“You’re no nuisance; you never were, Joan,” said Peter, graciously. “If I thought Anne would ever grow up to be a little like you it sure would be a pleasant thought!” “Now never mind about little Anne,” interposed Mrs. Berkley, seeing little Anne getting ready for self-defence, at which she was only too adept. “She’s a loving little girl who tries to correct her faults, especially now.” Mrs. Berkley held up the thin white material on which she was sewing. “You see, Peter, dear, you are too near Anne’s age to remember how it feels to be that age; we understand it better from our greater distance. But you are the best lad in the world, Peter the Second, just as Anne is the dearest little girl.” Mrs. Berkley, having contrived to suggest to Peter his extreme youth, proceeded to rejoice the heart which adored her by beaming on him affectionately that his vanity might not be too deeply wounded. As Kit looked on and listened to this talk the disturbance of mind with which he had set out faded away. They were not saying wise things that could be quoted; they were not doing great deeds, unless it were both wise and great thus to correct, guide, make happy. Kit felt that it was. He was not an analyst; he instinctively felt much that he could not formulate in words; he possessed a code for his own guidance that he would have found difficult to write out for another. Now he began to see by the steady light of inward vision recent events cast upon the screen in their true proportions, the unconscious goodness of this simple family, the standard by which he measured them. “I’ve some money that my mother left me,” he said, aloud, as unexpectedly to himself as to his audience. Mrs. Berkley looked up, trying to mask her surprise. “Have you, Kit? That’s nice, though it is not likely that you’ll need more than the Carrington inheritance,” she said, in her motherly way. “I didn’t mean to inflict upon you an item of such limited interest,” said Kit. “I didn’t know I was going to say that; I thought aloud. You know, Mrs. Berkley, that Aunt Anne loves me in a way that may easily unlove me if I ever displease her.” “Well put, Kit,” said Mrs. Berkley. “But do you think you are likely to displease her? I’d be sorry to have you, not only for your own sake, but because Miss Carrington is such a piteous, denuded person. It is ghastly to think of her bleak horizon!” “I don’t suppose many people pity Miss Anne Carrington,” said Kit. “But you are right; she is denuded, with a bleak outlook. I don’t know whether or not I’ll ever displease her, nor how hard it would hit her if I did; I mean how much she’d resent what I wouldn’t do. But a fellow can’t go too far, from a sense of duty.” “Don’t you mean that a fellow can’t go too far, from a _mistaken_ sense of duty, but must go all the way for the sake of actual duty?” suggested Mrs. Berkley. “You are mysterious, Kit, but we’ll always be glad if you come to us when you want to thresh out your bothers.”