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up places and fall.”

    Early in the Spring, before the snow was all gone, he came one day to say that Madeleine had left. When he went home at night, the day before, she had been gone. He had thought she might be in Jubilee and he waited for her to come home. Then he noticed that several other things were gone too—a table lamp which he was planning to rewire, a nice little rug, some dishes and a blue teapot that had belonged to his mother and two perfectly good folding chairs. She had taken Diane too, of course.
    â€œIt must have been a truck she went off in, she couldn’t of put all that in a car.”
    Then my mother remembered that she had seen a panel truck, she thought it was grey, and it was going towards town, about three o’clock in the afternoon of the previous day. But she hadn’t been interested or noticed who was in it.
    â€œGrey panel truck! I bet you that was her! She could’ve put the stuff in the back. Did it have a canvas over it, did you see?”
    My mother had not noticed.
    â€œI got to go after her,” said Uncle Benny excitedly. “She can’t take off like that with what don’t belong to her. She’s always tellin’ me, get this junk out of here, clear this junk out of here! Well it doesn’t look so much like junk when she wants some herself. Only trouble is, how do I know where she went to? I better get in touch with that brother.”
    After seven o’clock, when the cheaper rates came on, my father put through the long distance call—on our phone, Uncle Benny didn’t have one—to Madeleine’s brother. Then he put Uncle Benny on the phone.
    â€œDid she go down to your place?” Uncle Benny shouted immediately. “She went off in a truck. She went off in a grey panel truck. Did she show up down there?” There seemed to be confusion at the other end of the line; perhaps Uncle Benny was shouting too loudly for anybody to hear. My father had to get on and explain patiently what had happened. It turned out that Madeleine had not gone to Kitchener. Her brother did not show a great deal of concern about where she had gone. He hung up without saying good-bye.
    My father started trying to persuade Uncle Benny that it was not such a bad thing to be rid of Madeleine, after all. He pointed out thatshe had not been a particularly good housekeeper and that she had not made Uncle Benny’s life exactly comfortable and serene. He did this in a diplomatic way, not forgetting he was talking about a man’s wife. He did not speak of her lack of beauty or slovenly clothes. As for the things she had taken— stolen, Uncle Benny said—well, that was too bad and a shame (my father knew enough not to suggest that these things were of no great value) but perhaps that was the price of getting rid of her, and in the long run Uncle Benny might consider that he had been lucky.
    â€œIt’s not that,” said my mother suddenly. “It’s the little girl. Diane.” Uncle Benny chuckled miserably.
    â€œHer mother beats her, doesn’t she?” cried my mother in a voice of sudden understanding and alarm. “That’s what it is. That’s how the bruises on her legs—”
    Once Uncle Benny had started chuckling he couldn’t stop, it was like hiccoughs.
    â€œWel ye-uh. Ye-uh she—”
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell us when she was here? Why didn’t you tell us away last winter? Why didn’t I think of it myself? If I’d known the truth I could have reported her—”
    Uncle Benny looked up startled.
    â€œReported her to the police! We could have brought charges. We could have had the child removed. What we have to do now, though, is put the police on her trail. They’ll find her. Never fear.”
    Uncle Benny did not look happy or relieved at this assurance. He said cannily, “How would they know where to look?”
    â€œThe provincial police, they’d