“Don't be silly, father. How could a fishing-rod be as small as that?” The guessing went on--such absurd guessing!--until the paper was torn off and a match-box was revealed. “And now, what's Peter brought me?” “Nothing, father. I haven't got anything for anybody. So, please, I don't think I ought to take any of your presents.” Billy looked at Nan; this explained the absence of the Christmas stocking. “But, old boy, what became of your money?” “I--I gave it away, father.” “Last night? To a beggar?” “Not--not exactly a beggar.” “But to someone who needed it badly?” “Yes, badly. I couldn't give it to--to them and buy presents as well.” Peter swallowed. He hated lies and would tell the truth at all costs. “And it wasn't last night. It was this morning.” His father regarded him gravely. “To someone in the house?” “Not exactly.” “I can't see how it can be both in the house and out of it. It must be exactly one or the other.” Silence. “You don't want to tell?” “I can't tell. But I want to so badly.” His mother leant out and caught his empty hands, pressing them to her mouth. What a strange little conscience this son of hers had. “I'm sure he did what seemed to him more generous. Now here's what mother's got for you.” “Darling motherkins, I do love you--all of you. But I mustn't take anything this Christmas.” “Nonsense,” said his father. “I mean it,” said Peter proudly. At breakfast the thing happened which Peter had expected. Riska was too outspoken. Eustace had asked her a question in a whisper. She replied, so everyone might hear her, with mocking eyes slanted at Peter, “Because he spent it all last night in driving about in cabs.” There was another shock when his father remarked that the milk was rather thin this morning. When they walked down the Terrace on the way to the Christmas service, they passed the lean man. He was watching: he was there when they came back. Billy noticed that his little son was furtive and restless; he was always going to the window, when no one seemed to be looking, and peeping out into the garden. When the coat was found missing and word was brought of Cookie's lost cushion, he noticed that Peter got red. He called him aside that evening. “What is it? Can't you trust me? Can't you tell me, little Peter?” How he longed to tell. But he looked up with troubled eyes. “I can't even tell you, father.”