The hound in the red jersey.

           Bobbieknewthesecretnow.Asheetofoldnewspaperwrappedroundaparcel—justalittlechancelikethat—hadgiventhesecrettoher.Andshehadtogodowntoteaandpretendthattherewasnothingthematter.Thepretencewasbravelymade,butitwasn’tverysuccessful.

           Forwhenshecamein,everyonelookedupfromteaandsawherpink-liddedeyesandherpalefacewithredtear-blotchesonit.

           "Mydarling,"criedMother,jumpingupfromthetea-tray,"whateverISthematter?"

           "Myheadaches,rather,"saidBobbie.Andindeeditdid.

           "Hasanythinggonewrong?"Motherasked.

           "I’mallright,really,"saidBobbie,andshetelegraphedtoherMotherfromherswolleneyesthisbrief,imploringmessage—"NOTbeforetheothers!"

           Teawasnotacheerfulmeal.PeterwassodistressedbytheobviousfactthatsomethinghorridhadhappenedtoBobbiethathelimitedhisspeechtorepeating,"Morebreadandbutter,please,"atstartlinglyshortintervals.Phyllisstrokedhersister’shandunderthetabletoexpresssympathy,andknockedhercupoverasshedidit.FetchingaclothandwipingupthespiltmilkhelpedBobbiealittle.Butshethoughtthatteawouldneverend.Yetatlastitdidend,asallthingsdoatlast,andwhenMothertookoutthetray,Bobbiefollowedher.

           "She’sgonetoownup,"saidPhyllistoPeter;"Iwonderwhatshe’sdone.