“I'll make one in my room; it's the only one with a fireplace,” said Mother. She did, and presently the Doctor helped the stranger to bed. There was a big black trunk in Mother's room that none of the children had ever seen unlocked. Now, when she had lighted the fire, she unlocked it and took some clothes out--men's clothes--and set them to air by the newly lighted fire. Bobbie, coming in with more wood for the fire, saw the mark on the night-shirt, and looked over to the open trunk. All the things she could see were men's clothes. And the name marked on the shirt was Father's name. Then Father hadn't taken his clothes with him. And that night-shirt was one of Father's new ones. Bobbie remembered its being made, just before Peter's birthday. Why hadn't Father taken his clothes? Bobbie slipped from the room. As she went she heard the key turned in the lock of the trunk. Her heart was beating horribly. WHY hadn't Father taken his clothes? When Mother came out of the room, Bobbie flung tightly clasping arms round her waist, and whispered:-- “Mother--Daddy isn't--isn't DEAD, is he?” “My darling, no! What made you think of anything so horrible?” “I--I don't know,” said Bobbie, angry with herself, but still clinging to that resolution of hers, not to see anything that Mother didn't mean her to see. Mother gave her a hurried hug. “Daddy was quite, QUITE well when I heard from him last,” she said, “and he'll come back to us some day. Don't fancy such horrible things, darling!” Later on, when the Russian stranger had been made comfortable for the night, Mother came into the girls' room. She was to sleep there in Phyllis's bed, and Phyllis was to have a mattress on the floor, a most amusing adventure for Phyllis. Directly Mother came in, two white figures started up, and two eager voices called:-- “Now, Mother, tell us all about the Russian gentleman.” A white shape hopped into the room. It was Peter, dragging his quilt behind him like the tail of a white peacock. “We have been patient,” he said, “and I had to bite my tongue not to go to sleep, and I just nearly went to sleep and I bit too hard, and it hurts ever so. DO tell us. Make a nice long story of it.” “I can't make a long story of it to-night,” said Mother; “I'm very tired.” Bobbie knew by her voice that Mother had been crying, but the others didn't know. “Well, make it as long as you can,” said Phil, and Bobbie got her arms round Mother's waist and snuggled close to her. “Well, it's a story long enough to make a whole book of. He's a writer; he's written beautiful books. In Russia at the time of the Czar one dared not say anything about the rich people doing wrong, or about the things that ought to be done to make poor people better and happier. If one did one was sent to prison.” “But they CAN'T,” said Peter; “people only go to prison when they've done wrong.”