Peter bit his lips and drew his brows together. Life--how strange it was! How slender, and fierce, and pantherlike and cruel! And yet how beautiful at times and splendid! Who could foresee anything? Last night he and the same moon had gazed on romance--to-night on disillusion. At the bottom of the hill lay London, like an immense quarry, tunneled, lamplit, treacherous, industrious, carved out of the precipice of darkness. It seemed a clay modeling of a more huge world, placed there for his inspection. Down there this man at his side had been crushed; they had cast him out. They had told him, “If you won't come to Heaven, then you'll have to go to----” Well, he'd been to hell, and now they'd got to take him back. In his heart Peter dared them to refuse him. He spoke to the cabby and gave him an address. The man complained of the lateness of the hour. A reward persuaded him. They were jingling through side-streets now. They came out on to a broad road, with trees on either side and houses standing in gardens, with steps going up to them. The horse halted and the cabman blew his nose loudly. “Nice little jaunt you've 'ad.” The house was all in darkness. Peter rang the bell. On the second story a blind was raised; someone saw the lamps of the hansom. Feet descended the stairs. The door opened timidly. Miss Florence stood there, her hair in curl-papers, with a candle in her hand. She looked extraordinarily angular and elderly. Behind her, peering over the banisters, were Miss Effie, Miss Leah and Miss Madge, with petticoats thrown over their shoulders. Peter entered the old-fashioned hall and explained his errand. “You were going to do it once; he needs it more than ever now.” “Bring him in,” Miss Florence said. In an odd old-maidish room he undressed his uncle and slipped him into one of the late Mr. Jacobite's night-shirts. The situation was not without its humor. Before he left he promised to be round early. It was nearly midnight when he arrived home at Topbury Terrace. Only his father was up. He opened the door to him. “You're late, Peter. We thought something had happened.” Peter waited until the door had closed behind him. “It has. I met Uncle Waffles. You're tired; don't let's talk about it now. He's all right for a little while, anyhow.” His father drew a long breath. Peter knew what he was thinking: “So the dead man has come back to die afresh!” They put out the lights in silence and climbed the stairs. In the darkness his father laid his hand on his shoulder. “You were always fond of Ocky; so was I once. Poor fellow! I tried to be just.” “You were just,” said Peter; “you had to be just. But it isn't justice that he's needing now; it's--it's kindness.” His father's voice became grave--a little stern, perhaps. “For years he had the kindness; he was dragging us all down. He lied to me so often. Well----. Humph! Can't be helped. Do what you can. Good night, son.”