'LET'S SIT QUIETLY IN THE OLD ARBOUR.'
'No, you just won't,' said Kathie. 'I'm not going to play. I know you are dying to hear what Neville came about, and I want to tell it to somebody, and you're the only person I can tell it to. So let's sit quietly in the old arbour—nobody will want us, and I'll tell you everything. You'll be sorry enough for me, Philippa, when you hear the first bit of it, even though it isn't nearly the worst. Just fancy'—by this time the two children were settled in the summer-house—'papa and mamma are not coming home this year, after all.'
Philippa's blue eyes opened very widely, and a look of consternation spread over her face.
'Your papa and mamma aren't coming home?' she repeated, as if she could not take in the sense of the words. 'Oh, Kathie!' and the corners of her mouth went down, and her eyelids began to quiver in a suspicious way.
'Now, Phil, no crying,' said Kathleen, sharply. 'If I don't cry for myself, I don't see that you need to do it for me.'
'I'm so—so dreadfully sorry for you,' said Philippa apologetically.
'Thank you. I knew you'd be. But though their not coming's a dreadful disappointment, there's worse than that. It isn't only that it's put off, Philippa: it's given up altogether. I don't hardly think they'll ever come home now. I believe they'll stay out there always, till I'm grown up, and then when I'm seventeen or so, I'll be sent out to them—to a father and mother I shan't know a bit. Isn't it horrid, Philippa?'
'But why is it? What's made them change so?' asked the little girl.