Something was thrown. There was a loud me-ow. Romance, followed by Sir Walter Scott, followed by Cookie, fled upstairs. Peter was pained that others should be blamed--even though they were only cats--for his wrongdoing. Anything like injustice hurt him. And Romance knew that he was the thief! How could he ever face her again, and how could she ever love him? If a cat could steal a cushion and cut ham, she could also take a coat. Would they blame her for that? He was in his bedroom, finishing the postponed odds and ends of his dressing, when Kay called him. He pretended not to hear her. At last he had to answer, “Coming.” He went to her shame-faced, like a guest without a wedding-garment: he had no present. She was kneeling up in bed in her white night-gown. The gas was lit and the floor was strewn with paper from unwrapping her discoveries. “Merry Christmas, Peterkins. Oh, come and look! This is what Grandpa sent me from Cassingland. And this is what Aunt Jehane gave me. And this---- But why didn't you come sooner? I've been calling and calling.” Peter hung his head. Glory was looking at him. Was it just wonder in her eyes or a question? Had she guessed? Would everybody guess? “I didn't come, Kitten Kay, because I haven't anything for you.” She gazed at him incredulously. Her face fell with disappointment. “But the cab, Peter? The Christmas cab!” “There was nothing in it. I've not got anything for anybody.” She couldn't understand it; he could see that. She was saying to herself, “Did Peter forget me?” But her face brightened bravely. “I've something for you.” “I couldn't take it, Kay. No, really.” He was nearly crying with mortification. “I've nothing for you, little Kay; and, yet, I love you better than anyone in all the world.” She held out her arms to him with the divine magnanimity of childhood. “Dear, dear Peter. Softy me. It'll do just as well.” He returned to his room while she dressed. He sat on the edge of his bed with the gas unlighted. He did not open the parcels which his father and mother had left. He did not deserve them. He had nothing to give in exchange. He would be ashamed to look them in the face at breakfast--especially to meet Riska, who was certain to show what she thought of his meanness. In the darkness he reflected how wise he had been to give that money to Uncle Waffles before the temptation commenced. Kay entered. “Coming downstairs?” He took her hand. She pressed his and laughed up at him, trying to make him smile back. It was their custom to go to their parents' bedroom first thing on Christmas morning. Outside the door Peter hung back, but Kay dragged him forward. Billy sat up, throwing back the counterpane, pretending to be terribly excited at the thought of what they had brought him. Kay held up a parcel. “What is it?” he asked. “Let me have it. What is it?” “Guess. Father's got to guess, hasn't he, mother?” “A fishing-rod?”