little girl doing the chores, so that her father might not have them
to do when he came home. It was so mean that it would not even go
round Mary Wood, aged eleven, and small for her age--it went straight
through her and chattered her teeth and blued her hands, and would
have frozen her nose if she had not at intervals put her little hand
over it.

But in spite of the wind, the chores were done at last, and Mary came
back to the house. Mary's mother was always waiting to open the door
and shut it quick again, but to-night, when Mary reached the door she
had to open it herself, for her mother had gone to bed.

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