“I wish we HAD got a moat and drawbridge,” said Roberta; “then, when we didn't want people, we could just pull up the drawbridge and no one else could get in. I expect Father will have forgotten about when he was a boy if they stay much longer.” Mother tried to make the time pass by telling them a new fairy story about a Princess with green eyes, but it was difficult because they could hear the voices of Father and the gentlemen in the Library, and Father's voice sounded louder and different to the voice he generally used to people who came about testimonials and holiday funds. Then the Library bell rang, and everyone heaved a breath of relief. “They're going now,” said Phyllis; “he's rung to have them shown out.” But instead of showing anybody out, Ruth showed herself in, and she looked queer, the children thought. “Please'm,” she said, “the Master wants you to just step into the study. He looks like the dead, mum; I think he's had bad news. You'd best prepare yourself for the worst, 'm--p'raps it's a death in the family or a bank busted or--” “That'll do, Ruth,” said Mother gently; “you can go.” Then Mother went into the Library. There was more talking. Then the bell rang again, and Ruth fetched a cab. The children heard boots go out and down the steps. The cab drove away, and the front door shut. Then Mother came in. Her dear face was as white as her lace collar, and her eyes looked very big and shining. Her mouth looked like just a line of pale red--her lips were thin and not their proper shape at all. “It's bedtime,” she said. “Ruth will put you to bed.” “But you promised we should sit up late tonight because Father's come home,” said Phyllis. “Father's been called away--on business,” said Mother. “Come, darlings, go at once.” They kissed her and went. Roberta lingered to give Mother an extra hug and to whisper: “It wasn't bad news, Mammy, was it? Is anyone dead--or--” “Nobody's dead--no,” said Mother, and she almost seemed to push Roberta away. “I can't tell you anything tonight, my pet. Go, dear, go NOW.” So Roberta went. Ruth brushed the girls' hair and helped them to undress. (Mother almost always did this herself.) When she had turned down the gas and left them she found Peter, still dressed, waiting on the stairs. “I say, Ruth, what's up?” he asked. “Don't ask me no questions and I won't tell you no lies,” the red-headed Ruth replied. “You'll know soon enough.” Late that night Mother came up and kissed all three children as they lay asleep. But Roberta was the only one whom the kiss woke, and she lay mousey-still, and said nothing. “If Mother doesn't want us to know she's been crying,” she said to herself as she heard through the dark the catching of her Mother's breath, “we WON'T know it. That's all.” When they came down to breakfast the next morning, Mother had already gone out. “To London,” Ruth said, and left them to their breakfast.