uld send her kind regards if she knew I am writing--but
it is no use telling her I am, in case you can't do anything. But I know
you will. Bobbie with best love."

She cut the account of her Father's trial out of the newspaper with
Mother's big cutting-out scissors, and put it in the envelope with her
letter.

Then she took it down to the station, going out the back way and round
by the road, so that the others should not see her and offer to come
with her, and she gave the letter to the Station Master to give to the
old gentleman next morning.

"Where HAVE you been?" shouted Peter, from the top of the yard wall
where he and Phyllis were.

"To the station, of course," said Bobbie; "give us a hand, Pete."

She set her foot on the lock of the yard door. Peter reached down a
hand.

"What on earth?" she asked as she reached the wall-top--for Phyllis and
Peter were very muddy. A lump of wet clay lay between them on the wall,
they had each a slip of slate in a very dirty hand, and behind Peter,
out of the reach of accidents, were several strange rounded objects
rather like very fat sausages, hollow, but closed up at one end.

"It's nests," said Peter, "swallows' nests. We're going to dry them
in the oven and hang them up with string under the eaves of the
coach-house."

"Yes," said Phyllis; "and then we're going to save up all the wool and
hair we can get, and in the spring we'll line them, and then how pleased
the swallows will be!"

"I've often thought people don't do nearly enough for dumb animals,"
said Peter with an air of virtue. "I do think people might have thought
of making nests for poor little swallows before this."

"Oh," said Bobbie, vaguely, "if everybody thought of everything, there'd
be nothing left for anybody else to think about."

"Look at the nests--aren't they pretty?" said Phyllis, reaching across
Peter to grasp a nest.

"Look out, Phil, you goat," said her brother. But it was too late; her
strong little fingers had crushed the nest.

"There now," said Peter.

"Never mind," said Bobbie.

"It IS one of my own," said Phyllis, "so you needn't jaw, Peter. Yes,
we've put our initial names on the ones we've done, so that the swallows
will know who they've got to be so grateful to and fond of."

"Swallows can't read, silly," said Peter.

"Silly yourself," retorted Phyllis; "how do you know?"

"Who thought of making the nests, anyhow?" shouted Peter.

"I did," screamed Phyllis.

"Nya,"