A bird rose twittering out of a hedge. From a meadow across the road, a cow hung its mild head over, looked shocked, switched its tail disapprovingly, mooed loudly, swung round and lumbered away uncertainly, like a distressed old lady with gathered skirts, in a futile endeavor to bring help. Peter saw it all. His faculties were unnaturally and desperately alert. It was odd how time lengthened its minutes--how much he saw and heard: the deep blue stillness of sky-lagoons, the foam and wash of traveling clouds, the erect and listening quiet of tree-sentinels and hedges, and, somewhere out of sight, the sigh-sigh-sighing of wind in distant country. There was a cry behind him. How long had he been fighting? He could not guess. Between himself and the boy rushed a little girl. Her small hands commenced to beat the boy furiously. She could not speak; she was choked with sobbing. The boy's arms fell to his side; he let her aim her puny blows at his impudent face, making no attempt to stop her. Suddenly she swayed and sank into the flowers at the side of the road. Peter stooped; his arms went about her. The boy looked on, gazing from these strange invaders to the waiting trike. It was he who was excluded now. He wanted to say something--opened his mouth several times and halted. At last he stumbled out the words. “I'm--I'm sorry. And you're not just anybody.” And then, “I say, you're plucky 'uns--won't you shake hands?” The bird came back to the hedge and dropped into its nest. The cow, having sought help in vain, looked distractedly into the road and saw a boy pushing open a gate, while another boy, a little bruised and battered, pushed an ancient tandem tricycle into a meadow, and a small girl, with flushed face and blowy corn-colored hair, dabbed her eyes furtively with the hem of her dress. The trike had to be hidden. It was unlikely, but always possible, that it might be coveted by tramps. Friday Lane lay before them. The boy turned to them with abrupt frankness. “Here, what your names?” “Mine's Peter, and my sister's is Kay.” “Well, Peter, I guess I hit harder than I meant. But--but I reckon you could have punched my head if you'd chosen. Didn't get warmed up to the work before she stopped us--was that it?” They were up to their knees in the meadow-world; the air was full of kind new fragrances. Peter's eyes were dreamy. The boy rambled on, leading deeper into the avenue of oaks, so that already the first straggling fringe of woods commenced. “My brother's like that. In Alaska, when the dogs took to fighting, he'd just stand still and laugh and holler at them. Then, all of a sudden, when he saw that they were eating one another, he'd go clean mad and wade in among 'em and lay 'em out with the butt of his rifle. He's a wonder, my brother.” “I'm sure he is,” said Peter, and Kay, trotting closely by his side, repeated his words to show her interest.