There are others, again, to whom the day of growing-up never comes at all. They are the feeble folk, perpetually asking Why, and never finding out. Still, they always have to-morrow to look forward to, in which they are more fortunate than some. Meanwhile Miss Marguerite Falconer was explaining to the untutored Philip that it is possible for grown-up people to suffer disappointment in two departments of life,--the only two, she might have added, that really matter at all,--Love and Work. "How was your father disappointed, exactly?" asked Philip. "He painted a big picture," said Peggy. "He was at it for years and years, though he was doing a lot of other ones at the same time. He called the other ones 'wolf-scarers,' because he said there was a wolf outside on the Heath that wanted to get in and eat us, and these pictures would frighten _any_ wolf away. I used to be afraid of meeting the wolf on the Heath myself--" "You were quite small, then, of course," put in Philip quickly. Miss Falconer nodded, in acknowledgment of his tact, and continued:-- "--but Nurse and Mother said there wasn't any wolf really. It was a joke of Father's. He often makes jokes I don't understand. He is a funny man. And he didn't use the pictures to frighten the wolves with _really_: he sold them. But he never sold the big picture. He went on working at it and working at it for years and years. He began before I was born, and he only finished it a few years ago, so that just shows you how long he was. Whenever he had sold a wolf-scarer he used to get back to the big picture." "What sort of picture was it?" enquired Philip, deeply interested. "It was a very big picture," replied Peggy. "How big?" Peggy considered. "Bigger than this gate we are sitting on," she said at last. "It was called 'The Many-Headed.' Father sometimes called it 'Deemouse,' too,--or something like that." "What was it like?" Peggy's eyes grew quite round with impressiveness. "It was the _strangest_ thing," she said. "It was a great enormous giant, with heads, and heads, and heads! You never saw such a lot of heads." "I expect that was why it was called 'The Many-Headed,'" observed Philip sapiently. "What sort of heads were they?" "They were most of them very ugly," continued Peggy. "They were twisting about everywhere, and each one had its mouth wide open, shouting. Dad kept on putting new ones in. There always seemed to be room for one more. Like sticking roses in a bowl, you know, only these heads weren't like roses. After a Bank Holiday he nearly always had two or three fresh ones." "Why?" "He used to go out then on the Heath--to study the Canal, he said, and get fresh sketches." Philip, who was inclined to be a little superior on the subject of London geography, announced firmly that there was no canal on Hampstead Heath. "Only in Regent's Park," he said. "Besides, why should he sketch a canal?" It was Peggy's turn to be superior.