It was nearly seven before she came in, looking so ill and tired
that the children felt they could not ask her any questions. She
sank into an arm-chair. Phyllis took the long pins out of her hat,
while Roberta took off her gloves, and Peter unfastened her walking-
shoes and fetched her soft velvety slippers for her.

When she had had a cup of tea, and Roberta had put eau-de-Cologne on
her poor head that ached, Mother said:--

"Now, my darlings, I want to tell you something. Those men last
night did bring very bad news, and Father will be away for some
time. I am very worried about it, and I want you all to help me,
and not to make things harder for me."

"As if we would!" said Roberta, holding Mother's hand against her
face.

"You can help me very much," said Mother, "by being good and happy
and not quarrelling when I'm away"--Roberta and Peter exchanged
guilty glances--"for I shall have to be away a good deal."

"We won't quarrel. Indeed we won't," said everybody. And meant it,
too.

"Then," Mother went on, "I want you not to ask me any questions
about this trouble; and not to ask anybody else any questions."

Peter cringed and shuffled his boots on the carpet.

"You'll promise this, too, won't you?" said Mother.