlike it!\"\n\nNow, curiously enough, this was just what had happened. The old\ngentleman, who was very well known and respected at his particular\nstation, had got there early that morning, and he had waited at the door\nwhere the young man stands holding the interesting machine that clips\nthe tickets, and he had said something to every single passenger who\npassed through that door. And after nodding to what the old gentleman\nhad said--and the nods expressed every shade of surprise, interest,\ndoubt, cheerful pleasure, and grumpy agreement--each passenger had gone\non to the platform and read one certain part of his newspaper. And when\nthe passengers got into the train, they had told the other passengers\nwho were already there what the old gentleman had said, and then the\nother passengers had also looked at their newspapers and seemed very\nastonished and, mostly, pleased. Then, when the train passed the fence\nwhere the three children were, newspapers and hands and handkerchiefs\nwere waved madly, till all that side of the train was fluttery with\nwhite like the pictures of the King's Coronation in the biograph at\nMaskelyne and Cook's. To the children it almost seemed as though the\ntrain itself was alive, and was at last responding to the love that they\nhad given it so freely and so long.\n\n\"It is most extraordinarily rum!\" said Peter.\n\n\"Most stronery!\" echoed Phyllis.\n\nBut Bobbie said, \"Don't you think the old gentleman's waves seemed more\nsignificating than usual?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the others.\n\n\"I do,\" said Bobbie. \"I thought he was trying to explain something to us\nwith his newspaper.\"\n\n\"Explain what?\" asked Peter, not unnaturally.\n\n\"_I_ don't know,\" Bobbie answered, \"but I do feel most awfully funny. I\nfeel just exactly as if something was going to happen.\"\n\n\"What is going to happen,\" said Peter, \"is that Phyllis's stocking is\ngoing to come down.\"\n\nThis was but too true. The suspender had given way in the agitation of\nthe waves to the 9.15. Bobbie's handkerchief served as first aid to the\ninjured, and they all went home.\n\nLessons were more than usually difficult to Bobbie that day. Indeed, she\ndisgraced herself so deeply over a quite simple sum about the division\nof 48 pounds of meat and 36 pounds of bread among 144 hungry children\nthat Mother looked at her anxiously.\n\n\"Don't you feel quite well, dear?\" she asked.\n\n\"I don't know,\" was Bobbie's unexpected answer. \"I don't know how\nI feel. It isn't that I'm lazy. Mother, will you let me off lessons\nto-day? I feel as if I wanted to be quite alone by myself.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course I'll let you off,\" said Mother; \"but--\"\n\nBobbie dropped her slate. It cracked just across the little green mark\nthat is so useful for drawing patterns round, and it was never the same\nslate again. Without waiting to pick it up she bolted. Mother caught her\nin the hall feeling blindly among the waterproofs and umbrellas for her\ngarden hat.\n\n\"What is it, my sweetheart?\" said Mother. \"You don't feel ill, do you?\"\n\n\"I DON'T know,\" Bobbie answered, a little breathlessly, \"but I want to\nbe by myself and see if my head really IS all silly and my inside all\nsquirmy-twisty.\"\n\n\"Hadn't you better lie down?\" Mother said, stroking her hair back from\nher forehead.\n\n\"I'd be more alive in the garden, I think,\" said Bobbie.\n\nBut she could not stay in the garden. The hollyhocks and the asters and\nthe late roses all seemed to be waiting for something to happen. It was\none of those still, shiny autumn days, when everything does seem to be\nwaiting.\n\nBobbie could not wait.\n\n\"I'll go down to the station,\" she said, \"and talk to Perks and ask\nabout the signalman's little boy.\"\n\nSo she went down. On the way she passed the old lady from the\nPost-office, who gave her a kiss and a hug, but, rather to Bobbie's\nsurprise, no words except:--\n\n\"God bless you, love--\" and, after a pause, \"run along--do.\"\n\nThe draper's boy, who had sometimes been a little less than civil and\na little more than contemptuous, now touched his cap, and uttered the\nremarkable words:--\n\n\"'Morning, Miss, I'm sure--\"\n\nThe blacksmith, coming along with an open newspaper in his hand, was\neven more strange in his manner. He grinned broadly, though, as a rule,\nhe was a man not given to smiles, and waved the newspaper long before\nhe came up to her. And as he passed her, he said, in answer to her \"Good\nmorning\":--\n\n\"Good morning to you, Missie, and many of them! I wish you joy, that I\ndo!\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Bobbie to herself, and her heart quickened its beats,\n\"something IS going to happen! I know it is--everyone is so odd, like\npeople are in dreams.\"\n\nThe Station Master wrung her hand warmly. In fact he worked it up and\ndown like a pump-handle. But he gave her no reason for this unusually\nenthusiastic greeting. He only said:--\n\n\"The 11.54's a bit late, Miss--the extra luggage this holiday time,\"\nand went away very quickly into that inner Temple of his into which even\nBobbie dared not follow him.\n\nPerks was not to be seen, and Bobbie shared the solitude of the platform\nwith the Station Cat. This tortoiseshell lady, usually of a retiring\ndisposition, came to-day to rub herself against the brown stockings of\nBobbie with arched back, waving tail, and reverberating purrs.\n\n\"Dear me!\" said Bobbie, stooping to stroke her, \"how very kind everybody\nis to-day--even you, Pussy!\"\n\nPerks did not appear until the 11.54 was signalled, and then he, like\neverybody else that morning, had a newspaper in his hand.\n\n\"Hullo!\" he said, \"'ere you are. Well, if THIS is the train, it'll be\nsmart work! Well, God bless you, my dear! I see it in the paper, and\nI don't think I was ever so glad of anything in all my born days!\" He\nlooked at Bobbie a moment, then said, \"One I must have, Miss, and no\noffence, I know, on a day like this 'ere!\" and with that he kissed her,\nfirst on one cheek and then on the other.\n\n\"You ain't offended, are you?\" he asked anxiously. \"I ain't took too\ngreat a liberty? On a day like this, you know--\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Bobbie, \"of course it's not a liberty, dear Mr. Perks;\nwe love you quite as much as if you were an uncle of ours--but--on a day\nlike WHAT?\"\n\n\"Like this 'ere!\" said Perks. \"Don't I tell you I see it in the paper?\"\n\n\"Saw WHAT in the paper?\" asked Bobbie, but already the 11.54 was\nsteaming into the station and the Station Master was looking at all the\nplaces where Perks was not and ought to have been.\n\nBobbie was left standing alone, the Station Cat watching her from under\nthe bench with friendly golden eyes.\n\nOf course you know already exactly what was going to happen. Bobbie was\nnot so clever. She had the vague, confused, expectant feeling that comes\nto one's heart in dreams. What her heart expected I can't tell--perhaps\nthe very thing that you and I know was going to happen--but her mind\nexpected nothing; it was almost blank, and felt nothing but tiredness\nand stupidness and an empty feeling, like your body has when you have\nbeen a long walk and it is very far indeed past your proper dinner-time.\n\nOnly three people got out of the 11.54. The first was a countryman with\ntwo baskety boxes full of live chickens who stuck their russet heads\nout anxiously through the wicker bars; the second was Miss Peckitt, the\ngrocer's wife's cousin, with a tin box and three brown-paper parcels;\nand the third--\n\n\"Oh! my Daddy, my Daddy!\" That scream went like a knife into the heart\nof everyone in the train, and people put their heads out of the windows\nto see a tall pale man with lips set in a thin close line, and a little\ngirl clinging to him with arms and legs, while his arms went tightly\nround her.\n\n         *          *          *          *          *          *\n\n\"I knew something wonderful was going to happen,\" said Bobbie, as they\nwent up the road, \"but I didn't think it was going to be this. Oh, my\nDaddy, my Daddy!\"\n\n\"Then didn't Mother get my letter?\" Father asked.\n\n\"There weren't any letters this morning. Oh! Daddy! it IS really you,\nisn't it?\"\n\nThe clasp of a hand she had not forgotten assured her that it was. \"You\nmust go in by yourself, Bobbie, and tell Mother quite quietly that it's\nall right. They've caught the man who did it. Everyone knows now that it\nwasn't your Daddy.\"\n\n\"_I_ always knew it wasn't,\" said Bobbie. \"Me and Mother and our old\ngentleman.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"it's all his doing. Mother wrote and told me you had\nfound out. And she told me what you'd been to her. My own little girl!\"\nThey stopped a minute then.\n\nAnd now I see them crossing the field. Bobbie goes into the house,\ntrying to keep her eyes from speaking before her lips have found the\nright words to \"tell Mother quite quietly\" that the sorrow and the\nstruggle and the parting are over and done, and that Father has come\nhome.\n\nI see Father walking in the garden, waiting--waiting. He is looking at\nthe flowers, and each flower is a miracle to eyes that all these months\nof Spring and Summer have seen only flagstones and gravel and a little\ngrudging grass. But his eyes keep turning towards the house. And\npresently he leaves the garden and goes to stand outside the nearest\ndoor. It is the back door, and across the yard the swallows are\ncircling. They are getting ready to fly away from cold winds and keen\nfrost to the land where it is always summer. They are the same swallows\nthat the children built the little clay nests for.\n\nNow the house door opens. Bobbie's voice calls:--\n\n\"Come in, Daddy; come in!\"\n\nHe goes in and the door is shut. I think we will not open the door or\nfollow him. I think that just now we are not wanted there. I think it\nwill be best for us to go quickly and quietly away. At the end of the\nfield, among the thin gold spikes of grass and the harebells and Gipsy\nroses and St. John's Wort, we may just take one last look, over our\nshoulders, at the white house where neither we nor anyone else is wanted\nnow."