Before they left, Uncle Waffles took Peter aside and borrowed two-and-sixpence in a whisper. So the tea was quite expensive. Perhaps the ease with which he had contrived to borrow had something to do with the heartiness of his invitation that they should drop in whenever they were passing. That evening, when Glory came to bid Peter good-night, she asked, “You'll take me again, won't you. He's--I don't think he's happy.” Peter dragged his thoughts away from his work. “Don't you? Perhaps Mr. Widow isn't tremendously cheerful company. Of course I'll take you.” His eyes were going back to his books. Glory hesitated at the door, saw that he had forgotten her and slipped out. There was a song about a rooted tree and a winged bird; had he looked up at that moment and seen her expression, he might have remembered it. CHAPTER XXXVI--THE SPREADING OF WINGS He might have been setting out for Australia or to explore Tibet, they made such a final matter of his going. The way in which he was waited on, considered and admired brought to his remembrance those early days when he had been sent to Miss Rufus to be cured of his 'magination. “But motherkins, dearest, Oxford's only sixty miles--a two hours' journey. I can write to you the last thing at night and you can be reading me next morning at breakfast.” Nan shook her head. “It's the spreading of wings, Peter--the first flight from the nest. You'll come back, of course; but always more rarely.” She foresaw in this first departure, all the other departures that lay ahead. The day was coming when she would be left alone. She pictured herself as old and grayheaded, sitting listening to phantom footsteps of memories which passed and repassed, but never brought the living presence. Already she tasted the bitterness of the woman who, having been first, must learn to be second in the affections of those who were part of her body. Kay and Peter were growing up. They would soon have their secrets--their interests which she could not share. They would marry and enter her house as visitors. She pictured all that; the spreading of wings had commenced. When Peter had been a little boy at Sandport, certain lines had driven the tears into her eyes with their wistful yearning. They were often on her lips now: “Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk is falling, To see the nursery lighted and the children's table spread; 'Mother, mother, mother!' the eager voices calling, 'The baby was so sleepy that she had to go to bed.'” Already the inexorable law of change had taken her babies from her, and soon----. There would come a day when the rooms would be empty; her home would become again what it was before she had entered it--merely a house.