In his room, to the left of his bed, was a large powder-cupboard, even in the day-time full of shadows. One night he had been praying out loud to himself, but his voice was growing weary and his eyelids kept falling. As he lay there, coming from the cupboard, very softly, very distant, he heard a sound of whistling. It was a little air, happy and haunting, trilled over and over. He sat up and listened, not at all frightened. He thrust himself up with his elbows, his head bent forward, in listening ecstasy. His father could whistle, but not like that. A man's whistling was shrill and strong. This was gentle and glad, like a violin played high up--ah yes, like his mother's whistling. Then, somehow, he knew that a girl's lips formed that sound. He slipped out of bed in the darkness and tiptoed to the cupboard. He opened the door; it stopped. When he was safe in bed it again commenced, as though it were saying, “I'm coming. I'm coming, little Peterkins. Don't be impatient.” It was trying to say more than that, and he racked his brains to understand. When he lay quiet and was almost asleep, the picture formed. He saw a girl-angel, standing in a garden, watching God at his work. And what was God doing? He was making a little sister for Peter, stitching her together. And every time the angel stopped whistling, God's needle dropped. And every time she recommenced, God laughed and plucked feathers from her softy wings to make garments for the little sister. Peter named her the Whistling Angel. One day, when she and God were ready, she would bring his little sister to him. The last thing he heard, as his sleepy eyes closed on the pillow, was that happy haunting little air, like a tune played high up on a violin, faintly, faintly. “I'm coming. I'm coming, little Peterkins. Don't be impatient.” It was like the rustle of wind in an angel's wings who had already set out on the journey. CHAPTER VIII--“COMING. COMING, PETERKINS” Peter took all the credit to himself--she was his baby. And why not? Nobody, not even his mother or father, had had anything to do with her advent. For many months after Philip's short sojourn, his mother had cried and his father had frowned whenever babies were mentioned. Had it not been for Peter, the little sister might have slipped God's memory. Peter gave him no chance to forget. Every night, kneeling between the bed-clothes with his lips against the pillow to muffle the sound, he reminded God. He realized that this attitude was not respectful and always apologized in his prayers. He did it because big people wouldn't understand if they caught him kneeling beside the bed; it would be quite easy to fall asleep there and get found.--So, of course, when she came, she belonged to him. But her coming was not yet. He had no end of trouble in getting her.