“You’re spoiled,” said Peter, sternly, not hard-heartedly precisely, but with a sense of obligation to make the most of this opportunity. “I’ve said all along you were dreadfully spoiled, and you are. You’re getting worse, Anne, and this was pretty bad. It won’t hurt you to do penance.” “All right, Peter-two,” said little Anne, swallowing her rising sobs. “Wha--what’ll I do?” “Oh, I don’t care what you do! Think of the harm you’ve done. Go sit in a tree, or stand in the river. I don’t care what you do! I’m sick of the whole business, and I’m going to get some gingerbread and study. Go on and let me alone.” Little Anne looked at him with mournful dark eyes; the hollows which so quickly showed below them deep and dark. “Before I go, Peter-two,” she said, softly, “won’t you please, please kiss me and tell me you’ll forgive me by and by, after my penance?” “Anne, I’ve told you not to bother me!” Peter spoke in a sternly parental tone. “Certainly I shall not kiss you; why should I, when you’ve put me in such a position? I will decide about forgiving you when I see whether or not you mean to behave yourself in the future.” Feeling that he had dealt with little Anne in a manner that was for her welfare, and regretting that his mother could not see this object lessen in the proper way to discipline her, Peter left the room and little Anne’s stricken face to go after gingerbread, in the consumption of which his adult manner was lost. He was in his room when his mother returned. She called him to ask if he knew where Anne was. He did not. He had been too busy to think about her, he said, appearing at the head of the stairs. He further guessed she was around. But she was not. Bibiana, the waitress, had not seen her since she gave her lunch. She admitted having thought that the child was not so hungry as she might have been. Mrs. Berkley telephoned the mother of Monica, little Anne’s favourite playmate, but Anne was not with Monica. She called up other houses, but there was no news of the child. Peter, listening to the telephoning with his bedroom door open, began to feel an uneasiness which he did not intend to betray to his mother. It was uncomfortable not to know where Anne was, remembering how sternly he had disciplined her for her confessed and repented fault, had refused to forgive her immediately or to seal the forgiveness with the kiss that she had implored. Peter sauntered downstairs with a manner exaggeratedly casual, his cap on the back of his head. “Oh, don’t go away, Peter!” cried his mother. “I am beginning to feel uneasy about Anne.” “Oh, Anne’s all right!” Peter assured her. “I won’t be long. I thought maybe I’d make her hurry home; I thought you were getting worried by the way you were telephoning all over. I’ll tell her to hurry in and not worry you.” “Oh, Peter, it sounds as though you did know where she was!” cried Mrs. Berkley.