The terrible secret.
WhentheyfirstwenttoliveatThreeChimneys,thechildrenhadtalkedagreatdealabouttheirFather,andhadaskedagreatmanyquestionsabouthim,andwhathewasdoingandwherehewasandwhenhewouldcomehome.Motheralwaysansweredtheirquestionsaswellasshecould.Butasthetimewentontheygrewtospeaklessofhim.BobbiehadfeltalmostfromthefirstthatforsomestrangemiserablereasonthesequestionshurtMotherandmadehersad.Andlittlebylittletheotherscametohavethisfeeling,too,thoughtheycouldnothaveputitintowords.
Oneday,whenMotherwasworkingsohardthatshecouldnotleaveoffevenfortenminutes,BobbiecarriedupherteatothebigbareroomthattheycalledMother’sworkshop.Ithadhardlyanyfurniture.Justatableandachairandarug.Butalwaysbigpotsofflowersonthewindow-sillsandonthemantelpiece.Thechildrensawtothat.Andfromthethreelonguncurtainedwindowsthebeautifulstretchofmeadowandmoorland,thefarvioletofthehills,andtheunchangingchangefulnessofcloudandsky.
"Here’syourtea,Mother-love,"saidBobbie;"dodrinkitwhileit’shot."
Motherlaiddownherpenamongthepagesthatwerescatteredalloverthetable,pagescoveredwithherwriting,whichwasalmostasplainasprint,andmuchprettier.Sheranherhandsintoherhair,asifsheweregoingtopullitoutbyhandfuls.
"Poordearhead,"saidBobbie,"doesitache?"
"No—yes—notmuch,"saidMother.