So Peter showed Miggy his room, and he showed it to me, too, though I do not think that he was conscious of that. It was a big room, bare of floor and, save for the inescapable flowery calendar, bare of walls. There was a shelf of books--not many, but according to Peter's nature sufficiently well-selected to plead for him: "Look at us. Who could love us and not be worth while?"--bad enough logic, in all conscience, to please any lover. Miggy hardly looked at the books. She so exasperatingly took it for granted that a man must be everything in general that it left hardly anything for him to be in particular. But Peter made her look, and he let me look too, and I supplied the comments and Miggy occasionally did her three little nods. The writing table Peter had made from a box, and by this Miggy was equally untouched. All men, it appeared, should be able to make writing tables from boxes. With the linen table cover it was a little different--this Peter's mother had once worked in cross-stitch for his room, and Miggy lifted an end and looked at it. "She took all those stitches for you!" she said. "There's one broken," she showed him. "I can mend that," Peter said proudly, "I'll show you my needle kit." At this she laughed out suddenly with, "_Needle kit!_ What a real regular old bachelor you are, aren't you?" "I can't help that," said Peter, with "and the same cannot be said for you" sticking from the sentence. On the table lay the cannery account books, and one was open at a full page of weary little figures. "Is this where you sit nights and do your work and read?" Miggy demanded. "Right here," Peter told her, "every night of the year, 'most. Except when I come to see you." Miggy stood looking at the table and the wooden chair. "That's funny," she remarked finally, with an air of meditative surprise; "they know you so much better than I do, don't they?" "Well," Peter said gravely, "they haven't been thought about as much as you have, Miggy--that's one thing." "Thinking's nothing," said Miggy, merrily; "sometimes you get a tune in your head and you can't get it out." "Sit down at the table," said Peter, abruptly. "Sit down!" he repeated, when her look questioned him. "I want to see you there." She obeyed him, laughing a little, and quite in the woman's way of pretending that obedience is a choice. Peter looked at her. It is true that he had been doing nothing else all the while, but now that she sat at the table--his table--he looked more than before. "Well," he said, "well, well." As a man says when he has a present and has no idea what to say about it. Peter's photographs were on the wall above the table, and Peter suddenly leaned past Miggy and took down the picture of his mother and put it in her hand, without saying anything. For the first time Miggy met his eyes. "Your mother," she said, "why, Peter. She looked--oh, Peter, she looked like you!" Peter nodded. "Yes, I do look like she did," he said; "I'm always so glad."