Lessons were more than usually difficult to Bobbie that day. Indeed, she disgraced herself so deeply over a quite simple sum about the division of 48 pounds of meat and 36 pounds of bread among 144 hungry children that Mother looked at her anxiously. “Don't you feel quite well, dear?” she asked. “I don't know,” was Bobbie's unexpected answer. “I don't know how I feel. It isn't that I'm lazy. Mother, will you let me off lessons to-day? I feel as if I wanted to be quite alone by myself.” “Yes, of course I'll let you off,” said Mother; “but--” Bobbie dropped her slate. It cracked just across the little green mark that is so useful for drawing patterns round, and it was never the same slate again. Without waiting to pick it up she bolted. Mother caught her in the hall feeling blindly among the waterproofs and umbrellas for her garden hat. “What is it, my sweetheart?” said Mother. “You don't feel ill, do you?” “I DON'T know,” Bobbie answered, a little breathlessly, “but I want to be by myself and see if my head really IS all silly and my inside all squirmy-twisty.” “Hadn't you better lie down?” Mother said, stroking her hair back from her forehead. “I'd be more alive in the garden, I think,” said Bobbie. But she could not stay in the garden. The hollyhocks and the asters and the late roses all seemed to be waiting for something to happen. It was one of those still, shiny autumn days, when everything does seem to be waiting. Bobbie could not wait. “I'll go down to the station,” she said, “and talk to Perks and ask about the signalman's little boy.” So she went down. On the way she passed the old lady from the Post-office, who gave her a kiss and a hug, but, rather to Bobbie's surprise, no words except:-- “God bless you, love--” and, after a pause, “run along--do.” The draper's boy, who had sometimes been a little less than civil and a little more than contemptuous, now touched his cap, and uttered the remarkable words:-- “'Morning, Miss, I'm sure--” The blacksmith, coming along with an open newspaper in his hand, was even more strange in his manner. He grinned broadly, though, as a rule, he was a man not given to smiles, and waved the newspaper long before he came up to her. And as he passed her, he said, in answer to her “Good morning”:-- “Good morning to you, Missie, and many of them! I wish you joy, that I do!” “Oh!” said Bobbie to herself, and her heart quickened its beats, “something IS going to happen! I know it is--everyone is so odd, like people are in dreams.” The Station Master wrung her hand warmly. In fact he worked it up and down like a pump-handle. But he gave her no reason for this unusually enthusiastic greeting. He only said:-- “The 11.54's a bit late, Miss--the extra luggage this holiday time,” and went away very quickly into that inner Temple of his into which even Bobbie dared not follow him.