So was it now with Peter. During many weeks he had been miserable, apprehensive, seeing an enemy in every wind. Now, behold, his adversary in the open. “This,” he might cry to that old man, down in Scaw House, “this is what you have been preparing for me, is it? At last you've shown me--well, I'll fight you.” Young Stephen was very ill. Peter was strangely assured that it was to be a bad business. Well, it rested with him, Peter, to pull the boy through. If he chose to put his back into it and give the kid some of his own vigour and strength then it was bound to be all right. Standing there in the dark, he stripped his mind naked; he flung from it every other thought, every other interest--his work, Clare, everything must go. Only Stephen mattered and Stephen should be pulled through. For an instant, a little cold trembling fear struck his heart. Supposing...? Then fiercely, flinging the thought from him he trampled it down. He went to the telephone and called up a doctor who lived in Cheyne Walk. The man could be with him in a quarter of an hour. Then he went back into the nursery. Mrs. Kant was there. “I've sent for Dr. Mitchell.” “Very well, sir.” “He'll be here in quarter of an hour.” “Very well, sir.” He hated the woman. He would like to take her thin, bony neck and wring it. He went over to the cot and looked down. The little body outlined under the clothes was so helpless, the little hands, clenched now, were so tiny; he was breathing very fast and little sounds came from between his teeth, little struggling cries. Peter saw that moment when Stephen the Elder had held Stephen the younger aloft in his arms. The Gods appear to us only when we claim to challenge their exultation. They had been challenged at that moment.... Young Stephen against the Gods! Surely an unequal contest! II Dr. Mitchell came and instantly the struggle was at its height. Appendicitis. As they stood over the cot the boy awoke and began to cry a little, turned his head from side to side as though to avoid the light, beating with his hands on the counterpane. “I must send for a nurse at once,” Dr. Mitchell said. “Everything is in your hands,” Peter answered. “You'd better go down and have something to eat.” The little cry came trembling and pitiful, driving straight into Peter's heart. “Temperature 105--pretty bad.” Mitchell, who was a stout, short man with red cheeks, grey eyes and the air of an amiable Robin, was transformed now into something sharp, alert, official. Peter caught his arm-- “It's all right?... you don't think--?” The man turned and looked at him with eyes so kind that Peter trembled. “Look here, we've got to fight it, Westcott. I ought to have been called hours ago. But keep your head and we'll pull the child through.... Better go down and have something to eat. You'll need it.” Outside the door Peter faced a trembling Mrs. Kant. “Look here, you lied just now. You never took the boy's temperature.” “Well, sir--”