The heart of the waking world stopped beating. His hope was ended. Clasping her hands against his breast, he drew her to him. She gave him her cold lips. “For the last time.” She turned. He heard her slow feet trailing up the stairs. As he walked to the station through rustling wheat-fields the sun lifted up his scarlet head, shaking free his hair, like a diver coming to the surface at the end of a long plunge. Birds rose singing out of corn and hedges, proclaiming that another summer's day had commenced. But Peter--he heard nothing, saw nothing of the gladness. He saw only the final jest--the smile, half-mocking, half-tender, that hung about the Faun Man's mouth; and he heard Cherry's words, “I always wanted to be only friends.” CHAPTER XLIV--IN SEARCH OF YOUNGNESS To you I owns h'up; I 'as me little failin's, especially since Cat's Meat------He could never mention Cat's Meat without wiping his eyes. “But if I 'as me little failin's, that ain't no reason for callin' me Judas His Chariot and h'other scripture nimes. She's a dustpot, that's wot she is, my darter Grice.” “A what?” asked Peter. Mr. Grice was surprised that a man just down from Oxford shouldn't know the word; he was flattered to find himself in a position to explain. “A dustpot,” he repeated. “That means a child wot sits on 'er father's 'ead.” “Oh, a despot!” Mr. Grace had learnt to be patient under correction. “Now, Master Peter, ain't that wot I said? I sez, 'She's a dustpot'; then you sez, 'Oh, a dustpot!' 'Owever yer calls it, that's wot I calls 'er.” They were sitting in an empty cab in the stable from which Mr. Grice hired his conveyance. Peter touched the old man's hand affectionately. “I've been wondering--thinking about you. You know, I'm going traveling with Kay. My friend, the Faun Man, left me a thousand pounds to buy what he called 'a year of youngness.' He was great on youngness, was the Faun Man.” Mr. Grace nodded. His eyes twinkled. “Remember that night, Peter, and the song 'e made h'up about yer? 'Oh, Peter wuz 'is nime, So Peterish wuz 'e, 'E wept the sun's h'eye back agen, Lest 'e should never see.' H'I orften 'um it ter the 'osses when h'I'm a-groomin' of 'em. Sorter soothes 'em--maikes 'em stand quiet.” “I remember,” said Peter; “but here's what I was going to say: you hav'n't had an awful lot of youngness in your life and yet you're--how old, Mr. Grace? Seventy? I should have guessed sixty. Well, it doesn't seem fair that I----.” “Nar then, Master Peter! H'it's fair enough. Don't you go a-wastin' o' yer h'imagination. I don't need no pityin'.” “But it doesn't seem fair, really; so I'm going to make you an offer--a very queer offer. How'd you like to live in the country and get away from Grace?”