After he had heard the whistling, he tried to tell Grace about it. This happened the very next morning. She had risen late and was dressing him in a hurry in order to get him down in time for breakfast. She hardly listened to him at all, but jerked him this way and that, buttoning and tying and tucking. “My, oh, my! There's only emptiness inside your little 'ead this mornin'; you must 'ave left your brains beneath the pillow. What a lot o' talk about nothin'.” “It wasn't nothing, Grace. I really and truly heard it.” “Now then, no false'oods, young man. God's a-listenin' and writin' it all down.--There, Grice didn't mean to be h'angry! But you talk your tongue clean out o' your 'ead.” “But Grace, I did. I did. It was like this.” He pursed his lips together; only a splutter came. Grace rubbed his face vigorously with the flannel, leaving a taste of soap in his mouth. “You should 'ear my new sweet'eart.” She was trying to create a diversion. “'E can make a winder rattle in its frame; it's that loud and shrill, the noise 'e do make. If you're a good boy, maybe I'll get 'im to teach you 'ow.” He was bursting with his strange new knowledge; he was sure his mother would understand. While his father was at the table he kept silent. His father soon hurried away; the front-door slammed. He plucked at his mother's skirt. “Last night God was in my cupboard.” “But darling, little boys oughtn't to say things like that--not even in fun, Peter.” “I heard him, mummikins. An angel was with him, doing like this.” He puffed out his cheeks; but he wasn't so clever as the angel. No sound came. His mother gazed long into the eager face, trying to detect mischief. “Whistling--is that what you mean? But angels don't whistle, Peter.” “This one did--in our cupboard--in my bedroom.” He wagged his head solemnly in affirmation. Then he drew down his mother's face. She was smiling to herself. “God was making our baby,” he whispered, “and the angel was waiting to bring her.” The rain came into her eyes--that was what Peter called it. “Hush, my dearest. That's all over. You're my only baby now.” She pressed him to her; he could feel her shaking. Just then, he knew, nothing more must be said. Many times he tried to tell her. One evening, while the angel was whistling, she tiptoed into his bedroom. Looking up through the darkness he saw her and seized her excitedly about the neck. “They're there, mummy. Don't you hear her? She's whistling now.” He pronounced it 'wussling.' “Why _her_, Peter?” “I dunno; but listen, listen.” She opened the cupboard door. “See, there's nothing.” “She stopped when you did that.” “Go to sleep, my precious. You're dreaming. If there was anything, mother would have heard it as well.”