l the time how sorry she is
for you. That was what Bobbie was like. She knew that Mother was
unhappy--and that Mother had not told her the reason. So she just loved
Mother more and never said a single word that could let Mother know how
earnestly her little girl wondered what Mother was unhappy about. This
needs practice. It is not so easy as you might think.

Whatever happened--and all sorts of nice, pleasant ordinary things
happened--such as picnics, games, and buns for tea, Bobbie always had
these thoughts at the back of her mind. "Mother's unhappy. Why? I don't
know. She doesn't want me to know. I won't try to find out. But she
IS unhappy. Why? I don't know. She doesn't--" and so on, repeating and
repeating like a tune that you don't know the stopping part of.

The Russian gentleman still took up a good deal of everybody's thoughts.
All the editors and secretaries of Societies and Members of Parliament
had answered Mother's letters as politely as they knew how; but none of
them could tell where the wife and children of Mr. Szezcpansky would be
likely to be. (Did I tell you that the Russian's very Russian name was
that?)

Bobbie had another quality which you will hear differently described
by different people. Some of them call it interfering in other people's
business--and some call it "helping lame dogs over stiles," and some
call it "loving-kindness." It just means trying to help people.

She racked her brains to think of some way of helping the Russian
gentleman to find his wife and children. He had learned a few words
of English now. He could say "Good morning," and "Good night," and
"Please," and "Thank you," and "Pretty," when the children brought him
flowers, and "Ver' good," when they asked him how he had slept.

The way he smiled when he "said his English," was, Bobbie felt, "just
too sweet for anything." She used to think of his face because she
fancied it would help her to some way of helping him. But it did not.
Yet his being there cheered her because she saw that it made Mother
happier.

"She likes to have someone to be good to, even beside us," said Bobbie.
"And I know she hated to let him have Father's clothes. But I suppose it
'hurt nice,' or she wouldn't have."

For many and many a night after the day when she and Peter and Phyllis
had saved the train from wreck by waving their little red flannel flags,
Bobbie used to wake screaming and shivering, seeing again that horrible
mound, and the po