“Anyone could ask him.” “Would he send me one for my very ownest?” “Some day--perhaps.” “And you asked God to send me, muvver?” “I and your Daddy together.” He lay so quietly in her arms that she thought his questions were at an end. She did not take up her work, but sat smiling with dreamy eyes, humming and resting her chin on his curly head. He clambered down from her knee, satisfied and laughing, “Ask him again--you and Daddy together.” Just then Barrington entered. “What's Daddy to ask for now?” Then, “Why Nancy, tears in your eyes! What's Peter been doing?” She held her husband very closely, looking shy and happy. “He's been asking for the thing we've prayed for.” “Eh! What's that?” “A baby.” “A baby? Funny little beggar! Extraordinary!” “And sweet!” whispered Nan. “Come here, young fellow.” His father was solemn, but his eyes were laughing. He held Peter between his knees, so their faces nearly met. “If your mother asks God for a baby sister, will you always be good to her--the truliest, goodest little brother in the world?” And Peter nodded emphatically. His father shook his chubby hand, sealing the bargain. Peter watched hourly for her coming--he never doubted it would be a _her._ He would inquire several times daily, “Will it be soon?” There was always the same answer, “Peterkins, Peterkins presently.” One night he heard the same sounds that had amazed him at the smacking lady's house--whispers, running on the stairs, doors opening and shutting. He waited for the weak, thin wailing; but that did not follow. Nevertheless, he was sure it had happened: wrapt up warmly, in softy angel-feathers, God had sent him a sister for himself. It was very late when Grace came to bed. Peter pretended to be asleep; he feared she would be angry. Slowly he raised himself on the pillow, his eyes clear and undrowsy. “Why, Master Peter!” She turned from the mirror so startled that, as she spoke, the hair-pins fell from her mouth. 53 “What a fright you give me! I thought your peepers 'ad been glued tight for hours h'and hours.” “Has she come? Has she come? Did a lady-angel bring her?” “Lor' bless the boy, he's dreamin'! Now lie down, little Round Tummy. Grice won't be long; then she'll hold you in 'er arms all comfy.” “But Grace, she's downstairs, a teeny weeny one--just big enough for Peter to carry.” “Now, look 'ere, you just stop it, Master Peter. It's no time for talkin'; you'll 'ear soon enough. You and your teeny weeny ones!” Peter lay down, his little heart choking. Why wouldn't Grace tell him? “But, Grace------” “Shut up. I'm a-sayin' of me prayers.” In the morning the hushed suspense still hung about the house. When he raised his piping voice, Grace shook him roughly. At breakfast his father's brows were puckered--he wasn't a bit happy like the funny man. When the table had been cleared, he laid aside his paper and sat Peter on his knee before him. “Something happened last night, sonny. You've got a little brother.”