In the high spirits that surrounded him Peter was very miserable. He was wondering whether Uncle Waffles had hurt himself when he tumbled into the yard from the top of the doors. He was wondering whether such a timid climber had been able to find his way into the loft. He was wondering how he could help him to escape to safety. Mr. Grace might not be willing to assist a second time; he had said that Uncle Waffles “weren't worf it.” But he was; _he was_. Wild plans were forming in Peter's brain. Would it be possible to put his uncle on the tandem tricycle and ride off in the night undetected? Would it be possible to----? And then there was another thought. Ever since he was quite a tiny boy he had had a secret dread of the loft after nightfall--a fear which he knew Kay shared. It was all right in the day when the sun was shining; there was nothing to be afraid of then. But his strong imagination made him suspect that the loft was used by tramps, hungry, fierce-eyed tramps, when darkness fell--tramps who climbed over the wall, just as Uncle Waffles had done. If that should be true and one of them should find his uncle there----. Peter shuddered. “Peter, little man, you've been getting too excited,” his father said; “we don't want you ill to-morrow. Don't you think you'd better go to bed?” And Peter was glad of the excuse to get away to where no one would observe him. He felt an outlaw. He had taken sides against his father and his family. He wasn't at all sure that he hadn't committed a criminal offence; the police, if they knew, might lay their hands on him and lock him up with Uncle Waffles. What would Kay think of her brother then? In the darkness of his room he lay awake, listening to footsteps in the downstairs part of the house. The servants came up and the gas on the landing was lowered to a jet. Then he heard the rustling of paper, and his mother and father whispering together. “That's for Glory.” “It won't go into her stocking.” “Oh, yes, it will at a stretch.” “And who's this for?” “That's for Peter, old silly; go and lay it on his bed.” Through half-closed eyes Peter saw his father enter, straight and tall, with his cropped hair and direct way of walking, so much like a soldier-man. He came on tiptoe, trying to be stealthy; but he stumbled against a chair. Nan came hurrying noiselessly. “Oh Billy, darling, you're a rotten Santa Claus. Have you wakened him now?” They listened. When Peter did not stir, his father whispered, “It's all right, kiddy; the little chap sleeps soundly. By Jove, he's not hung up his stocking!” They examined the end of the bed. Then his mother spoke. “No, he hasn't. He couldn't have been feeling well. He's been worrying, I'm sure he has, all this last month.” “A boy of his age oughtn't to worry. What about?” Nan hesitated. “Our Peter's very compassionate---- He loved Ocky. I've looked through his eyes often lately; I'm sure he's condemning us.”