She made him feel that she shared his dilemma--that she reckoned herself, with him, among the trees which are rooted. The bond of sympathy was established. “We,” she whispered, “you and I, Peter, we must wait for our winged birds to visit us. We can't go to them, however we try.” She sprang up with a quick change of expression; in a flash she was radiant. “My Loo-ard, but we needn't be tragic.” Running to the window, she flung it wide. “Look out there. The sun, the river, the grass--they're happy. What do they care? It's our hearts that are unhappy. We won't have any hearts, Peter.” He crossed the room to her. With the freedom of a sister, she put her arm about him, leaning so that her hair just touched his face. She seemed to be excusing her action. “You're only a boy. How old shall we say. Just fourteen, perhaps. Why, little Peter, you're too young to be in love.---- Do you remember the saying, that every load has two handles: one by which it can be carried; one by which it cannot? You and I are going to find the handle by which it can be carried--is that a bargain? I'll show you the handle--it's not to take yourself or anyone too seriously. You're making a face, Peter, as though I'd given you nasty medicine. You were determined to be most awfully wretched over Cherry, weren't you? Well, you mustn't. Wait half a second.” Her half-seconds were half-hours to other people. When she reappeared, she was clad girlishly in a white dress, which hung above her ankles. At her breast was a yellow rose. Her golden hair was wrapped in bands about her head. There swung from her hand a broad river-hat. Peter thought that, if the Faun Man could see her now, he wouldn't wait much longer. But it was contradictory--this that she had told him; he had always supposed that it was she who had kept the Faun Man waiting. For himself he was wishing that she were Cherry. Before the mirror, over the empty fireplace, she stooped to adjust her hat. Her arms curved up to her shining head, the loose sleeves falling back from them; they looked like handles of ivory on a gold-rimmed goblet. The motive of the attitude was lost on Peter; he only took in the general effect. Her eyes, watching him from the glass, saw that. He was thinking how naïve she was to have taken thirty minutes over dressing, and then to pretend that she had hurried by coming down with her hat in her hand. “Ready,” she said. “Do you like me in this dress? If you don't, I'll change it.” “If I took you at your word----. But would you really? I'm almost tempted to put you to the test.” “I would really,” she said. “I do like you.” He spoke with boyish downrightness. “You know jolly well that you look splendid in anything.” She pretended to be abashed and hurried into the garden, singing just above her breath, “I like you in satin, I like you in fluff.”