So then I just sat down on the top stair, and leant my head against the banisters, and felt as if I didn't want ever to move or do anything again, I was so miserable. I suppose being unhappy makes most people poorly. It always did me. When mother came upstairs a good while later, and found me there, I was so queer and sick, I could hardly stand. She made me lie down on my bed, and brought me a cup of tea, and was so good, it went through me like an arrow to think how I was deceiving her and father. Mother wasn't used to turn stiff and cold in manner if she wasn't pleased, like some people; and she was never in a hurry to speak out; she could always bide her time. At all events, she didn't say a word to me that day which sounded like distrust. Of course she could not guess that I had overheard what the policeman had said. I wasn't able to go down to dinner, and I lay on my bed all the afternoon, most of the time crying softly. Father was very busy—only just in to dinner, and out again. A little before tea-time, mother came and said I had better go downstairs. I would rather have stayed where I was, for I felt afraid of everything and everybody; but it was no good to struggle against what mother thought best. So I got up, and found my way into the parlour, and managed it better than I had expected. Tea was ready, and father sitting at the table. He didn't say much, except just to ask how I was; and there was a look in his face—which I couldn't remember seeing there before—a sort of pained disappointed look. Once or twice he sighed, and I saw mother glance across at him. He would talk a deal at tea-time commonly, and it was our brightest meal, mother seeming to like to listen, though she mightn't say much. But we had no talk that day, and if anybody said a word to me, I was ready to burst out crying. After tea was done, mother took away the things to wash in the kitchen. She wouldn't let me help, but said I was to keep quiet, and presently she shut the door, leaving me alone with father. He had got a book, and was reading while mother cleared the table. When she had done, and we two were alone together, he put down the book, and turned to look at me across the corner of the table. "Better, Kitty?" said he. "I don't know, father," I said. "There don't seem to be enough in the loss of a watch to make you sick and unhappy," says he. "It's a misfortune, and I'm sorry for it. That's all. Not worth breaking your heart about." "No, father," I said in a whisper. If only that had been all! "Kitty," says father suddenly, "I think you had best see Mr. Armstrong." "See Mr. Armstrong, father!" "Yes," said he. "I think maybe you'd tell Mr. Armstrong what you won't tell mother nor me." I didn't suppose father meant more than just what I had heard the policeman say, and I answered— "O no!—please!" "There's something you've got to tell somebody, eh?" "No, father," I said, all in a shake.