As the little sister grew, he was permitted to see her bathed and dressed. One by one the soft wrappings were removed and folded, and the perfect little body revealed itself. No wonder God had taken so long; he had put such love into his work. By and by she learnt how to crow and splash. Her first recorded smile was given to Peter. But long before that a name had to be chosen. She was christened Kathleen Nancy and was called Kay, because that made her sound dearer. Peter was nearly seven at the time of her coming. Of all people, he and his mother seemed to know her best. They had secrets about her; before she could talk, they told one another what her baby language meant. During her first summer on earth, they would sit beside her cradle in the garden, believing that birds and flowers stooped to watch her. “You're no older than Peter,” his father had said. But, when he came home from the city, he would join them and seemed perfectly happy to gaze on Kay, with Peter on his knee, holding Nan's free hand. Even in those early days, it was strange the power that Peter had over her. If she were crying, she would stop and laugh for Peter. She would sleep for Peter, if he hummed and rocked her. When she began to speak, it was Peter who taught her and interpreted what she said; that was during her second summer, when leaves in the garden were tapping. They grew to trust Peter where Kay was concerned. “He's so gentle with her,” they said. “Might be 'er father, the care 'e takes of 'er. It's uncanny,” Grace told her sweetheart. Her sweetheart was a policeman at this moment; his profession did not make for sentiment. “Father, by gum! Fat lot o' care your father took o' you, I'll bet.” Grace's father was a cabby and was known to the Barrington household as Mr. Grace--a name of Peter's bestowing. He drove a four-wheeler and had a red face. His stand was at the bottom of Topbury Crescent, which formed the blade to the sickle of which the Terrace was the handle. When Kay was beginning to toddle, her cot was transferred from her parents' to Peter's bedroom. Nan was none too strong and Barrington could not afford to be roused at five in the morning--he worked too hard and required all his rest. Had Peter's wishes been consulted, this was just how he would have arranged matters. From the moment when the light went out to the moment when his eyelids reluctantly lowered, he had Kay all to himself. Throwing off the clothes, he would slip out and kneel beside her cot, softying her with his face and hands. He had to do this carefully lest he should be heard. Sometimes, in stepping out, the mattress squeaked and a voice would call up the tall dim stairs, “Peter, are you in bed?” An interval would elapse while he hurried back; then he would answer truthfully, “Yes.” Often the voice would say knowingly, “You are now.”