‘Lor’, Mr. Peter, this be terrible fine!’ said Patty, quite overawed. Mr. Peter sniffed, and affected great unconsciousness. ‘Walk quiet, if you please,’ he said, ‘and on the carpet, missie; these floors do mark very easy with boot-marks.’ He opened a door very cautiously, and looked into a large fire-lit room. It was very still. ‘’Ere’s a visitor for you, Master Phil,’ said Mr. Peter, stepping on tiptoe towards a huge canopied bed which occupied the side of the room and faced the fire. With a sign to Carrie to follow him, Mr. Peter drew back one of the satin curtains, and then, followed by Patty, tiptoed away again into the adjoining room. Carrie crept up to the side of the bed and peered into its tent-like depths. There lay Phil, propped up with pillows, white and thin, his shining restless eyes moving ceaselessly round him. ‘Well,’ said Carrie, after the unemotional manner of children. ‘Hullo!’ said Phil. He started up in bed, and then fell back against the pillows with a cry. Carrie was tremendously impressed by all she saw around her:—the size and grandeur of the room, the satin hangings of the bed, embroidered all over with crests and coats of arms, the silk coverlet under which Phil reposed, the solemn quiet of the room, and the weird whiteness of her little companion’s face. It was all indelibly stamped upon her memory in a moment, a scene never to be forgotten. She laid her little hand on the stiff silk cover and found nothing to say. ‘Oh, I’m glad to see you, Carrie,’ said Phil then, who was never at a loss for words. He tossed his head restlessly about as he spoke. ‘They do not let me play, or anything, since I have been ill.’ ‘Do you hurt much?’ asked Carrie, to whom pain was an unknown mystery and dignity. ‘Yes, my hands hurt most terribly; see, each finger is tied up by itself in a little bag—that is why I cannot play with anything.’ ‘Shall I whistle to you?’ asked Carrie, struck by a sudden inspiration. ‘A friend of my father’s has taught me to whistle, and he says I do it to admiration.’ She jumped on to the edge of the bed, flung back her head, and whistled off a gay little roulade. Phil laughed delightedly. ‘O do that again; you look like the poodles I saw in Paris. They threw back their heads and howled in a chorus,’ he cried. ‘Well, you pretend you are the other poodle,’ said Carrie; ‘I find it difficult whistling alone. Mr. Tillet, who teaches me, always whistles with me.’ ‘Who’s Tillet?’ asked Phil. ‘He’s a soldier—a man my father knows.’ ‘A soldier! oh, I suppose he will be a general—they are all generals,’ said Phil. ‘I think he is a bugler—is that the same?—something, I suppose; they all fight.’ ‘Well, never mind; do it again, Carrie, ’tis such fun to see you.’