I'll give you another. I'm so glad you like the railway. Only, please, you mustn't walk on the line."
"Not if we face the way the train's coming?" asked Peter, after a gloomy pause, in which glances of despair were exchanged.
"No—really not," said Mother.
Then Phyllis said, "Mother, didn't you ever walk on the railway lines when you were little?"
Mother was an honest and honourable Mother, so she had to say, "Yes."
"Well, then," said Phyllis.
"But, darlings, you don't know how fond I am of you. What should I do if you got hurt?"
"Are you fonder of us than Granny was of you when you were little?" Phyllis asked. Bobbie made signs to her to stop, but Phyllis never did see signs, no matter how plain they might be.
Mother did not answer for a minute. She got up to put more water in the teapot.
"No one," she said at last, "ever loved any one more than my Mother loved me."
Then she was quiet again, and Roberta kicked Phyllis hard under the table, because Roberta understood a little bit the thoughts that were making Mother so quiet—the thoughts of the time
