“And then,” he said, “I came straight home to tell you. I don't suppose you'll want me to live here any longer. It wouldn't be good for Kay; I'm too wicked. I'm almost too bad for anybody. Kay--Kay'll never be able to love me any more.” They gazed at each other in silence. Barrington did not dare to trust himself to talk; he knew that his voice would be unsteady. He was frightened he would sink below Peter's standard and give way to crying. He had to keep his eyes quite still for fear the tears would fall. And he recalled the last confession that this room had heard--it was from Ocky. He compared it with Peter's. The minutes dragged on. Peter watched his father's face; he saw there the worst thing of all--sorrow. A coal falling in the grate took their attention for a moment from themselves. Barrington leant further forward. “What made you do it, Peter?” “I loved him.” “But what made you love him when you came to know all?” “Because nobody else loved him.” Peter caught his voice tripping on a sob and stopped. “But he made other people unhappy. Just think for a minute: Aunt Jehane's homeless and so are all your cousins.” “I know. But it seemed so dreadful for him to be lonely, wandering about--wandering about at Christmas.” “But wasn't it his own fault?” Peter bit his lip--he'd never thought of not loving people just because they'd done wrong. Things were all so tangled. He remembered Jesus and the dying thief on the cross. Surely that, too, was the thief's own fault? But he knew that people rarely quoted the Bible except on Sundays--so he just looked at his father and said nothing.--Again the minutes dragged on. There was a tap at the door. Glory entered shyly. “I'm going to bed, Uncle. May I kiss you and Peter goodnight?” Barrington nodded. “Come here, little girl; but first close the door.” As she stooped over him, he slipped his arm round her and drew her to his knee. “Peter isn't going to kiss you to-night. He thinks he isn't worthy.” “Peter not worthy!” She shook back the hair from her eyes and gazed from Peter to her uncle incredulously. “He doesn't think he's worthy to be loved by any of us. He expects he won't live here much longer.” “But why? Why?--Peter can't have done anything wicked.” “I'm going to ask him to tell you what he's done, just as he told me. And then I want you to say what you think of him.” It was hard to have to repeat his confession, but Peter did it. While he spoke, his father could feel how Glory's body stiffened and trembled. Sometimes her eyes were unexcited, as though she were listening to an old story. Sometimes they were like stars, fixed and glistening. When the end was reached, she bowed her head on her uncle's shoulder, shaken with deep sobbing. “Poor father! Oh, poor father!” As she grew quiet, Barrington turned her face toward his. “And that,” he said, “is why Peter thinks he isn't worthy. He's waiting, Glory. You've not told him yet what you think of him.”