“Bobbie dear,” said Mother, still leaning her head against her, “I'll tell you. Besides parting from Father, he and I have had a great sorrow--oh, terrible--worse than anything you can think of, and at first it did hurt to hear you all talking of him as if everything were just the same. But it would be much more terrible if you were to forget him. That would be worse than anything.” “The trouble,” said Bobbie, in a very little voice--“I promised I would never ask you any questions, and I never have, have I? But--the trouble--it won't last always?” “No,” said Mother, “the worst will be over when Father comes home to us.” “I wish I could comfort you,” said Bobbie. “Oh, my dear, do you suppose you don't? Do you think I haven't noticed how good you've all been, not quarrelling nearly as much as you used to--and all the little kind things you do for me--the flowers, and cleaning my shoes, and tearing up to make my bed before I get time to do it myself?” Bobbie HAD sometimes wondered whether Mother noticed these things. “That's nothing,” she said, “to what--” “I MUST get on with my work,” said Mother, giving Bobbie one last squeeze. “Don't say anything to the others.” That evening in the hour before bed-time instead of reading to the children Mother told them stories of the games she and Father used to have when they were children and lived near each other in the country--tales of the adventures of Father with Mother's brothers when they were all boys together. Very funny stories they were, and the children laughed as they listened. “Uncle Edward died before he was grown up, didn't he?” said Phyllis, as Mother lighted the bedroom candles. “Yes, dear,” said Mother, “you would have loved him. He was such a brave boy, and so adventurous. Always in mischief, and yet friends with everybody in spite of it. And your Uncle Reggie's in Ceylon--yes, and Father's away, too. But I think they'd all like to think we'd enjoyed talking about the things they used to do. Don't you think so?” “Not Uncle Edward,” said Phyllis, in a shocked tone; “he's in Heaven.” “You don't suppose he's forgotten us and all the old times, because God has taken him, any more than I forget him. Oh, no, he remembers. He's only away for a little time. We shall see him some day.” “And Uncle Reggie--and Father, too?” said Peter. “Yes,” said Mother. “Uncle Reggie and Father, too. Good night, my darlings.” “Good night,” said everyone. Bobbie hugged her mother more closely even than usual, and whispered in her ear, “Oh, I do love you so, Mummy--I do--I do--” When Bobbie came to think it all over, she tried not to wonder what the great trouble was. But she could not always help it. Father was not dead--like poor Uncle Edward--Mother had said so. And he was not ill, or Mother would have been with him. Being poor wasn't the trouble. Bobbie knew it was something nearer the heart than money could be.