y accustomed to anything. I think big people
do too. We all--papa and mother, and the boys and I, and even Pierson
and the other servants--got used to feeling something was going to come.
We got used to living with people coming to see the house, and every now
and then great vans coming from the railway to take away packing-cases,
and an _always_ feeling that the day--the dreadful day--was going to
come. Of course I cannot remember all the little particular things
exactly, but I have a very clear remembrance of the sort of way it all
happened, so though I may not be able to put down just the very words we
said and all that, still it is telling it truly, I think, to put down as
nearly as I _can_ the little bits that make the whole. And even some of
the littlest bits I can remember the most clearly--is not that queer? I
can remember the dress mother had on the last morning, I can remember
_just_ how the scarf round her neck was tied, and how one end got
rumpled up with the way Tom clung to her, and hugged and hugged her with
his arms round her, so tight, that papa had almost to force him away.

But in my usual way I am going on too fast--at least putting things out
of their places. I do not think I in the least understood then, what I
do so well understand now, how terribly hard it must have been for
mother to leave _us_; how much more dreadful her part of it was than any
one else's. I must have seemed very heartless. I remember one day when
she was packing books and music and odd things that she would not of
course have taken with her just for a journey, I said to her, "Why,
mother, what a lot of books you are taking! And all those table-covers
and mats and things--you never take those when we go to the sea-side."
Papa was standing by and mother looked up at him. "Need I take them?"
she said. "It is as if I were going to make a home out there, and oh,
how can it ever be like a home? How could I wish it to be? The barer and
less home-like the better I should like it."

Papa looked troubled.

"We have to think of appearances, you know," he said. "So many people
will come to see you, and it would not do to look as if we took no
interest in the place."

Mother said no more. She went on with her packing, and I think a good
many big tears were packed among the things in that box.

I asked her one day how long she and papa would stay away. "Longer than
we stay at the sea-side in summer?" I said. "Three months?--as long as