Peter had always adored his mother; but it wasn't until now that he realized how really wonderful she had been. How she had kept the roof over his head, and his stomach somehow satisfied, and had sent him to church and to school decently enough clad, Peter couldn't imagine. There was no possibility now of regular schooling. Nature hasn't provided as providently for the human grub as for the insect one. A human grub isn't born upon a food-plant that is a house as well, nor is nature his tailor and his shoemaker. Peter wasn't blood kin to anybody in Riverton, so there was no home open to him. He was deeply sensible of the genuine kindness extended to him in his dark hour, but he wouldn't, he couldn't, have gone permanently into any of their homes had he been asked to do so, which of course he wasn't. He clung to the little house on the big cove. His mother's presence lingered there and hallowed the place. There was some talk of sending him to an orphanage--he was barely twelve, and penniless. But when Mrs. Cooke, the minister's wife, mentioned it to Peter, gently enough, the boy turned upon her with flaming eyes, and said he wouldn't stay in any asylum; he'd run away, and keep on running away until he died! Mrs. Cooke looked troubled, and said that Mr. McMasters, a vestryman in the church, was really the head and front of that project. Peter went after Mr. McMasters, and found him in his grocery store--one of those long, dim country stores that sell everything from cradles to coffins. Mr. McMasters came from behind the counter, rubbing his hands. "Well, Peter, what can I do for _you_ this mawnin'?" he asked, jovially. He was that sort. "You can let me alone, please," said Peter, succinctly. "Eh? What's that?" The large man stared at the little man. "I said you can let me alone, please," said Peter, patiently. "I hear it's you doing most of the talking about sending me to an orphanage." "I try to do my duty as a man and a Christian," said the vestryman, piously. "You can't be allowed to run loose, Peter. 'T aint right. 'T ain't moral. 'T ain't Christian. You'll be better off in a good orphan-asylum, bein' taught what you'd ought to learn. That's the place for you, Peter!" "I want to stay in my own house," said Peter. "Shucks! You can't eat and wear a measly little house, can you? That's what I'm askin' the town right now. Sure you can't! The thing to do is to sell that place for what it'll fetch, sock the money in bank for you, and it'll be there--with _interest_--when you've grown up and aim to start in business for yourself. Yes, sir. That's my idea." "Mr. McMasters," said Peter, evenly, "I want you to know one thing sure and certain. If you send me to any orphan-asylum, I'll send _you_ to some place where you'll be better off, too, sir." "Meanin'?" Peter Champneys shot at the stout vestryman a glance like the thrust of a golden spear. "The cemetery, Mr. McMasters," said he, with the deadly South Carolina gentleness.