“It's a friend of mine,” Norah Monogue said, “Come in and be introduced, Peter.” “It's only,” Peter explained, “that young Robin has got his head stuck in the banisters and I want some one to help me--” Between them they pulled the boy through to safety. He chuckled. “I'll do it again,” he said. “I'd rather you didn't,” said Peter. “Then I won't,” said Robin. “I did it 'cause Rupert said I couldn't--Rupert's silly ass.” “You mustn't call your brother names or I won't come and see you in bed.” “You will come?” said Robin, very earnestly. “I will,” said Peter, “to-night, if you don't call your brother names.” “I think,” said Robin, reflectively, “that now I will hunt for the lion and the tigers on the stairs--” “Bring him into my room until his bedtime,” said Miss Monogue, laughing. “It's safer. Mrs. Tressiter is busy and has quite enough children in with her already.” So Peter brought Robin into Miss Norah Monogue's room and was introduced, at once, to Clare Elizabeth Rossiter--so easily and simply do the furious events of life occur. She was standing with her back to the window, and the light from Miss Monogue's candles fell on her black dress and her red-gold hair. As he came towards her he knew at once that she was the little girl who had talked to him on a hill-top one Good Friday afternoon. He could almost hear her now as she spoke to Crumpet--the candle-light glow was dim and sacred in the foggy room; the colour of her hair was filled more wonderfully with light and fire. Her hands were so delicate and fine as they moved against her black dress that they seemed to have some harmony of their own like a piece of music or a running stream. She wore blue feathers in her black hat. She did not know him at all when he came forward, but she smiled down at Robin, who was clinging on to Peter's trousers. “This is a friend of mine, Mr. Westcott,” Miss Monogue said. She turned gravely and met him. They shook hands and then she sat down; suddenly she bent down and took Robin into her lap. He sat there sucking his thumb, and taking every now and again a sudden look at her hair and the light that the candles made on it, but he was very silent and quiet which was unlike him because he generally hated strangers. Peter sat down and was filled with embarrassment; his heart also was beating very quickly. “I have met you before,” he said suddenly. “You don't remember.” “No--I'm afraid--” “You had once, a great many years ago, a dog called Crumpet. Once in Cornwall ... one Good Friday, he tumbled into a lime-pit. A boy--” “Why, of course,” she broke in, “I remember you perfectly. Why of all the things! Norah, do you realise? Your friend and I have known each other for eight years. Isn't the world a small place! Why I remember perfectly now!”