Old Walter had halted. He had arrived at the castle gate. There was a bog to the right of him, a bog to the left of him, a monster behind him and an impassable barrier almost at the end of his nose. Being an intelligent animal despite his environment, he halted. Peter did not shout for Maria. His thoughts were far away from home and family. Slowly he writhed and twisted down over the wheel of the buggy until he stood erect upon the ground. Then, taking hold of the horse's bridle, Grimes told him to back. Walter backed sufficiently to permit Grimes to pass between him and the high gate. Feeling in his pocket for the key Peter's hand again came against the parcel. This time he drew it forth. It was a light pasteboard box, not very securely wrapped and tied with ordinary cord. With one jerk of his huge thumb he broke the cord, then tore away the paper and opened the box. In it, lying among wrappings of tissue, was a doll. A baby doll with cherubic face, winning smile and arms and hands reaching upward as if pleading for some little mother to lift it up and snuggle it in her arms. But the sound that rumbled from the throat of Peter Grimes at sight of the dainty toy was not one of joyous appreciation. As a combination of snort and grunt any one of his ugly, forbidding looking hogs might have been proud of it. Taking the doll from its wrappings he held it in his hand and examined the card pinned to its white dress. "to my darling Amy, with love from her Mammy." The words were written by the same hand that had penned the letter containing the dollar bills. It reminded Peter that he had been interrupted before he had finished reading that letter. Crushing the doll under his arm, he pulled the missive from the pocket where he had stowed it, smoothed out the crumpled paper and read the few sentences scrawled across its surface. "Deer Mister Grimes, i send you this money. it is all i hev .. i hev been awful sick so i cudent pay like i giv you my word, when i git better i will send more. I know little Amy has growd. i wud like for to see her. i am glad she is at your farm whar things is good fer her. i pray God to take keer of her till i kin hev her agin, yours truly Ruthena Potts." Peter snorted again as he finished reading. This time the snort sounded more like a growl. He gnashed his teeth, crumpled the pathetic message in his fist and dropped it to the ground. Turning, his heel trod it into the earth. Then he took the doll from under his arm and surveyed it again. The smile on its face maddened him. The appealing little hands seemed to strike at his heart. Damn it! He wasn't going to have that thing on the premises. The living children were enough to have to face, without being haunted by something that looked like a dead one. He wanted to see a child run and scream, like a tortured mouse. This doll was passive, peaceful, trusting--bah! He hated it.