Peter, late for school, came up for inspection with a swollen lip and an eye which became more remarkable as time went on. But pain this morning meant as little to Peter as reproof. He was unable to take things seriously. He felt curiously above them. Home at midday he avoided his family. He felt a necessity to be alone, to dream and to exult over something that had neither shape nor name. He went into a secret passage. This secret passage was intimately bound up with his life of adventure. The gardens of Peter's road met at the bottom the gardens of a parallel highway. The two rows were parted by a line of trees and a wall. On the farther side of the wall a thick hedge, planted a few feet from the foot of the wall, had been trained to meet it overhead. After many years it formed a natural green tunnel between the gardens. This tunnel, cleared of dead shoots and leaves, was large enough for Peter and Miranda to crawl from end to end of the wall's foot, and gave them access, after pioneering, to the trees which rose regularly from the midst of the hedge. Peter to-day climbed into the secret passage, not for adventure but to be alone. The old life seemed very remote. Could he really have believed that the tree against which he leaned was a fortress that had cost him ten thousand men? A humble bee bustled into the shade and fell, overloaded with pollen. Peter watched it closely. Already he found himself seeing little things--their beauty and a vague impulse in himself to express it. Peter's indifference to the impertinent call of the things of yesterday was quite wonderful. "Hullo!" said Mr. Paragon at dinner, "you've been fighting." "Yes, father," said Peter. "Goodness gracious!" Mrs. Paragon exclaimed. "Look at Peter's face!" "Yes, mother," said Peter. "Tell us about it, my boy," twinkled Mr. Paragon. "There's nothing to tell, father." "Was he a big boy?" Mr. Paragon asked. "Middling." "Did you beat him?" "No, father." "Did he beat you?" "No, father." Mr. Paragon looked at Peter with misgiving. "Mary," said Mr. Paragon in the late evening, "Peter's growing up." They were sitting together in the garden, Mr. Paragon smoking a pipe after supper. It was warm and quiet, with occasional light noises from the wood and the near houses. It was Mr. Paragon's moment of peace--a time for minor meditations, softened by the stars and the flowers, equally his by right of conquest. Mrs. Paragon sighed. She divined a coming rift between herself and Peter. "He is very young," she protested. "He was always older than his years," said Mr. Paragon; and, after a silence, he added: "Don't lose touch with the boy, Mary. We have got to help him over these discoveries. Life's too fine to be picked up anyhow." "It's not easy to keep with the young. There's so much to understand." Mrs. Paragon said this a little sadly, and Mr. Paragon felt bound to comfort her. "Peter's a good boy," he said.