So he learnt to keep his secret to himself; no one seemed able to share it. Every now and then, he would stop in his playing, with his head on one side and his face intent; those who watched would see him creep upstairs and peep into the big, dark cupboard. Strangely enough, whatever he thought he heard, he did not appear frightened. When the doctor was called to examine him he said, “A very imaginative child! Oh dear no, he's quite well. He'll grow out of that fancy. Won't you, old chap?” At the back of his mother's mind was the terror that she was going to lose him. She kept him always with her. When that dreamy look came into his eyes and he turned his head expectantly, she would snatch him to her breast, as though someone lurked near to take him from her. And Peter lay still in her arms and smiled, for it seemed to him that the angel leant over the banisters and whistled softly, “I'm coming. I'm coming, little Peterkins.” But Peter was anxious to make God hurry. It was Grace who taught him how. Her faith came in spasms. Although she beat the drum for the Salvation Army her fervor had its ups and downs. She used to tell Peter. When her love-affairs went wrong, she was overwhelmed with doubt and refused to go on parade. “'E can carry the drum 'isself,” she would say, speaking of her Maker. “If 'e don't look after me no better, I've done with 'im. It's awright; I don't care. 'E can please 'isself. If 'e can do without me, I can do without 'im. So there.” These confidences made Peter feel that God was an excessively accessible person. One evening, kneeling in his mother's lap with folded hands, he surprised her by adding to the petition she had taught him, “Now, look here, God, I'm tired of waiting. I wants----” At this point he was stopped by a gentle hand pressed firmly over his mouth. “I can't think what's come to Peter,” she told her husband; “he speaks so crossly to God in his prayers.” “That's Grace,” said Barrington laughing, “you mark my words. You'd better talk to her.” “Oh, but I'm so frightened when he does like that. Billy, do you think----” He stopped her promptly. “No, I don't. The boy's all right.” Seeing how her lips trembled, he took her in his arms. “You've never grown out of your short frocks--you're so timid, you golden little Nan.” It was after Grace had been spoken to that she made it up with her Maker. When this occurred, Peter was with her in the dimly lit hall where the soldiers of Salvation gathered. She was sitting beside him sulkily on the back bench nearest the door; suddenly she rose and dashed forward in a storm of weeping. While the penitent knelt by the platform, the man who was waving his arms went on talking. Peter was growing frightened for her, when she jumped to her feet, seizing a tambourine which she banged and shook above her head, and shouted, “I'm cleansed. I'm cleansed.”