“Pepperminta, you know more about God and Peter and love than I do. You're right, and you're always right. How is it that you learn so much by sitting so quiet?” Matters came to a head through Kay. In the cottage where they stayed, Peter slept with her in the same bed, in a narrow room beneath a sloping roof. She was nervous to be left alone there--it was so dark, so far away, so strange; Peter, a willing martyr, went to bed with her at the same time. Lying awake in the dark or twilight, he would tell her stories. “Listening, Kay?” “Yeth,” in a little drowsy voice. As she grew more sleepy she would snuggle closer with her lips against his face, till at last he knew by her regular breathing that his audience was indifferent to his wildest fancies. One evening his parents returned from a ride and, entering the house, heard a stifled sobbing. “What's that?” “Must be the children.” “You wait here, Nan. I'll go up and quiet them.” “No, I'll come, up too.” As they climbed the stairs and reached the landing, they made out words which were in the wailing: “I don't want to be a dead 'un. I don't want to be a dead 'un.” It was Kay's voice. Peter, leaning over her, was whispering frightened comfort. When Nan and Billy had taken them in their arms and lit the candle, the tragedy was explained. Peter had been enlarging on the magnificence of heaven and the beauties of the future life. Things went well until Kay realized that there was no direct communication by trains or buses between heaven and her parents. She didn't want to go there. Its magnificence, unshared by anyone she loved, was terrifying. She didn't want to be a dead 'un. She kept repeating it in spite of Peter's best efforts at consolation. It was some time before it was safe to blow the candle out and leave them. Death was very imminent in their minds. Downstairs, when it was all over, Billy looked across at Nan, his brow puckered with annoyance and his lips twitching with laughter. “That decides it.” “Decides! How? What does it decide?” “Something that I've thought of for a long time. Peter's too imaginative. He's not a good companion for Kay.” “How can you say that? We all know how gentle he is with her.” “That's just it. It's good for neither of them. Now that Jehane and Ocky are at Sandport it makes things easier; they can keep an eye on him.” “An eye on Peter!” Billy leant across the table, turning down the lamp and turning it up again. He was gaining time. “It's for his own good. You don't suppose I like it. It'll be hard for all of us.” He spoke huskily. Nan plucked at the table-cloth. She was almost angry. “You mean that you want to send him to school at Sand-port--send my little Peterkins away?” “Sandport's famous for its schools.” “But Billy, you couldn't be so cruel. He's so young and sensitive. His heart would break.” “Rubbish. I was sent to boarding-school when I was eight. I've survived.” “You! You were different--but Peter!”