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