Mary was surprised at this, and hastened to the bedroom to see what was wrong.

Mary’s mother replied to her questions quite cheerfully.  She was not sick.  She was only tired.  She would be all right in the morning.  But Mary Wood, aged eleven, had grown wise in her short years, and she knew there was something wrong.  Never mind; she would ask father.  He always knew everything and what to do about it.

Going back to the kitchen she saw the writing-pad on which her mother had been writing.  Her mother did not often write letters; certainly did not often tear them up after writing them; and here in the home-made waste-paper basket was a torn and crumpled sheet.  Mary did not know that it was not the square thing to read other people’s letters, and, besides, she wanted to know.  She spread the letter on the table and pieced it together.  Laboriously she spelled it out:—­

“I don’t know why I am so frightened this time, Lizzie, but I am black afraid.  I suppose it is because I lost the other two.  I hate this lonely, God-forsaken country.  I am afraid of it to-night—­it’s so big and white and far away, and it seems as if nobody cares.  Mary does not know, and I cannot tell her; but I know I should, for she may be left with the care of Bobbie.  To-night I am glad the other two are safe.  It is just awful to be a woman, Lizzie; women get it going and coming, and the worst of it is, no one cares!”

Mary read the letter over and over, before she grasped its meaning.  Then the terrible truth rolled over her, and her heart seemed to stop beating.  Mary had not lived her eleven years without finding out some of the grim facts of life.  She knew that the angels brought babies at very awkward times, and to places where they were not wanted a bit, and she also knew that sometimes, when they brought a baby, they had been known to take the mother away.  Mary had her own opinion of the angels who did that, but it had been done.  There was only one hope:  her father always knew what to do.

She thawed a hole in the frosted window and tried to see down the trail, but the moon was foggy and it was impossible to see more than a few yards.

Filled with a sense of fear and dread, she built up a good fire and filled the kettle with water; she vigorously swept the floor and tidied the few books on their home-made shelf.

It was ten o’clock when her father came in, pale and worried.  Mary saw that he knew, too.

He went past her into the bedroom and spoke hurriedly to his wife; but Mary did not hear what they said.

Suddenly she heard her mother cry and instinctively she ran into the room.

Her father stood beside the bed holding his head, as if in pain.  Mary’s mother had turned her face into the pillow, and cried; and even little Bobbie, who had been awakened by the unusual commotion, sat up, rubbing his eyes, and cried softly to himself.

Mary’s father explained it to Mary.