“It must 'a been the snow reflected in the winder,” said Grace. “Cur'ous, 'ow the snow deceives yer!--But oh, Master Peter, I never thought this h'of yer. I reelly didn't.” “Until to-night I never thought it of myself,” said Peter a little sadly. “Ah!” sighed Grace's policeman. But to himself he thought, “More in this than meets the h'eye. I'll be danged if there aren't.” CHAPTER XXII--CAT'S MEAT LOOKS ROUND Peter kept awake for his parents' home-coming. Long before the cab drew up he heard the jingle of the horse's harness and was out of bed. The key grated in the front door; in the silence it sounded to Peter as though the old house cleared its throat, getting ready to tell. Leaning out across the banisters with bare feet shivering against the cold linoleum, he lost little of what was said. Grace met his father and mother in the hall. “Why, Grace, you ought to have been asleep two hours. I thought I told you not to wait up for us.” “And you did, mam. So you did. But after the disturbance that we've 'ad----” Her voice sank to a mumbling monotone. Then his father spoke. “I never heard anything more absurd.--Can't be away for a single evening without a stupid affair like this happening. Lights in the stable, indeed! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. And you a grown woman! I wonder what next!” Grace was boo-hooing. “H'I'll never do it again. I did think I saw 'em. No one'll know abart it. Mr. Somp won't tell.” “Oh, go upstairs. The children'll be frightened for months now.” Peter heard Grace come up to bed sobbing. Where would his wrong-doing end? Romance had had a broom thrown at her; Grace had received a scolding. The injustice was spreading. He examined the stain on his heart in much the same way that Lady Macbeth looked at the stain on her hands. Would it ever be clean again? “Never,” he told himself in his desperation, “never.” As he turned to go back to his room he was alarmed by the sudden scurry of naked feet. A flash of white disappeared round the corner and a mattress creaked. Glory had been watching. When his mother bent over him that night he told another lie--he feigned that he slept. As her fluffy hair touched his cheek he longed to drag her down to him and tell her all. She would stretch herself beside him in the darkness, holding him tightly, as she had done so often when he had had something to confess. He denied himself the luxury.--That night as he lay awake and listened, the angel in the cupboard whistled very softly, very distantly, as though she were carrying Kay far away from him. When he had offered his uncle a change of lodging, his uncle had said, “Depends on the family.” Peter had only one family to suggest; he didn't at all know whether the family would accept Uncle Waffles. Gentlemen for whom the law is searching are not popular as guests.