Two years had gone by since God had sent Philip and taken him back so suddenly. It was within a few days of the anniversary and very close to Christmas. All day the sky had been heavy with clouds. It was bitterly cold outside; Peter had been kept in the nursery with a big, red fire blazing. Everyone seemed busy; they opened the door now and then to make sure that he was all right, and left him to play by himself. Toward evening the clouds burst like great pillows, swollen with angels' feathers; softly, softly, covering up bare trees, putting the world to sleep beneath a great white counterpane, the snow came down. He woke in the night; it was like a lark singing right beside his bed. It was the old haunting little air that it sang, but so much quicker, “Coming. Coming. Coming.” Sometimes it sank into the faintest whisper; sometimes it would swell into a sound so loud and happy that even Grace's sweetheart could not have whistled louder. Grace turned drowsily and, seeing him sitting up, drew him down beneath the clothes, putting her arms about him. No, she had not heard it. In the morning his mother's breakfast was carried upstairs and his father looked worried. Peter grew afraid lest he had done wrong and a little sister was not wanted. So he hid himself in the big dark cupboard in the bedroom and was not missed for hours. Presently voices wandered up and down the house, sometimes sounding quite near and sometimes quite distant, “Peter! Peter! Where are you?” They seemed afraid to call louder. Peter had his suspicions, so he kept quiet. They did not want her--and they knew that he had done it. Someone said “Shish!” The other voices sank into silence; now it was only his father's that he heard. “Peter-kins, Peterkins, father wants you. Don't be frightened. He's going to tell you something grand.” So Peter came out; when he saw his father's face, he knew that he was not angry. “You did want her too--didn't you, didn't you, Daddy?” “Of course I did, you rummy little chap. But how did you know? Who told you?” Although he coaxed and rubbed his scrubby chin against Peter's neck, he never got an answer to that question. Where was the good of answering? Either you had ears like Peter's or you hadn't. CHAPTER IX--KAY AND SOME OTHERS She filled all his thoughts; the world had become new to him. Picture-books were no longer amusing; just to be Peter with a little strange sister was the most fascinating story imaginable.