oon enough."

"It isn't necessary for you to know anything about it," said Mother;
"it's about business, and you never do understand business, do you?"

"No," said Roberta; "is it something to do with Government?" For Father
was in a Government Office.

"Yes," said Mother. "Now it's bed-time, my darlings. And don't YOU
worry. It'll all come right in the end."

"Then don't YOU worry either, Mother," said Phyllis, "and we'll all be
as good as gold."

Mother sighed and kissed them.

"We'll begin being good the first thing tomorrow morning," said Peter,
as they went upstairs.

"Why not NOW?" said Roberta.

"There's nothing to be good ABOUT now, silly," said Peter.

"We might begin to try to FEEL good," said Phyllis, "and not call
names."

"Who's calling names?" said Peter. "Bobbie knows right enough that when
I say 'silly', it's just the same as if I said Bobbie."

"WELL," said Roberta.

"No, I don't mean what you mean. I mean it's just a--what is it Father
calls it?--a germ of endearment! Good night."

The girls folded up their clothes with more than usual neatness--which
was the only way of being good that they could think of.

"I say," said Phyllis, smoothing out her pinafore, "you used to say
it was so dull--nothing happening, like in books. Now something HAS
happened."

"I never wanted things to happen to make Mother unhappy," said Roberta.
"Everything's perfectly horrid."

Everything continued to be perfectly horrid for some weeks.

Mother was nearly always out. Meals were dull and dirty. The
between-maid was sent away, and Aunt Emma came on a visit. Aunt Emma was
much older than Mother. She was going abroad to be a governess. She
was very busy getting her clothes ready, and they were very ugly, dingy
clothes, and she had them always littering about, and the sewing-machine
seemed to whir--on and on all day and most of the night. Aunt Emma
believed in keeping children in their proper places. And they more than
returned the compliment. Their idea of Aunt Emma's proper place was
anywhere where they were not. So they saw very little of her. They
preferred the company of the servants, who were more amusing. Cook,
if in a good temper, could sing comic songs, and the housemaid, if she
happened not to be offended with you, could imitate a hen that has laid
an egg, a bottle of champagne being opened, and could mew like two cats
fighting. The servants never told the children what the bad news was
that the