During breakfast, despite frowns from Barrington, all Aunt Jehane's conversation had to do with the shock she had suffered by reason of Grace's folly. When Barrington banged his cup in his saucer, she lost her temper. “Well, I don't see why I shouldn't talk about it. I had to put up with the worry of it.” “My good Jehane, haven't you any sense? You can say anything you like, except before the children.” “Goodness!” Jehane replied pettishly. “The children were here and saw it.” Peter slipped out. Through the white snow-strewn fields he hurried and through Topbury Park where the snow was trodden black, till he came to a quiet street and a tall house with stone steps leading up to it. Miss Madge, the fat and jolly Miss Jacobite, answered his knock. “What a long face for a little boy to wear!” “If you please, I'd like to speak to Miss Florence.” Miss Florence was the sister who was tall and reserved; she managed everything and everybody. “Won't I do, Peter? She's busy at present.” “Please, I've got to speak to her.” Miss Madge ruffled his hair--she had seen his mother do that. “What a strange little boy you are this morning! You look almost stern.” She wanted to show him into the faded dining-room where a meager fire was burning; but he said that he preferred to wait in the hall. She looked back and laughed at him as she mounted the stairs. He did not reply to her friendliness. Then she ran; he had some trouble which he would not tell her. He stood there on the mat twisting his cap. From the varnished paper on the wall a portrait of old Mr. Jacobite looked fiercely down. It seemed to say to him, “Little coward, coming to a pack of women! Learn to bear your own burdens.” But where else could he go? Even if other friends were willing to help him, they kept servants and had people in and out of their houses. At the Misses Jacobite, provided he kept away from the windows, Uncle Waffles might hide for a twelve-month and never be caught. Eerily, from the second floor, came the sound of Miss Leah singing. Her song never varied and never quite came to an end. Peter could picture how she sat staring straight before her through her red-rimmed eyes, her empty hands folded in her lap. “On the other side of Jordan In the sweet fields of Eden Where the Tree of Life is growing There is rest for me.” It almost made him cry to hear her. He was beginning to know just a little of that need for rest. A door opened. The singing came out. To his astonishment Peter saw Miss Leah approaching. Up to now she had never left her room to his knowledge. She beckoned. Then she spoke in that hoarse voice of hers. “I heard her tell Florence that you're in trouble. You're too young to know sorrow. That comes surely. But for you not yet.”