w and
moorland, the far violet of the hills, and the unchanging changefulness
of cloud and sky.

"Here's your tea, Mother-love," said Bobbie; "do drink it while it's
hot."

Mother laid down her pen among the pages that were scattered all over
the table, pages covered with her writing, which was almost as plain
as print, and much prettier. She ran her hands into her hair, as if she
were going to pull it out by handfuls.

"Poor dear head," said Bobbie, "does it ache?"

"No--yes--not much," said Mother. "Bobbie, do you think Peter and Phil
are FORGETTING Father?"

"NO," said Bobbie, indignantly. "Why?"

"You none of you ever speak of him now."

Bobbie stood first on one leg and then on the other.

"We often talk about him when we're by ourselves," she said.

"But not to me," said Mother. "Why?"

Bobbie did not find it easy to say why.

"I--you--" she said and stopped. She went over to the window and looked
out.

"Bobbie, come here," said her Mother, and Bobbie came.

"Now," said Mother, putting her arm round Bobbie and laying her ruffled
head against Bobbie's shoulder, "try to tell me, dear."

Bobbie fidgeted.

"Tell Mother."

"Well, then," said Bobbie, "I thought you were so unhappy about Daddy
not being here, it made you worse when I talked about him. So I stopped
doing it."

"And the others?"

"I don't know about the others," said Bobbie. "I never said anything
about THAT to them. But I expect they felt the same about it as me."

"Bobbie dear," said Mother, still leaning her head against her, "I'll
tell you. Besides parting from Father, he and I have had a great
sorrow--oh, terrible--worse than anything you can think of, and at first
it did hurt to hear you all talking of him as if everything were just
the same. But it would be much more terrible if you were to forget him.
That would be worse than anything."

"The trouble," said Bobbie, in a very little voice--"I promised I
would never ask you any questions, and I never have, have I? But--the
trouble--it won't last always?"

"No," said Mother, "the worst will be over when Father comes home to
us."

"I wish I could comfort you," said Bobbie.

"Oh, my dear, do you suppose you don't? Do you think I haven't noticed
how good you've all been, not quarrelling nearly as much as you used
to--and all the little kind things you do for me--the flowers, and
cleaning my shoes, and tearing up to make my bed before I get time to do
it myself?"

Bobbie