The girlish hand would slip into her own and presently a faltering voice would whisper, “But he doesn't like me always. I worry him sometimes.” Nan would call to Peter, “Glory's tired of sitting with mother. She wants her little tyrant.” As they wandered away across the lawn, she would follow them with her eyes. “I hope Jehane's good to her,” she said to Barrington. “Seems to be, in her jealous way.” “She's a nice child.” “Nicer than Riska or Eustace. That's thanks to Captain Spashett.” “Ah, yes,” Nan would say. Mr. Waffles, having moved his belongings to Sandport, came to fetch the intruders. Peter watched them depart with a sense of relief; now things would settle back into their old groove. In July the house at Topbury was closed and the Barringtons went for their holiday to North Wales. The servants were sent to their homes, with the exception of Grace. Summer holidays were ecstatic times of fishing-rods and old clothes, when parents put aside their busy manners, broke rules and played truant. This particular holiday was made additionally adventurous by a tandem tricycle, on which Peter was allowed to accompany his father when his mother was too tired, trying to catch the pedals with his short legs or riding on the pedals away from the saddle, when his father was not looking. He was his father's companion many hours of each day, for Nan was often tired. His father had plentiful opportunities for judging just how 'maginative was his child. One morning, on going down to bathe, the sea was rough and Peter, reluctant to enter and still more reluctant to own it, made the excuse that he was frightened of treading on a dead sailor. Peter, after hearing a sermon at the village chapel, grew profoundly sorry for the Devil. It seemed so dreadful to have to burn for ever and ever. He made a secret promise to God that he would take the Devil's place. Then he thought it over for some days in horror; he had been too generous--he wanted to go back on his bargain. His mother found him crying one night; she suspected that he had been sleeping little by the dark blue rings under his eyes. She coaxed him, and he told her. Another sign of his 'maginativeness was his anxiety to know whether cows had souls. “That boy thinks too much,” said his father; “he needs to rough and tumble with other boys of his own age. At ten his worst trouble should be tummy-ache.” Nan smiled. “But Peter's different, you know.” “I know. But, if he's to grow up strong, he must change. Little woman, I don't like it.” “Billy boy, I sometimes think it's our doing, yours and mine. When we put toys in the empty nursery before he was born, before he was thought of, we were making him a 'maginative child.” “The sins of the parents, eh?” “Not that. The love of the parents shall be visited upon the children unto the third and----”