And so they did. On fine days when they were tired of playing, they climbed the ladder to rest on the heaps of yellow straw; on wet days they lay and told each other stories, or built caves, or read their old favourite books over again. The stack was a very high one, and the roof seemed like a sort of big tent above their heads, and the barn floor a wonderful, exaggeratedly long distance below. The birds which had nests on the rafters became accustomed to them, and one of the children's chief entertainments was to lie and watch the mothers and fathers carry on their domestic arrangements, feeding their young ones, and quarrelling a little sometimes about the way to bring them up. The twins invented a weird little cry with which they called each other if one was in the Straw Parlour and the other one entered the barn, to find out whether it was occupied or not. They never mounted to the Straw Parlour or descended from it if anyone was within sight. This was their secret. They wanted to feel that it was very high and far away from Aunt Matilda's world, and if anyone had known where they were, or had spoken to them from below, the charm would have been broken.
This afternoon, as Meg pored over her book, she was waiting for Robin. He had been away all day. At
