"She knew you when you were a little bit of a baby, Peter," Miggy advanced suddenly. Peter admitted it gravely. She had. "Well," said Miggy, as Peter had said it. "Well." There was a picture of Peter's father as a young man,--black, curly-haired, black-moustached, the cheeks slightly tinted in the picture, his hands laid trimly along his knees. The face was weak, empty, but it held that mere confidence of youth which always gives a special sting to the grief of unfulfilment. Over this they passed, saying nothing. It struck me that in the delicacy of that silence it was almost as if Miggy shared something with Peter. Also, it struck me pleasantly that Miggy's indifference to the personalities of divers aunts in straight bangs and long basques was slightly exaggerated, especially when, "I never thought about your having any aunts," she observed. And then Peter took down a tiny picture of the sort we call in the village "card size," and gave it to her. "Guess who," he said. It was a little boy of not more than five, in a straight black coat dress, buttoned in the front and trimmed with broad black velvet strips, and having a white scalloped collar and white cuffs. One hand was resting on the back of a camp-chair and the other held a black helmet cap. The shoes had double rows of buttons, and for some secret reason the photographer had had the child laboriously cross one foot negligently over the other. The fine head, light-curled, was resting in the horns of that ex-device that steadied one out of all semblance to self. But in spite of the man who had made the picture, the little boy was so wholly adorable that you wanted to say so. "Peter!" Miggy said, "It's _you_." I do not know how she knew. I think that I would not have known. But Miggy knew, and her knowing made me understand something which evidently she herself did not understand. For she looked at the picture and looked at it, a strange, surprised smile on her face. And, "Well, well, _well_," she said again. "I never thought about that before. I mean about you. _Then._" "Would--would you want that picture, Miggy?" Peter asked; "you can have it if you do." "Can I really?" said Miggy. "Well, I do want it. Goodness...." "I always kind of thought," Peter said slowly, "that when I have a son he'll look something like that. He might, you know." Peter was leaning beside her, elbows on the table, and Miggy looked up at him over the picture of the child, and made her three little nods. "Yes," she said, "you would want your little boy to look like you." "And I'd want him named Peter. It's a homely old name, but I'd want him to have it." "Peter isn't a homely name," said Miggy, in a manner of surprise. "Yes, of course you'd want him--"