"You two!" he cried; "why, Miggy, when we marry do I want--or do you want--that it should stay just you and me? We want children. I want you for their mother as much as I want you for my wife." It was the voice of the paramount, compelling spirit, the sovereign voice of the Family, calling through the wilderness. Peter knew,--this fine, vital boy seeking his own happiness; he gropingly understood this mighty thing, and he was trying his best to serve it. And, without knowing that she knew, Miggy knew too ... and the seal that she knew was in what was in the sunset. And as far removed from these things as the sunset itself was all Miggy's cheap cynicism about love and all the triviality of her criticism of Peter. Miggy stood motionless, looking at Peter. And then, like an evil spell which began to work, another presence was in the room.... Somewhile before I had begun to hear the sound, as a faint undercurrent to consciousness; an unimportant, unpleasant, insisting sound that somehow interfered. Gradually it had come nearer and had interfered more and had mingled harshly with the tender treble of Little Child. Now, from Peter's gate the sound besieged my ears and entered the room and explained itself to us all-- "My Mary Anna Mary, what you mean I _never_ know, You don't make me merry, very, but you make me sorry, oh--" the "oh" prolonged, undulatory, exploring the air.... I knew what it was, and they knew. At the sound of his father's voice, drunken, piteous, Peter dropped Miggy's hands and his head went down and he stood silent, like a smitten thing. My own heart sank, for I knew what Miggy had felt, and I thought I knew what she would feel now. So here was another unfulfilled intention, another plan gone astray in an unperfected order. Peter had turned somewhat away before he spoke. "I'll have to go now," he said quietly, "I guess you'll excuse me." He went toward the kitchen door ashamed, miserable, all the brightness and vitality gone from him. I am sorry that he did not see Miggy's face when she lifted it. I saw it, and I could have sung as I looked. Not for Peter or for Miggy, but for the sake of something greater than they, something that touched her hand, commanded "Look at me," bade her follow with us all. Before Peter reached the door she overtook him, stood before him, put her hands together for a moment, and then laid one swiftly on his cheek. "Peter," she said, "that don't make any difference. That don't make any difference." No doubt he understood her words, but I think what he understood best was her hand on his cheek. He caught her shoulders and looked and looked.... "Honest--honest, don't it?" he searched her. You would not have said that her answer to that was wholly direct. She only let fall her hand from his cheek to his shoulder, and, "Peter," she said, "_is it like this_?" "Yes," he said simply, "it's like this."