"Why, Robbie's mother, of course. She isn't our mother, an' I'm not going to call her mother; I shall call her 'she.' You can call her what you like. Why does she pretend to be our mother when she isn't? It's different with granny, 'cos she's our granny right enough. Didn't I hear her say 'Meg 'ud rue it?' It's a shame to have made a secret of it."
Duncan had been turning it over in his poor little mind. He formed ideas very slowly, but there was often more sense in them when formed than in the quick conclusions of cleverer children.
"But if Uncle Grosvenor is our father, Elsie, why don't we live with him? He never's been to see us, never. He'd be sure to know Aunt Nannie was our mother, and not—you know—'she.'"
"I believe," said Elsie, in a mysterious voice, "that 'R. Grosvenor' thinks we're dead."
"Oh, Elsie! but we aren't at all," gasped Duncan.
"No, I shouldn't, think so. Doesn't the letter say they are weak and delicate (what a beautiful letter it is, Duncan. I'm sure R. Grosvenor is a grand gentleman), and 'bring them up with your own and as your own for a year or two?' That was till we got strong; and she's kept us always. Of course R. Grosvenor (I'm not going to say uncle), doesn't know that we're quite well now. I'm sure he thinks we're dead. Who does 'your own' mean but Robbie. Oh, how dull you are, Duncan! Can't you see now why she pets that boy so, and makes such a fuss over him? He's her own, and we're not; she loves him and doesn't love us. Did she ever beat Robbie?"
"Robbie isn't naughty," Duncan protested; "at least, only a very little sometimes."
Elsie uttered an impatient exclamation. "Does Robbie have to fetch milk, and go to school, and pick up wood? No; he's treated different. Now you know why I don't like her."
Duncan gave vent to a sigh of perplexity. There rose up in his mind a sort of uncomfortable feeling that everything was going topsy-turvy. Somehow or another he seemed to see Robbie's mother sitting by the side of Elsie's bed when she had the fever last winter, and bustling about to get nice things for her, hushing the others with a strange look in her eyes that made them quiet at once, for they could see she was troubled. Or he seemed to smell the grateful smell of the hot cakes waiting, crisp and tempting, before the big cheerful fire, to greet them on their return from afternoon school on a dreary winter day. She had been kind, though she was so strict, especially to Elsie, and Duncan was feeling something very much like sorrow to think that, after all, she was not their mother.
"What are you going to do, Elsie?" he asked presently.