The next day Ada was astonished to see two trained nurses coming and going from her mother’s room. She was not told what was the matter with her mother, and there was a horrible air of mystery about the house. Ada resented being treated like a child, and forbidden to enter her mother’s room. And in the afternoon of that dreadful day she waylaid a nurse coming out of the sick-room and demanded an answer to her question— “What is the matter with mumma?” she said, with such a look of misery on her young face that the nurse could not put her aside. “If her illness is not infectious, why may I not see her?” “Your poor mumma has had some shock,” replied the nurse, “which has upset her nerves.” “What shock?” Ada asked. “She did not tell me, and mumma tells me everything.” “That’s what the doctor can’t find out, but there now, I must go back. Nurse Hatch can’t manage her alone.” “Can’t manage her alone,” Ada repeated. “Oh, do let me go to her. I know I could soothe her. When mumma has a headache she likes me to be with her.” But the bedroom door was shut on Ada’s last words, and she heard the lock turned from inside. She was listening to her mother’s excited voice when her father came along the corridor. He stopped beside Ada, and spoke abruptly to her. “I want you to take the children for a drive in Central Park this afternoon, and on your way tell the coachman to drive up and down Fourth Avenue. Put on your own and the children’s smartest dresses, and stop and speak to anyone you know. Say that your mother has got a bad headache, and don’t go showing the world that miserable face.” Ada looked at him in surprise. “But I am miserable,” she said, “because mumma is ill; two trained nurses are not necessary for a nervous headache. What is the matter with my mother? What shock has she had? I have a right to know.” It was her father’s turn to look at his daughter in surprise. Was this his mild, gentle Ada, whose very beauty suggested a weakness of character which her strong little chin contradicted. “Who said she had had a shock?” he said nervously. “It is your duty to do what I tell you, and not to ask questions.” “I have always asked questions, poppa, and have always had them answered. One of the nurses told me mother had had a shock.” “Then I will tell her to hold her tongue. Now, do what I tell you; go to any ‘at home’ you have been asked to; get some friend to chaperone you, and laugh, and talk, and look your prettiest. You can do this for your father’s sake, surely.” He looked at her angrily. Ada had never done anything because she loved her father. She had always feared and avoided him, and so the first bitter lesson of life this poor indulged girl had to learn was one of the cruellest of all and one which it takes an older and more expert hand to play—to wear a smiling face to hide an aching heart.