On these short visits Kay and Peter saw hardly anything of Glory--she was doing the work. Just as they were going she would come out from the kitchen, untying her apron, or would pop her head out of a bedroom window to shake a duster and smile at them. Then, as the pedals began to turn, Riska would sing half-tauntingly, and Eustace and Moggs would join in with her pipingly: “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer true, I 'm half-crazy, all for the love of you. It won't be a stylish marriage, For I can't afford a carriage, But you'll look sweet-” The words would be lost as the tricycle lumbered into the sunshine between the hedges. Kay used to say, when she was very little, that the gladness went into her feet when she was happy. On these expeditions it went everywhere, into her feet, her eyes, her lips, her hands. She did the things that boys do, and yet she had the sweetness of a girl. She ran like a boy and she swam like a boy. She was a darling and a puzzle to Peter; he could never make her out. He was always trying to put her dearness into words and always failing. “Your voice is like the laughter of birds,” he said. “But why do you love me so much, Peter?” He slanted his eyes. “Because I borned you.” He knew better than that now. Sometimes they spoke of their cousins. “I did something horrid this morning.” “Don't believe it.” “Oh, but yes. I was brushing the dust off my shoes in the kitchen, and what do you think I found?” “Hurry up and tell me.” “That Glory hadn't had time to eat her breakfast and that some of the dust had gone into her plate of porridge.” “Oh, Peter! How careless! Did you tell her?” “She came in and saw it. You'd never guess what she said.--'Never mind, old boy. One's got to eat a peck o' dirt before one dies. So mother says.' And she took a spoon and-----” “And ate it?” Peter nodded, trying to look penitent, but laughing. Then Kay became grave-eyed and asked one of her questions. “But do you?” “Do you what?” “Have to eat a peck of dirt before you die?” Peter wriggled his toes in his shoes and looked down to see them moving. “Don't know. You and I don't. But that's what Glory says.” Having learnt to walk like a boy, Kay learnt to whistle. One hot summer's afternoon they had ridden out and were lying on their backs in a field tall with grass, nearly ready for cutting. Peter had almost drowsed with the heavy smell of the wild flowers, when he sat up suddenly and seized his sister by the arm quite roughly. She was only whistling a little tune softly and was surprised at the strength he used. “Peterkins, what's the matter? You're hurting. I'm sure you've made a bruise.” He paid no attention to her protest. “Where'd you learn that?” “What?” “That tune you were whistling?” “Don't know. Just made it up, I suppose. I never heard it.” “But you must have.”