“Kay wouldn't cry about a thing like that. She's my little sister--littler than me--and she's never going to marry. We're going to live together always and have chipped potatoes and sausages for breakfast.” A smile twisted the thin straight lips of the sallow woman; it was the first that Peter had seen there. It was almost tender--like a thing forgotten coming back. He laughed--he was always ready to laugh at himself. “You think that's funny? Father thinks it's funny, too. He says, 'Peterkins, Peterkins, time'll change all that.' But it won't you know, 'cause we mean it truly.” “But wouldn't it be very sad not to marry? Wouldn't you like one day to have a little boy just like yourself?” He shook his head. “I'm an awful worry. No, I don't think so. But I'd like to have a little girl like Kay--and I'll have her, anyhow.” The arm of the sallow woman stole round his shoulder. “Who says you're an awful worry?” “That's why I'm here, you know. I worried them with my queer questions. When I'm the same as other people, they'll let me come back.” “I don't think you're a worry. I hope you'll never be like anyone else.” “But you mustn't say that, 'cause you're to change me. I'm glad you like me.” “Then be glad I love you,” she whispered. The lonely woman's heart opened to Peter. He told her all about Kay and Grace and Romance; he thought she ought to know everything since she was to cure him. But instead of curing him she almost--almost made him worse. There was a strange furtiveness in their relation; the other boys must not suspect. Miss Rufus despised favoritism; she tried to be very hard on Peter in lesson-hours. He understood and smiled to himself. He was terribly homesick. He wanted Kay badly. He wanted to hear her laughter. He marked each hour by what they were doing at Topbury. Now they were sitting down to breakfast; now Kay was going with his mother shopping; now the dinner was being set and his father's key was grating in the latch. Sounds and smells would bring sudden and stabbing remembrance. He would hear the garden with the dead leaves rustling, see the nursery gleaming in the firelight and a little girl being made ready for bed. Oh, she must be frightened without Peter, at the top of that tall dark house! At night, when Miss Rufus broke her rule against favoritism and, stealing to his room, pressed his head against her bony breast while he said his prayers, it was then that he thought of his mother with most poignancy. But he was to be a little knight, so those weekly letters which commenced “_My Beloveds_,” were written stoutheartedly. They must never guess. But Nan saw the tremble in the sprawling hand and the blots, where diluted ink had spread. “Billy boy, we must have him back, I can't bear it.” “Nonsense, darling. The chap's quite happy.”