Yes, she was their mother. At least, she was their father’s wife, though none of the three had ever called her by the name of mother. A curious position she held in the home, bound by solemn pledge to do a mother’s duty by these three children, yet receiving from none of them a shred of the love, or respect, or true obedience, which the name mother ought to call forth. Poor Mrs. Moore! I do hope you are sorry for her. Sorry for the children, are you? Well, so am I. Indeed it is true, they every one need pity and help. The question is, Will they get what they need? Upstairs, angry Margaret made haste to remove her much soiled dress, eyes flashing, and cheeks burning the while. Something more than the scenes we watched in the kitchen had to do with Margaret’s mood. A green and prickly chestnut bur came whizzing into the room, landing in the middle of her bed. It called forth an angry exclamation. Here was some more of that tormenting West’s work. She would not stand it! She made a rush for the window, but a low, merry laugh stopped her. This was not West’s laugh. “Well,” said Hester Andrews, from under the chestnut-tree, “can you go?” “No; of course I can’t. I should think you might know without asking. Do I ever go anywhere now days?” “It is just too mean for anything!” declared Hester. “What reason does she give this time?” There was a peculiar emphasis on the word “this,” which was meant to indicate that here was only one of the numberless times in which Margaret Moore had been shamefully treated, Margaret answered the tone as well as the words. “Oh! father says he can’t have me out so late in the evening; it isn’t the thing for a little girl, and he doesn’t approve of sail boats, anyway. As if I didn’t know where all that stuff came from!” “The idea! I declare, it’s a perfect shame. Wouldn’t you like to see your own mother keeping you at home from places, and treating you like a baby, or a slave, as she does?” “Don’t you speak my mother’s name the same day you do _hers_,” said Margaret, with fierce voice and flashing eyes. “Well, I’m sure I don’t wonder that you feel so,” was Hester’s soothing answer. “I’m just as sorry for you as I can be; I wonder sometimes that you don’t run away. Every one says it comes harder on you, because you are a girl: the boys can keep out of her sight. O Mag! I’m so sorry you can’t go. If _your_ mother were only here, what lovely times we could have?” And this was the help which Margaret’s most intimate friend brought her! In point of fact, these two knew no more of what the mourned mother would have done, than did the squirrels up in the chestnut-tree. She had been lying in the cemetery for a year when Hester Andrews’ family moved into the town, and Margaret was only a busy little elf of not quite six, when she received with gleeful laughter her mother’s last kiss. What did she know how the mother would treat the thirteen-year-old girl’s longings for sail boats and evening parties?