As he was going, Uncle Waffles hesitated and called him back. “Could you manage to let me see Jehane and Glory? Couldn't you coax 'em into the garden? I'm longing for a sight of them. They'd never know I was watching.--It's an odd Christmas I'm going to have.” Peter had no idea that the time had flown so fast. As he passed up the garden, the sun was swinging above the house-tops like a smoky lantern. He could see the mold beneath the bushes, glistening and frosty, chapped and broken into little hollows and cracks. In one of the top bedrooms a light sprang up; it was Riska's--she must be examining her stocking. He had hoped to creep into the house undetected, but at the door he was met by Cookie. “So that's it, is h'it? There's no tellin' wot you'll be h'up to next. I was just goin' ter count the forks. I thought as we'd 'ad beargulars. Awright Grice, it's the young master been h'out for a h'early mornin's h'airing.” He ran past her, but she caught him. “Lor', yer cold, boy. Come and warm yerself. If you h'ate meat three times a day the same h'as I do yer wouldn't get blue like that.” Cookie's one claim to distinction, which she invariably introduced into conversation, was that she was a great meat-eater. It made her different from other people and, having no beauty with which to attract, afforded her a topic with which to draw attention to herself. “You need some 'ot chockerlit, that's wot yer want. Not but wot meat 'ad be better; but there, that's where h'I'm pecooliar. 'Never was such a gel for eatin' meat. Lor, 'ow yer runs my bills h'up!' that's wot my ma used to say abart me. She's dead, Gawd rest 'er bones.--Now, drink that h'up, yer little sinner. Thought h'it was summer, did yer? Went h'out to 'ear the pretty burds. I'm only pecooliar abart meat; but, the divil take me, if you ain't pecooliar all over.” Cookie sat down in her favorite chair; the cane burst under her. Her legs shot up and her arms waved wildly. “'Elp! 'Elp me, Master Peter. For good luck's sake!” Peter helped her. “H'it's a wonder I didn't break no bones. Bones is brittle this weather. But where's me cushion? If that cat's 'ad it----” Peter escaped and slipped into the cloak-room. Hidden behind the coats, he listened to Cookie stamping up and down, breathing threatening and slaughter against all cats--especially cats who stole cushions. In her search for the lost cushion she began to make discoveries. “Where's them sorsage-rolls? There was twenty. And 'oo's been cuttin' the 'am? She was allaws a wery honest cat. Can't understand it. Never knew a cat to cut 'am. Cats ain't us'ally fond o' h'apples--leastwise no cat I h'ever 'eard of.--Shish, yer warmint! Shish! Get along wi' yer.”