The terrible secret.

           WhentheyfirstwenttoliveatThreeChimneys,thechildrenhadtalkedagreatdealabouttheirFather,andhadaskedagreatmanyquestionsabouthim,andwhathewasdoingandwherehewasandwhenhewouldcomehome.Motheralwaysansweredtheirquestionsaswellasshecould.Butasthetimewentontheygrewtospeaklessofhim.BobbiehadfeltalmostfromthefirstthatforsomestrangemiserablereasonthesequestionshurtMotherandmadehersad.Andlittlebylittletheotherscametohavethisfeeling,too,thoughtheycouldnothaveputitintowords.

           Oneday,whenMotherwasworkingsohardthatshecouldnotleaveoffevenfortenminutes,BobbiecarriedupherteatothebigbareroomthattheycalledMother’sworkshop.Ithadhardlyanyfurniture.Justatableandachairandarug.Butalwaysbigpotsofflowersonthewindow-sillsandonthemantelpiece.Thechildrensawtothat.Andfromthethreelonguncurtainedwindowsthebeautifulstretchofmeadowandmoorland,thefarvioletofthehills,andtheunchangingchangefulnessofcloudandsky.

           "Here’syourtea,Mother-love,"saidBobbie;"dodrinkitwhileit’shot."

           Motherlaiddownherpenamongthepagesthatwerescatteredalloverthetable,pagescoveredwithherwriting,whichwasalmostasplainasprint,andmuchprettier.Sheranherhandsintoherhair,asifsheweregoingtopullitoutbyhandfuls.

           "Poordearhead,"saidBobbie,"doesitache?"

           "No—yes—notmuch,"saidMother.