When the station was reached, the three were the heroes of an agitated meeting on the platform. The praises they got for their “prompt action,” their “common sense,” their “ingenuity,” were enough to have turned anybody's head. Phyllis enjoyed herself thoroughly. She had never been a real heroine before, and the feeling was delicious. Peter's ears got very red. Yet he, too, enjoyed himself. Only Bobbie wished they all wouldn't. She wanted to get away. “You'll hear from the Company about this, I expect,” said the Station Master. Bobbie wished she might never hear of it again. She pulled at Peter's jacket. “Oh, come away, come away! I want to go home,” she said. So they went. And as they went Station Master and Porter and guards and driver and fireman and passengers sent up a cheer. “Oh, listen,” cried Phyllis; “that's for US!” “Yes,” said Peter. “I say, I am glad I thought about something red, and waving it.” “How lucky we DID put on our red flannel petticoats!” said Phyllis. Bobbie said nothing. She was thinking of the horrible mound, and the trustful train rushing towards it. “And it was US that saved them,” said Peter. “How dreadful if they had all been killed!” said Phyllis; “wouldn't it, Bobbie?” “We never got any cherries, after all,” said Bobbie. The others thought her rather heartless. Chapter VII. For valour. I hope you don't mind my telling you a good deal about Roberta. The fact is I am growing very fond of her. The more I observe her the more I love her. And I notice all sorts of things about her that I like. For instance, she was quite oddly anxious to make other people happy. And she could keep a secret, a tolerably rare accomplishment. Also she had the power of silent sympathy. That sounds rather dull, I know, but it's not so dull as it sounds. It just means that a person is able to know that you are unhappy, and to love you extra on that account, without bothering you by telling you all the time how sorry she is for you. That was what Bobbie was like. She knew that Mother was unhappy--and that Mother had not told her the reason. So she just loved Mother more and never said a single word that could let Mother know how earnestly her little girl wondered what Mother was unhappy about. This needs practice. It is not so easy as you might think. Whatever happened--and all sorts of nice, pleasant ordinary things happened--such as picnics, games, and buns for tea, Bobbie always had these thoughts at the back of her mind. “Mother's unhappy. Why? I don't know. She doesn't want me to know. I won't try to find out. But she IS unhappy. Why? I don't know. She doesn't--” and so on, repeating and repeating like a tune that you don't know the stopping part of.