Bobbie made signs to her to stop, but Phyllis never did see signs, no matter how plain they might be.
Mother did not answer for a minute.

She got up to put more water in the teapot.
"No one," she said at last, "ever loved anyone more than my mother loved me." Then she was quiet again, and Bobbie kicked Phyllis hard under the table, because Bobbie understood a little bit the thoughts that were making Mother so quiet--the thoughts of the time when Mother was a little girl and was all the world to HER mother.

It seems so easy and natural to run to Mother when one is in trouble.

Bobbie understood a little how people do not leave off running to their mothers when they are in trouble even when they are grown up, and she thought she knew a little what it must be to be sad, and have no mother to run to any more.
So she kicked Phyllis, who said:-- "What are you kicking me like that for, Bob ?" And then Mother laughed a little and sighed and said:-- "Very well, then.

Only let me be sure you do know which way the trains come--and don't walk on the line near the tunnel or near corners." "Trains keep to the left like carriages," said Peter, "so if we keep to the right, we're bound to see them coming." "Very well," said Mother, and I dare say you think that she ought not to have said it.