 CHAPTER 12 WHAT BOBBY BROUGHT HOME The children said the words over and over again to the unconscious hound in a red jersey, who sat with closed eyes and pale face against the side of the tunnel. Wetted his ears with milk, said Bobby. I know they do it to people that faint, without a cologne, but I expect milk's just as good." So they wetted his ears, and some of the milk ran down his neck under the red jersey. It was very dark in the tunnel. The candle-end Peter had carried, and which now burned on a flat stone, gave hardly any light at all. Oh, do look up! said Phyllis. For my sake! I believe he's dead! For my sake! repeated Bobby. No, he isn't. For any sake! said Peter. Come out of it! And he shook the sufferer by the arm, and then the boy in the red jersey sighed and opened his eyes, and chucked them again, and said in a very small voice, Chuck it! Oh, he's not dead! said Phyllis. I knew he wasn't! and she began to cry. What's up? I'm all right. said the boy. Drink this! said Peter firmly, thrusting the nose of the milk bottle into the boy's mouth. The boy struggled, and some of the milk was upset before he could get his mouth free to say. What is it? It's milk! said Peter. Fear not! you're in the hands of friends. Phyll, you stop bleeding this minute. Do drink it! said Bobby gently. It'll do you good. So he drank, and the three stood by without speaking to him. Let him be a minute! Peter whispered. He'll be all right as soon as the milk begins to run like fire through his veins. He was. And better now? He announced. I remember all about it. He tried to move, but the movement ended in a groan. Father, I believe I've broken my leg. He said. Did you tumble down? Asked Phyllis, sniffing. Of course not. I'm not a kiddie. Said the boy indignantly. It was one of those beastly wives tripped me up, and when I tried to get up again I couldn't stand, so I sat down. Gee will itkins, it does hurt, though. How did you get here? We saw you all go into the tunnel, and then we went across the hill to see you all come out. And the others did, or but you, and you didn't. So we are a rescue party. Said Peter with pride. You've got some pluck, I will say. Remarked the boy. Oh, that's nothing. Said Peter with modesty. Do you think you could walk if we helped you? I could try. Said the boy. He did try, but he could only stand on one foot. The other dragged in a very nasty way. Yeah, let me sit down. I feel like dying. Said the boy. Let go of me. Let go, quick. He laid down and closed his eyes. The others looked at each other by the dim light of the little candle. What on earth? Said Peter. Look here. Said Bobby quickly. You must go and get help. Go to the nearest house. Yes, that's the only thing. Said Peter. Come on. If you take his feet and Phil and I take his head, we could carry him to the manhole. They did it. It was, perhaps, as well for the sufferer that he had fainted again. Now. Said Bobby. I'll stay with him. You take the longest bit of candle, and I'll be quick for this bit won't burn long. I don't think Mother would like me leaving you. Said Peter doubtfully. Let me stay, and you and Phil go. No, no. Said Bobby. You and Phil go and lend me your knife. I'll try to get his boot off before he wakes up again. I hope it's all right what we're doing. Said Peter. Of course it's all right. Said Bobby impatiently. What else would you do? Leave him here all alone because it's dark? Nonsense. Hurry up, that's all. So they hurried up. Bobby watched their dark figures, and the little light of the candle, with an odd feeling of having come to the end of everything. She knew now, she thought, what nuns who were bricked up alive in convent walls felt like. Suddenly she gave herself a little shake. Don't be a silly little girl. She said. She was always very angry when anyone else called her a little girl, even if the adjective that went first was not silly, but nice, or good, or clever. And it was only when she was very angry with herself that she allowed Roberta to use that expression to Bobby. She fixed the little candle-end on a broken brick near the red jerseyed boy's feed. Then she opened Peter's knife. It was always hard to manage. A hipney was generally needed to get it open at all. This time Bobby somehow got it open with her thumbnail. She broke the nail, and it hurt horribly. Then she cut the boy's boot lace and got the boot off. She tried to pull off his stocking, but his leg was dreadfully swollen, and it did not seem to be the proper shape. So she cut the stocking down very slowly and carefully. It was a brown knitted stocking, and she wondered who had knitted it, and whether it was the boy's mother, and whether she was feeling anxious about him, and how she would feel when he was brought home with his leg broken. When Bobby had got the stocking off and saw the poor leg, she felt as though the tunnel was growing darker, and the ground felt unsteady, and nothing seemed quite real. Silly little girl! said Roberta to Bobby, and felt better. The poor leg! she told herself. It ought to have a cushion. Ah! She remembered the day when she and Phyllis had torn up their red flannel petticoats to make danger signals to stop the train and prevent an accident. Her flannel petticoat today was white, but it would be quite as soft as a red one. She took it off. Oh! what useful things flannel petticoats are! She said. The man who invented them ought to have a statue directed to him. And she said it aloud, because it seemed that any voice, even her own, would be a comfort in that darkness. What ought to be directed? Who to? Asked the boy, suddenly and very feebly. Oh! said Bobby. Now you're better. Hold your teeth and don't let it hurt too much. Now! She had folded the petticoat, and lifting his leg, laid it on the cushion of folded flannel. Don't faint again. Please don't! Said Bobby, as he groaned. She hastily wetted her handkerchief with milk, and spread it over the poor leg. Oh! that hurts. Cried the boy, shrinking. No. It doesn't. It's nice, really. What's your name? Said Bobby. Jim. Mine's Bobby. But you're a girl, aren't you? Yes. My long name's Roberta. I say Bobby. Yes? Wasn't there some more of you just now? Yes. Peter and Phil. That's my brother and sister. They've gone to get someone to carry you out. What were our names? Our boys. Yes. I wish I was a boy, don't you? I think you're all right as you are. I didn't mean that. I mean, don't you wish you were a boy? But of course you are without wishing. You're just as brave as a boy. Why didn't you go with the others? Somebody had to stay with you. Said Bobby. Tell you what, Bobby. Said Jim. You're a brick. Shake. He reached out a red jerseyed arm, and Bobby squeezed his hand. I won't shake it. She explained. Because it would shake you, and that would shake your poor leg, and that would hurt. Have you got a hanky? I don't expect I have. He felt in his pocket. Yes, I have. What for? She took it and wetted it with milk, and put it on his forehead. Oh, that's trolley. He said. What is it? Milk. Said Bobby. We haven't any water. You're a trolley good little nurse. Said Jim. I do it for mother sometimes. Said Bobby. Not milk, of course, but scent or vinegar and water. I say I must put the candle out now, because there may't be enough of the other one to get you out by. I told. Said he. You think of everything. Bobby blew. Out went the candle. You have no idea how black velvety the darkness was. I say, Bobby. Said a voice through the blackness. Aren't you afraid of the dark? Not—not very, that is. Let's hold hands. Said the boy. And it was really rather good of him, because he was like most boys of his age, and hated all material tokens of affection, such as kissing and holding of hands. He called all such things pourings and detested them. The darkness was more bearable to Bobby now that her hand was held in the large rough hand of the red jerseyed sufferer, and he, holding her little smooth hot pour, was surprised to find that he did not mind it so much as he expected. She tried to talk to amuse him and take his mind off his sufferings, but it is very difficult to go on talking in the dark, and presently they found themselves in a silence, only broken now and then by a— You all right, Bobby? Oran? I'm afraid it's hurting you most awfully, Jim. I am so sorry. And it was very cold. Peter and Phyllis tramped down the long way of the tunnel towards daylight, the candle-grease dripping over Peter's fingers. There were no accidents, unless you count Phyllis' catching her frock on a wire and tearing a long jagged slit in it, and tripping over her bootlace when it came undone, or going down on her hands and knees, all four of which were grazed. There was no end to this tunnel, said Phyllis, and indeed it did seem very, very long. Stick to it, said Peter. Everything has an end, and you get to it if only you keep all on. Which is quite true if you come to think of it, and a useful thing to remember in seasons of trouble, such as measles, arithmetic, impositions, and those times when you are in disgrace, and feel as though no one would ever love you again, and you could never, never again love anybody. Hooray! said Peter suddenly. There's the end of the tunnel. Looks just like a pinhole and a bit of black paper, doesn't it? The pinhole got larger. Blue lights lay along the sides of the tunnel. The children could see the gravel ways that lay in front of them. The air grew warmer and sweeter. Another twenty steps, and they were out in the good glad sunshine with the green trees on both sides. Phyllis drew a long breath. I'll never go into a tunnel again as long as ever I live, said she. Not if there are twenty hundred thousand millions hounds inside, with red jerseys and their legs broken. Don't be a silly cooker, said Peter. As usual. You'd have to. I think it was very brave and good of me. Said Phyllis. Not it. Said Peter. You didn't go because you were brave, but because Bobby and I aren't skunks. Now, where's the nearest house, I wonder? You can't see anything here for the trees. There's a roof over there. Said Phyllis, pointing down the line. That's the signal box. Said Peter. And you know you're not allowed to speak to signal men on duty. It's wrong. I'm not near so afraid of doing wrong as I was of going into that tunnel. Said Phyllis. Come on. And she started to run along the line. So Peter ran too. It was very hot in the sunshine, and both children were hot and breathless by the time they stopped, and bending their heads back to look up at the open windows of the signal box, shouted. Hi. As loud as their breathless state allowed, but no one answered, the signal box stood quiet as an empty nursery, and the handrail of its steps was hot to the hands of the children as they climbed softly up. They peeped in at the open door. The signalman was sitting on a chair tilted back against the wall. His head leaned sideways, and his mouth was open. He was fast asleep. My hat. Cried Peter. Wake up. And he cried it in a terrible voice, for he knew that if a signalman sleeps on duty, he risks losing his situation, let alone all the other dreadful risks to trains, which expect him to tell them when it is safe for them to go their ways. The signalman never moved. Then Peter sprang to him and shook him, and slowly, yawning and stretching, the man awoke. But the moment he was awake, he leapt to his feet, put his hands to his head. Like a mad maniac. As Phyllis said afterwards, and shouted, Oh, my heavens! What's the clock? Twelve-thirteen. said Peter, and indeed it was, by the white-faced, round-faced clock on the wall of the signal box. The man looked at the clock, sprang to the levers, and wrenched them this way and that. An electric bell tingled. The wires and cranks creaked, and the man threw himself into a chair. He was very pale, and the sweat stood on his forehead. Like large dewdrops on a white cabbage. As Phyllis remarked later, he was trembling too. The children could see his big hairy hands shake from side to side. With quite extra-sized trembles. To you see subsequent words of Peter. He drew long breaths, then suddenly he cried, Thank God! Thank God you came in when you did, oh, thank God! and his shoulders began to heave, and his face grew red again, and he hid it in those large hairy hands of his. Oh, don't cry, don't! said Phyllis. It's all right now. And she patted him on one big broad shoulder, while Peter conscientiously thumped the other. But the signalman seemed quite broken down, and the children had to pat him and thump him for quite a long time before he found his handkerchief, a red one with mauve and white horseshoes on it. And mopped his face and spoke, during this patting and thumping interval, a train thundered by. I'm downright ashamed that I am. Were the words of the big signalman when he had stopped crying? Sniveling like a kid. Then suddenly he seems to get cross. What was you doing up here anyway? He said. You know it ain't allowed. Yes. said Phyllis. We know it was wrong, but I wasn't afraid of doing wrong, and so it turned out right. You aren't sorry we came. Lord love you. If you hadn't had to come— He stopped and then went on. It's a disgrace, so it is, sleeping on duty. If it was to come to be known, even as it is, when no harm's come of it— It won't come to be known, said Peter. We aren't sneaks. All the same, you wouldn't to sleep on duty, it's dangerous. Tell me something I don't know, said the man. But I can't help it. I'd known well enough just how it would be. But I couldn't get off. There couldn't get no one to take on my duty. I tell you, I ain't had ten minutes to sleep this last five days. My little chap's ill. Pumonia, the doctor says. And there's no one but me and his little sister to do for him. That's where it is. The girl must have her sleep. Dangerous? Yes, I believe you. Now go and split on me if you like. Of course we won't. said Peter indignantly. But Phyllis ignored the whole of the signalman's speech, except the first six words. You asked us? She said. To tell you something you don't know. Well, I will. There's a boy in the tunnel over there with a red jersey at his leg broken. What did he want to go into the blooming tunnel for, then? said the man. Don't you be so cross, said Phyllis kindly. We haven't done anything wrong except coming and waking you up. And that was right as it happens. Then Peter told how the boy came to be in the tunnel. Well, said the man. I don't see as I can do anything. I can't leave the box. You might tell us where to go after someone who isn't in a box, though, said Phyllis. There's Brigdyn's phom over yonder. Will you see the smoke coming up through the trees? said the man, more and more grumpy, as Phyllis noticed. Well, good-bye, then, said Peter. But the man said, Wait a minute! He put his hand in his pocket and brought out some money, a lot of pennies and one or two shillings and sixpences and half a crown. He picked out two shillings and held them out. Here, he said, I'll give you this to hold your tongues about what's taking place today. There was a short, unpleasant pause, then. You are a nasty man, though, aren't you? said Phyllis. Peter took a step forward and knocked the man's hand up, so that the shillings leapt out of it and rolled on the floor. If anything could make me snake, that would, he said. Come, Phil, and marched out of the signal box with flaming cheeks. Phyllis hesitated, then she took the hand, still held out stupidly, that the shillings had been in. I forgive you, she said. Even if Peter doesn't, you're not in your proper senses, or you'd never have done that. I know wand of sleep sends people mad. Mother told me. I hope your little boy will soon be better and— Come on, Phil, cried Peter, eagerly. I give you my sacred honor word. We'll never tell anyone. Kiss and be friends. said Phyllis, feeling how noble it was of her to try to make up a quarrel in which she was not to blame. The signalman stooped and kissed her. I do believe I'm bit off my head, sissy, he said. I went along home to mother. I didn't mean to put you about there. So Phil left the hot signal box, and followed Peter across the fields to the farm. When the farm men, led by Peter and Phyllis, and carrying a hurdle covered with horse-cloths, reached the manhole in the tunnel, Bobby was fast asleep, and so was Jim. Worn out with the pain the doctor said afterwards. Where does he live? The bailiff from the farm asked, when Jim had been lifted onto the hurdle. In Northumberland, answered Bobby. I'm at school in Maidbridge, said Jim. I suppose I've got to get back there somehow. Seems to me the doctor ought to have a look in first, said the bailiff. Oh, bring him up to our house, said Bobby. It's only a little way by the road. I'm sure mother would say we ought to. Will you mull like you're bringing home strangers with broken legs? She took the poor Russian home herself, said Bobby. I know she'd say we ought. All right, said the bailiff. You ought to know what you're mad like. I wouldn't take it upon me to fetch him up to our place without I ask the missus first, and they call me the master too. Are you sure your mother won't mind? whispered Jim. Certain, said Bobby. Then we had to take him up to three chimneys, said the bailiff. Of course, said Peter. Then my lad shall nip up to the doctors on his bike and tell him to come down there. Now, lads, lift him quite and steady. One, two, three. Thus it happens that mother, writing away for dear life at a story about a duchess, a designing villain, a secret passage and a missing will, dropped her pen as her workroom door burst open and turned to see Bobby, hatless and red with running. Oh, mother! she cried. Do come down. We found a hound in a red jersey in the tunnel, and he's broken his leg and they're bringing him home. They ought to take him to the vet, said mother, with a worried frown. I really can't have a lame dog here. He's not a dog, really. He's a boy, said Bobby between laughing and choking. Then he ought to be taken home to his mother. His mother's dead, said Bobby, and his father's in Northumberland. Oh, mother, you will be nice to him. I told him I was sure you'd want us to bring him home. You always want to help everybody. Mother smiled, but she sighed, too. It is nice that your children should believe you, willing to open house and heart to any and everyone who needs help. But it is rather embarrassing sometimes, too, when they act on their belief. Oh, well, said mother. We must make the best of it. When Jim was carried in, dreadfully white and with set lips whose red had faded to a horrid bluey violet color, mother said, I'm glad you brought him here. Now, Jim, let's get you comfortable in bed before the doctor comes. And Jim, looking at her kind eyes, felt a little warm, comforting flash of new courage. It'll hurt rather, won't it? He said, I don't mean to be a coward. You won't think I'm a coward if I faint again, will you? I really and truly don't do it on purpose, and I do hate to give you all this trouble. Don't worry, said mother. It's you that have the trouble you poured, dear, not us. And she kissed him, just as if he had been Peter. We love to have you here, don't we, Bobby? Yes, said Bobby, and she saw by her mother's face how right she had been to bring home the wounded hound in the Red Jersey. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 of The Railway Children This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The Railway Children by Edith Nesbitt Chapter 13 The Hammond's Grandfather Mother did not get back to her writing all that day, for the Red Jersey'd hound whom the children had brought to three chimneys had to be put to bed, and then the doctor came and hurt him most horribly. Mother was with him all through it, and that made it a little better than it would have been, but— Bad was the best, as Mrs. Viney said. The children sat in the parlour downstairs, and heard the sound of the doctor's boots, going backwards and forwards over the bedroom floor, and once or twice there was a groan. It's horrible, said Bobby. Oh, I wish Dr. Forrest would make haste. Oh, poor Jim. It is horrible, said Peter. But it's very exciting. I wish doctors weren't so stuck up about who they'll have in the room when they're doing things. I should most awfully like to see a leg set. I believe the bones crunch like anything. Don't! said the two girls at once. Rubbish! said Peter. How are you going to be Red Cross nurses, like you were talking of coming home, if you can't even stand hearing me say about bones crunching? You'd have to hear them crunch on the field of battle, and be steeped in gore up to the elbows, likely as not, and— Stop it! cried Bobby with a white face. You don't know how funny you're making me feel. Me, too! said Phyllis, whose face was pink. Cowards! said Peter. I'm not! said Bobby. I helped Mother with your rake-wounded foot, and so did Phil. You know we did. Well then! said Peter. Now look here, it would be a jolly good thing for you if I were to talk to you every day for half an hour about broken bones and people's insides, so as to get you used to it. A chair was moved above. Listen! said Peter. That's the bone crunching. I do wish you wouldn't! said Phyllis. Bobby doesn't like it. I'll tell you what they do. Said Peter. I can't think what made him so horrid. Perhaps it was because he had been so very nice and kind all the earlier part of the day, and now he had to have a change. This is called reaction. One notices it now and then in oneself. Sometimes, when one has been extra good for a longer time than usual, one is suddenly attacked by a violent fit of not being good at all. I'll tell you what they do. said Peter. They strap the broken man down so that he can't resist or interfere with their doctorish designs, and then someone holds his head and someone holds his legs, the broken one, and pulls it till the bones fit in with a crunch, mind you, and then they strap it up and, hey, let's play at bone setting. Oh, no! said Phyllis, but Bobby said suddenly. All right, let's. I'll be the doctor and Phil can be the nurse. You can be the broken boner. We can get at your legs more easily because you don't wear petticoats. I'll get the splints and bandages, said Peter. You get the couch of suffering ready. The ropes that had tied up the boxes that had come from home were all in a wooden packing case in the cellar. When Peter brought in a trailing tangle of them and two boards for splints, Phyllis was excitedly giggling. Now, then. He said, and lay down on the settle, groaning most grievously. Not so loud, said Bobby, beginning to wind the rope round him and the settle. You pull, Phil. Not so tight. Moaned Peter. You break my other leg. Bobby worked on in silence, winding more and more rope round him. That's enough, said Peter. I can't move at all. Oh, my poor leg! He groaned again. Sure you can't move, asked Bobby in a rather strange tone. Quite sure. Replied Peter. Shall we play its bleeding freely or not? He asked cheerfully. You can play what you like, said Bobby sternly, folding her arms and looking down at him, where he lay all wound round and round with cord. Phil and I are going away, and we shan't untie you till you promise never, never to talk to us about blood and wounds unless we say you may. Come, Phil. You beast! Said Peter, rising. I'll never promise never. I'll yell and mother will come. Do! Said Bobby. And tell her why we tied you up. Come on, Phil. No, I'm not a beast, Peter, but you wouldn't stop when we asked you and— Yah! Said Peter. It wasn't even your own idea. You got it out of Storky. Bobby and Phil, retiring in silent dignity, were met at the door by the doctor. He came in, rubbing his hands and looking pleased with himself. Well, he said— That job's done. It's a nice clean fracture, and it'll go on all right, I've no doubt. Pluck a young chap, too. Hello, what's all this? His eye had fallen on Peter, who lay mousy still in his bonds on the settle. Playing at prisoners, eh? He said, but his eyebrows had gone up a little. Somehow he had not thought that Bobby would be playing, while in the room above someone was having a broken bone set. Oh, no! Said Bobby. Not at prisoners. We were playing at setting bones. Peter's the broken boner, and I was the doctor. The doctor frowned. Then I must say— He said, and he said it rather sternly— That it's a very heartless game. Haven't you enough imagination even to faintly picture what's been going on upstairs? That poor chap, with the drops of sweat on his forehead, and biting his lips so as not to cry out, and every touch on his leg agony and— You ought to be tight up. Said Phyllis. You're as bad as— Said Bobby. I'm sorry, but we weren't heartless, really. I was, I suppose. Said Peter crossly. All right, Bobby. Don't you go on being noble and screening me, because a dollywell won't have it. It was only that I kept on talking about blood and wounds. I wanted to train them for Red Cross nurses, and I wouldn't stop when they asked me. Well, said Dr. Forrest, sitting down. Well, then I said, let's play at setting bones. It was all rot. I knew Bobby wouldn't. I only said it to tease her. And then when she said yes, of course I had to go through with it. And they tied me up. They got it out of Storky, and I think it's a beastly shame. He managed to writhe over, and hide his face against the wooden back of the settle. I didn't think that anyone would know but us. Said Bobby, indignantly answering Peter's unspoken reproach. I never thought of your coming in, and hearing about blood and wounds does really make me feel most awfully funny. It was only a joke or tying him up. Let me untie you, Pete. I don't care if you never untie me. Said Peter. And if that's your idea of a joke. If I were you, said the doctor, though really he did not quite know what to say. I should be untied before your mother comes down. You don't want to worry her just now, do you? I don't promise anything about not saying about wounds, mind. Said Peter in very surly tones, as Bobby and Phyllis began to untie the knots. I'm very sorry, Pete. Bobby whispered, leaning close to him as she fumbled with the big knot under the settle. But if you only knew how sick you made me feel, you've made me feel pretty sick, I can tell you. Peter rejoined. Then he shook off the loose cords and stood up. I looked in, said Dr. Forrest, to see if one of you would come along to the surgery. There are some things that your mother will want at once, and I've given my man a day off to go and see the circus. Will you come, Peter? Peter went without a word or a look to his sisters. The two walked in silence up to the gate that led from the three chimneys field to the road. Then Peter said, Let me carry your bag. I say it is heavy. What's in it? Oh, knives and lancets and different instruments for hurting people. And the ether bottle. I had to give him ether, you know. The agony was so intense. Peter was silent. Tell me all about how you found this chap, said Dr. Forrest. Peter told, and then Dr. Forrest told him stories of brave rescues. He was a most interesting man to talk to, as Peter had often remarked. Then, in the surgery, Peter had a better chance than he had ever had of examining the doctor's balance and his microscope, and his scales and measuring glasses. When all the things were ready that Peter was to take back, the doctor said suddenly, You'll excuse my shoving my oar in, won't you? But I should like to say something to you. Now for a rowing. Thought Peter, who had been wondering how it was that he had escaped one. Something scientific. Added the doctor. Yes. Said Peter, fiddling with the fossil ammonite that the doctor used for a paperweight. Well, then, you see, boys and girls are only little men and women, and we are much harder and hardier than they are. Peter liked the we. Perhaps the doctor had known he would. And much stronger, and things that hurt them don't hurt us. You know you mustn't hit a girl. I should think not indeed. But said Peter indignantly. Not even if she's your own sister. That's because girls are so much softer and weaker than we are. They have to be, you know. He added. Because if they weren't, it wouldn't be nice for the babies. And that's why all the animals are so good to the mother animals. They never fight them, you know. I know. Said Peter, interested. Two buck rabbits will fight all day if you let them, but they won't hurt a dog. No, and quite wild beasts, lions and elephants, they're immensely gentle with the female beasts, and we've got to be too. I see. Said Peter. And their hearts are soft, too. The doctor went on. And things that we shouldn't think anything of hurt them dreadfully, so that a man has to be very careful, not only of his fists, but of his words. They're awfully brave, you know. He went on. Think of Bobby waiting alone in the tunnel with that poor chap. It's an odd thing. The softer and more easily hurt a woman is, the better she can screw herself up to do what has to be done. I've seen some brave women. Your mother's one. He ended abruptly. Yes. Said Peter. Well, that's all. Excuse my mentioning it, but nobody knows everything without being told. And you see what I mean, don't you? Yes. Said Peter. I'm sorry, there. Of course you are. People always are. Directly, they understand. Everyone ought to be taught these scientific facts. So long. They shook hands heartily. When Peter came home, his sisters looked at him doubtfully. It's Pax. Said Peter, dumping down the basket on the table. Dr. Forrest has been talking scientific to me. No, it's no use my telling you what he said. You wouldn't understand. But it all comes to you girls being poor, soft, weak, frightened things like rabbits. So us men have just got to put up with them. He said you were female beasts. Shall I take this up to mother or will you? I know what boys are. Said Phyllis with flaming cheeks. They're just the nastiest, rudest. They're very brave. Said Bobby. Sometimes. Oh, you mean the chap upstairs, I see. Go ahead, Phil. I shall put up with whatever you say, because you're a poor, weak, frightened, soft. Not if I pull your hair, you won't. Said Phyllis, springing at him. He said Pax. Said Bobby, pulling her away. Don't you see? She whispered as Peter picked up the basket and stalked out with it. He's sorry, really. Only he won't say so. Let's say we're sorry. It's so goody-goody. Said Phyllis doubtfully. He said we were female beasts and soft and frightened. Then let's show him we're not frightened of him thinking as goody-goody. Said Bobby. And we're not any more beasts than he is. And when Peter came back, still with his chin in the air, Bobby said, We're sorry we tied you up, Pete. I thought you would be. Said Peter, very stiff and superior. This was hard to bear, but… Well, so we are. Said Bobby. Now let honour be satisfied on both sides. I did call it Pax. Said Peter in an injured tone. Then let it be Pax. Said Bobby. Come on, Phil. Let's get the tea. Pete, you might lay the cloth. I say. Said Phyllis when peace was really restored, which was not till they were washing up the cups after tea. Dr. Forrest didn't really say we were female beasts, did he? Yes. Said Peter firmly. But I think he meant we men were wild beasts, too. How funny of him! Said Phyllis, breaking a cup. May I come in, Mother? Peter was at the door of Mother's writing-room, where Mother sat at her table with two candles in front of her. Their flames looked orange and violet, against the clear grey-blue of the sky, where already a few stars were twinkling. Yes, dear. Said Mother absently. Anything wrong? She wrote a few more words, and then laid down her pen and began to fold up what she had written. I was just writing to Jim's grandfather. He lives near here, you know. Yes, you said so at tea. That's what I want to say. Must you write to him, Mother? Couldn't we keep Jim and not say anything to his people till his well? It would be such a surprise for them. Well, yes. Said Mother laughing. I think it would. You see. Peter went on. Of course. The girls are all right and all that. I'm not saying anything against them. But I should like it if I had another chap to talk to sometimes. Yes. Said Mother. I know it's dull for you, dear, but I can't help it. Next year perhaps I can send you to school. You'd like that, wouldn't you? I do miss the other chaps, rather. Peter confessed. But if Jim could stay after his leg was well, we could have awful lucks. I've no doubt of it. Said Mother. Well, perhaps he could. But you know, dear, we're not rich. I can't afford to get him everything he'll want. And he must have a nurse. Can't you nurse him, Mother? You do nurse people so beautifully. That's a pretty compliment, Pete. But I can't do nursing and my writing as well. That's the worst of it. Then you must send the letter to his grandfather. Of course. And to his schoolmaster too. We telegraph to them both. But I must write as well. They'll be most dreadfully anxious. I say, Mother, why can't his grandfather pay for a nurse? Peter suggested. That would be ripping. I expect the old boys rolling in money. Grandfathers in books always are. Well, this one isn't in a book. Said Mother. So we mustn't expect him to roll much. I say. Said Peter musingly. Wouldn't it be jolly if we all were in a book, and you were writing it? Then you could make all sorts of jolly things happen, and make Jim's legs get well at once, and be all right tomorrow. And Father come home soon. And do you miss your father very much? Mother asked. Rather coldly, Peter thought. Orfly. Said Peter briefly. Mother was enveloping and addressing the second letter. You see. Peter went on slowly. You see. It's not only him being Father. But now he's away. There's no other man in the house but me. That's why I want Jim to stay so frightfully much. Wouldn't you like to be writing that book with us all in it, Mother, and make Daddy come home soon? Peter's mother put her arm round him suddenly, and hugged him in silence for a minute. Then she said. Don't you think it's rather nice to think that we're in a book that God's writing? If I were writing the book, I might make mistakes. But God knows how to make the story and just write. In a way that's best for us. Do you really believe that, Mother? Peter asked quietly. Yes. She said. I do believe it, almost always. Except when I'm so sad that I can't believe anything. But even when I can't believe it, I know it's true. And I try to believe. You don't know how I try, Peter. Now take the letters to the post and don't let's be sad anymore. Courage! Courage! That's the finest of all virtues. I daresay Jim will be here for two or three weeks yet. For what was left of the evening, Peter was so angelic that Bobby feared he was going to be ill. She was quite relieved in the morning to find him plaiting Phyllis's hair onto the back of her chair in quite his old manner. It was soon after breakfast that a knock came at the door. The children were hard at work cleaning the brass candlesticks in honor of Jim's visit. That'll be the doctor, said Mother. I'll go. Shut the kitchen door. You're not fit to be seen. But it wasn't the doctor. They knew that by the voice and by the sound of the boots that went upstairs. They did not recognize the sound of the boots, but everyone was certain that they had heard the voice before. There was a longish interval. The boots and the voice did not come down again. Who can it possibly be? They kept on asking themselves and each other. Babs, said Peter, at last. Dr. Forrest has been attacked by a high woman and left for dead, and this is the man his telegraph for to take his place. Mrs. Viney said he had a local tenant to do his work when he went for a holiday. Didn't you, Mrs. Viney? I did so, my dear, said Mrs. Viney from the back kitchen. He's fallen down in a fit more likely, said Phyllis. All human aid is spared of, and this is his man come to break the news to Mother. Nonsense, said Peter briskly. Mother wouldn't have taken the man up into Jim's bedroom. Why would she? Listen, the door's opening. Now they'll come down. I'll open the door a crack. He did. I'm not listening, he replied indignantly to Bobby's scandalized remarks. Nobody in their senses would talk secrets on the stairs, and Mother can't have secrets to talk with Dr. Forrest Stableman, and you said it was him. Bobby? Called Mother's voice. They opened the kitchen door, and Mother leaned over the stair railing. Jim's grandfather has come, she said. Wash your hands and faces, and then you can see him. He wants to see you. The bedroom door shut again. There now, said Peter. Fancy us not even thinking of that. Let's have some hot water, Mrs. Vimy. I'm as black as your head. The three were indeed dirty, for the stuff you clean brass candlesticks with is very far from cleaning to the cleaner. They were still busy with soap and flannel, when they heard the boots and the voice come down the stairs and go into the dining-room, and when they were clean, though still damp, because it takes such a long time to dry your hands properly, and they were very impatient to see the grandfather, they filed into the dining-room. Mother was sitting in the window-seat, and in the leather-covered armchair that Father always used to sit in at the other house sat their own old gentleman. Well, I never did, said Peter, even before he said. How do you do? He was, as he explained afterwards. Do surprise even to remember that there was such a thing as politeness. Much less to practice it. It's our own old gentleman, said Phyllis. Oh, it's you, said Bobby, and then they remembered themselves and their manners and said. How do you do? Very nicely. This is Jim's grandfather, Mr. Said Mother, naming the old gentleman's name. Houseblended, said Peter. That's just exactly like a book, isn't it, Mother? It is rather, said Mother, smiling. Things do happen in real life that are rather like books, sometimes. I am so awfully glad it is you, said Phyllis. When you think of the tons of old gentlemen, there are in the world. It might have been almost anyone. I say, though, said Peter. You're not going to take Jim away, though, are you? Not at present, said the old gentleman. Your mother has most kindly consented to let him stay here. I thought of sending a nurse. But your mother is good enough to say that she will nurse him herself. But what about her writing? Said Peter, before anyone could stop him. There won't be anything for him to eat if Mother doesn't write. That's all right, said Mother hastily. The old gentleman looked very kindly at Mother. I see, he said. You trust your children and confide in them. Of course, said Mother. Then I may tell you about our little arrangement. He said, Your mother, my dears, has consented to give up writing for a little while and become a matron of my hospital. Oh! said Phyllis blankly. And shall we have to go away from three chimneys and the railway and everything? No, no, darling, said Mother hurriedly. The hospital is called Three Chimneys Hospital, said the old gentleman. And my unlucky gyms are the only patient. And I hope you'll continue to be so. Your mother will be matron, and there'll be a hospital staff of a housemaid and a cook, till gyms well. And then will Mother go on writing again? Asked Peter. We shall see, said the old gentleman, with a slight swift glance at Bobby. Perhaps something nice may happen, and she won't have to. I love my writing, said Mother very quickly. I know, said the old gentleman. Don't be afraid that I'm going to try to interfere. But one never knows. Very wonderful and beautiful things do happen, don't they? And we live most of our lives in the hope of them. I may come again to see the boy. Surely, said Mother. And I don't know how to thank you for making it possible for me to nurse him, dear boy. He kept calling Mother Mother in the night, said Phyllis. I woke up twice and heard him. He didn't mean me, said Mother, in a low voice to the old gentleman. That's why I wanted so much to keep him. The old gentleman rose. I'm so glad, said Peter, that you're going to keep him, Mother. Take care of your mother, my dears, said the old gentleman. She's a woman in a million. Yes, isn't she? whispered Bobby. God bless her, said the old gentleman, taking both Mother's hands. God bless her. I and she shall be blessed. Dear me, where's my hat? Will Bobby come with me to the gate? At the gate, he stopped and said, You're a good child, my dear. I got you a letter. But it wasn't needed. When I read about your father's case in the papers at the time, I had my doubts. And ever since I've known who you were, I've been trying to find out things. I haven't done very much yet. But I have hopes, my dear. I have hopes. Oh! said Bobby, choking a little. Yes, I may say, great hopes. But keep your secret a little longer. Wouldn't do to upset your mother with the false hope, would it? Oh! but it isn't false, said Bobby. I know you can do it. I knew you could when I wrote. It isn't a false hope, is it? No, he said. I don't think it's a false hope, or I wouldn't have told you. And I think you deserve to be told that there is a hope. And you don't think Father did it, do you? Oh! say you don't think he did. My dear, he said. I'm perfectly certain he didn't. If it was a false hope, it was nonetheless a very radiant one that lay warm at Bobby's heart, and through the days that followed lighted her little face, as a Japanese lantern is lighted by the candle within. The End Life at the Three Chimneys was never quite the same again, after the old gentleman came to see his grandson. Although they now knew his name, the children never spoke of him by it, at any rate, when they were by themselves. To them he was always the old gentleman, and I think he had better be the old gentleman to us, too. It wouldn't make him seem any more real to you, would it? If I were to tell you that his name was Snooks or Jenkins, which it wasn't. And after all, I must be allowed to keep one secret. It's the only one. I have told you everything else, except what I'm going to tell you in this chapter, which is the last. At least, of course, I haven't told you everything. If I were to do that, the book would never come to an end, and that would be a pity, wouldn't it? Well, as I was saying, life at Three Chimneys was never quite the same again. The cook and the housemaid were very nice. I don't mind telling you their names, they were Clara and Ethelwyn. But they told Mother they did not seem to want Mrs. Viney, and that she was an old muddler. So Mrs. Viney came only two days a week to do washing and ironing. Then Clara and Ethelwyn said they could do the work all right, if they weren't interfered with, and that meant that the children no longer got the tea and cleared it away and washed up the tea-things and dusted the rooms. This would have left quite a blank in their lives, although they had often pretended to themselves and to each other that they hated housework. But now that Mother had no writing and no housework to do, she had time for lessons, and lessons the children had to do. However nice the person who is teaching you may be, lessons are lessons all the world over, and at their best are worse fun than peeling potatoes or lighting a fire. On the other hand, if Mother now had time for lessons, she also had time for play and to make up little rhymes for the children, as she used to do. She had not had much time for rhymes since she came to Three Chimneys. There was one very odd thing about these lessons. Whatever the children were doing, they always wanted to be doing something else. When Peter was doing his Latin, he thought it would be nice to be learning history like Bobby. Bobby would have preferred arithmetic, which was what Phyllis happened to be doing, and Phyllis of course thought Latin much the most interesting kind of lesson, and so on. So one day, when they sat down to lessons, each of them found a little rhyme at its place. I put the rhymes in to show you that their mother really did understand a little how children feel about things, and also the kind of words they use, which is the case with very few grown-up people. I suppose most grown-ups have very bad memories, and have forgotten how they felt when they were little. Of course, the verses are supposed to be spoken by the children. I once thought Caesar easy, Pap, how very soft I must have been. When they start Caesar with a chap, he little knows what that will mean. All verbs are silly, stupid things. I'd rather learn the dates of kings. The worst of all my lesson, things, is learning who succeeded who in all the rows of queens and kings, with dates to everything they do, with dates enough to make you sick. I wish it was arithmetic. Such pounds and pounds of apples fill my slate. What is the price you'd spend? You scratch the figures out until you cry upon the dividend. I'd break the slate and scream for joy if I did Latin like a boy. This kind of thing, of course, made lessons much jollier. It is something to know that the person who is teaching you sees that it is not all plain sailing for you, and does not think that it is just your stupidness that makes you not know your lessons till you've learned them. Then, as Jim's leg got better, it was very pleasant to go up and sit with him, and hear tales about his school life and the other boys. There was one boy named Parr, of whom Jim seemed to have formed the lowest possible opinion, and another boy named Wigsby Minor, for whose views Jim had a great respect. Also, there were three brothers named Paley, and the youngest was called Paley Turts, and was much given to fighting. Peter drank in all this with deep joy, and mother seemed to have listened with some interest, for one day she gave Jim a sheet of paper, on which she had written a rhyme about Parr, bringing in Paley and Wigsby by name in a most wonderful way, as well as all the reasons Jim had for not liking Parr, and Wigsby's wise opinion on the matter. Jim was immensely pleased. He had never had a rhyme written expressly for him before. He read it till he knew it by heart, and then he sent it to Wigsby, who liked it almost as much as Jim did. Perhaps you may like it too. His name is Parr. He says that he is given bread and milk for tea. He says his father killed a bear. He says his mother cuts his hair. He wears galoshes when it's wet. I've heard his people call him pit. He has no proper sense of shame. He told the chap his Christian name. He cannot wicket-keep at all. He's frightened of a cricket ball. He reads in doors for hours and hours. He knows the names of beastly flowers. He says his French, just like Moussoul, a beastly stuck-up thing to do. He won't keep cave, shucks his turn, and says he came to school to learn. He won't play football, says it hurts. He won't fight with paleo-turtes. He couldn't whistle if he tried, and when we laughed at him, he cried. Now, Wigsby Minor says that Parr is only like all new boys are. I know when I first came to school, I wasn't such a jolly fool. Jim could never understand how mother could have been clever enough to do it. To the others it seemed nice, but natural. You see, they had always been used to having a mother who could write verses just like the way people talk, even to the shocking expression at the end of the rhyme, which was Jim's very own. Jim taught Peter to play chess and drafts and dominoes, and altogether it was a nice, quiet time. Only Jim's leg got better and better, and a general feeling began to spring up among Bobby, Peter and Phyllis, that something ought to be done to amuse him, not just games, but something really handsome, but it was extraordinarily difficult to think of anything. It's no good, said Peter, when all of them had thought and thought, till their heads felt quite heavy and swollen. If we can't think of anything to amuse him, we just can't, and there's an end of it. Perhaps something will just happen of its own accord that he'll like. Things do happen by themselves sometimes, without your making them, said Phyllis, rather as though usually everything that happened in the world was her doing. I wish something would happen, said Bobby dreamily. Something wonderful. And something wonderful did happen, exactly four days after she had said this. I wish I could say it was three days after, because in fairy tales it is always three days after that things happen. But this is not a fairy story, and besides, it really was four and not three, and I am nothing if not strictly truthful. They seemed to be hardly railway children at all in those days, and as the days went on each had an uneasy feeling about this, which Phyllis expressed one day. I wonder if the railway misses us? She said plaintively. We'd never go to see it now. It seems ungrateful, said Bobby. We loved it so when we hadn't anything else to play with. Perks is always coming up to ask after Jim, said Peter, and the signalman's little boy is better. He told me so. I didn't mean the people, explained Phyllis. I meant the railway itself. The thing I don't like, said Bobby on this fourth day, which was a Tuesday. Is our having stopped waving to the nine fifteen and sending our love to father by it? Let's begin again, said Phyllis, and they did. Somehow the change of everything that was made by having servants in the house and mother not doing any writing made the time seem extremely long since that strange morning at the beginning of things, when they had got up so early and burnt the bottom out of the kettle and had apple pie for breakfast and first seen the railway. It was September now and the turf on the slope to the railway was dry and crisp. Little long grass spikes stood up like bits of gold wire. Frail blue hair-bells trembled on their tough slender stalks. Gypsy roses opened wide and flat, their lilac-coloured disks, and the golden stars of St John's Wirt shone at the edges of the pool that lay halfway to the railway. Bobby gathered a generous handful of the flowers and thought how pretty they would look lying on the green and pink blanket of silk waste that now covered Jim's poor broken leg. Hurry up, said Peter. We shall miss the nine fifteen. I can't hurry more than I am doing. Said Phyllis. Oh, bother it! My bootlace has come undone. Again! When you're married, said Peter, your bootlace will come undone going up the church aisle and your man that you're going to get married to will tumble over it and smash his nose in on the ornamented pavement. And then you'll say you won't marry him and you'll have to be an old maid. I shan't, said Phyllis. I'd much rather marry a man with his nose smashed in than not marry anybody. It would be horrid to marry a man with a smashed nose all the same. Went on, Bobby. He wouldn't be able to smell the flowers at the wedding. Wouldn't that be awful? Bother the flowers at the wedding, cried Peter. Look! The signal's down. We must run. They ran, and once more they waved their handkerchiefs, without at all minding whether the handkerchiefs were clean or not, to the nine fifteen. Take our love to father, cried Bobby, and the others, too, shouted. Take our love to father! The old gentleman waved from his first-class carriage window. Quite violently he waved, and there was nothing odd in that, for he always had waved. But what was really remarkable was that from every window, handkerchiefs fluttered, newspapers signalled, hands waved wildly. The train swept by with a rustle and roar. The little pebbles jumped and danced under it as it passed, and the children were left looking at each other. Well, said Peter. Well, said Bobby. Well, said Phyllis. Whatever on earth does that mean? Asked Peter, but he did not expect any answer. I don't know, said Bobby. Perhaps the old gentleman told the people at his station to look out for us and wave. He knew we should like it. Now, curiously enough, this was just what had happened. The old gentleman, who was very well known and respected at his particular station, had got there early that morning, and he had waited at the door, where the young man stands holding the interesting machine that clips the tickets, and he had said something to every single passenger who passed through that door, and after nodding to what the old gentleman had said, and the nods expressed every shade of surprise, interest, doubt, cheerful pleasure, and grumpy agreement, each passenger had gone on to the platform and read one certain part of his newspaper, and when the passengers got into the train, they had told the other passengers who were already there what the old gentleman had said, and then the other passengers had also looked at their newspapers, and seemed very astonished, and mostly pleased. Then, when the train passed the fence where the three children were, newspapers and hands and handkerchiefs were waved madly till all that side of the train was fluttery with white, like the pictures of the king's coronation in the biograph at masculine and cooks. To the children it almost seemed as though the train itself was alive, and was at last responding to the love that they had given it so freely and so long. It is most extraordinarily rum, said Peter. Most stronery! echoed Phyllis. But Bobby said, Don't you think the old gentleman's waves seemed more significant than usual? No, said the others. I do, said Bobby. I thought he was trying to explain something to us with his newspaper. Explain what? Asked Peter, not unnaturally. I don't know. Bobby answered. But I do feel most awfully funny. I feel just exactly as if something was going to happen. What is going to happen? Said Peter. Is that Phyllis's stocking is going to come down? This was but too true. The suspender had given way in the agitation of the waves to the 915. Bobby's handkerchief served as first aid to the injured, and they all went home. Lessons were more than usually difficult to Bobby that day. Indeed, she disgraced herself so deeply over a quite simple sum about the division of 48 pounds of meat and 36 pounds of bread among 144 hungry children that mother looked at her anxiously. Don't you feel quite well, dear? She asked. I don't know. Was Bobby's unexpected answer? I don't know how I feel. It isn't that I'm lazy. Mother, will you let me off lessons today? I feel as if I wanted to be quite alone by myself. Yes, of course I'll et you off. Said Mother. But— Bobby dropped her slate. It cracked just across the little green mark that is so useful for drawing patterns round, and it was never the same slate again. Without waiting to pick it up, she bolted. Mother caught her in the hall, feeling blindly among the waterproofs and umbrellas for her garden hat. What is in my sweetheart? Said Mother. You don't feel ill, do you? I don't know. Bobby answered a little breathlessly. But I want to be by myself and see if my head really is all silly and my inside all squirmy twisty. And you better lie down. Mother said, stroking her hair back from her forehead. I'd be more alive in the garden, I think. Said Bobby. But she could not stay in the garden. The hollyhocks and the asters and the late roses all seemed to be waiting for something to happen. It was one of those still shiny autumn days when everything does seem to be waiting. Bobby could not wait. I'll go down to the station. She said. And talk to Perks and ask about the signalman's little boy. So she went down. On the way she passed the old lady from the post office, who gave her a kiss and a hug. But rather to Bobby's surprise, no words except. God bless you, love. And after a pause. Run along. Do. The draper's boy, who had sometimes been a little less than civil and a little more than contemptuous, now touched his cap and uttered the remarkable words. Morning, miss. I'm sure. The blacksmith, coming along with an open newspaper in his hand, was even more strange in his manner. He grinned broadly, though as a rule he was a man not given to smile. And waved the newspaper long before he came up to her. And as he passed her he said in answer to her. Good morning. Good morning to you, missy. Many of them. I wish you joy. That I do. Oh. Said Bobby to herself, and her heart quickened its beats. Something is going to happen. I know it is. Everyone is so odd, like people are in dreams. The stationmaster wrung her hand warmly. In fact, he worked it up and down like a pump handle. But he gave her no reason for this unusually enthusiastic greeting. He only said, The eleven-fifty-four was a bit late, miss. The extra luggage this holiday time. And went away very quickly into that inner temple of his, into which even Bobby dared not follow him. Perks was not to be seen, and Bobby shared the solitude of the platform with the station cat. This tortoise-shell lady, usually of a retiring disposition, came today to rub herself against the brown stockings of Bobby, with arched back, waving tail, and reverberating pearls. Dear me. Said Bobby, stooping to stroke her. How very kind everybody is today, even you, pussy. Perks did not appear until the eleven-fifty-four was signalled, and then he, like everybody else that morning, had a newspaper in his hand. Hello, he said. Here you are. Well, if this is the train, it'll be smart work. Well, God bless you, my dear. I see it in the paper, and I don't think I was ever so glad of anything in all my born days. He looked at Bobby a moment, then said, One, I must have, miss, and no offence. I know on a day like this here. And with that he kissed her, first on one cheek, and then on the other. You ain't offended, are you? He asked anxiously. I ain't took too great a liberty. On a day like this, you know. No, no, said Bobby. Of course it's not a liberty, dear Mr. Perks. We love you quite as much as if you were an uncle of ours, but on a day like what? Like this here, said Perks. Don't I tell you I see it in the paper? See what in the paper? Asked Bobby. But already the eleven-fifty-four was steaming into the station, and the stationmaster was looking at all the places where Perks was not, and ought to have been. Bobby was left standing alone, the station cat, watching her from under the bench, with friendly golden eyes. Of course you know already exactly what was going to happen. Bobby was not so clever. She had the vague, confused, expectant feeling that comes to one's heart in dreams. What her heart expected, I can't tell. Perhaps the very thing that you and I know was going to happen. But her mind expected nothing. It was almost blank, and felt nothing but tiredness and stupidness, and an empty feeling, like your body has when you have been a long walk, and it is very far indeed past your proper dinner-time. Only three people got out of the eleven-fifty-four. The first was a countryman, with two basket-y boxes full of live chickens, who stuck their russet heads out anxiously through the wicker bars. The second was Miss Peckett, the grosser's wife's cousin, with a tin box and three brown paper parcels, and the third. Oh, my daddy, my daddy! That scream went like a knife into the heart of everyone in the train, and people put their heads out of the windows to see a tall, pale man, with lips set in a thin, close line, and a little girl clinging to him, with arms and legs, while his arms went tightly round her. I knew something wonderful was going to happen, said Bobby, as they went up the road. But I didn't think it was going to be this. Oh, my daddy, my daddy! Then didn't Mother get my letter? Father asked. There weren't any letters this morning. Oh, Daddy, it is really you, isn't it? The clasp of a hand she had not forgotten assured her that it was. You must go in by yourself, Bobby, and tell Mother quite quietly that it's all right. They've caught the man who did it. Everyone knows now that it wasn't your daddy. I always knew it wasn't, said Bobby. Me and Mother and our old gentleman. Yes, he said. It's all his doing. Mother wrote and told me you had found out, and she told me what you'd been to her. My own little girl. They stopped a minute then, and now I see them crossing the field. Bobby goes into the house, trying to keep her eyes from speaking, before her lips have found the right words to tell Mother quite quietly, that the sorrow and the struggle and the parting are over and done, and that Father has come home. I see Father walking in the garden, waiting, waiting. He is looking at the flowers, and each flower is a miracle to eyes that all these months of spring and summer have seen only flagstones and gravel and a little grudging grass, but his eyes keep turning towards the house, and presently he leaves the garden, and goes to stand outside the nearest door. It is the back door, and across the yard the swallows are circling. They are getting ready to fly away from cold winds and keen frost, to the land where it is always summer. They are the same swallows that the children built the little clay nests for. Now the house door opens. Bobby's voice calls. Come in, Daddy. Come in. He goes in, and the door is shut. I think we will not open the door or follow him. I think that just now we are not wanted there. I think it will be best for us to go quickly and quietly away. At the end of the field, among the thin gold spikes of grass, and the hair-bells, and gypsy roses, and St John's wort, we may take just one last look over our shoulders at the White House, where neither we nor anyone else is wanted now. End of Chapter 14 End of The Railway Children by Edith Nesbit Recorded by LibriVox Volunteers in 2018