“He isn't. He isn't. And you know it. Kay wants him--she's fretting. I want him, and you want him as much as any of us. I want to hear his footsteps on the stairs, to see his clothes lying about, and--and----” “But it isn't what we want, little Nan; it's what's best for him. He's as nervous as a cat--always has been. Give him a year of sea-air.” Nan missed him terribly. No merry voice awoke her in the morning. The ceiling above her bed never shook with childish prancing. Kay, by herself, was very quiet. She was always asking where was Peter: had he gone to heaven? But it was when she came home at nightfall along the Terrace that Nan's longing was most intense. Childhood would be all too short at best. Too soon the years would take him from her. One day she would give anything for just one evening of the joy that she now might have. Who could tell what the future held? An old woman, grayheaded, she would sit and whisper to herself, “Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk is falling, To see the nursery lighted and the children's table spread; 'Mother, mother, mother!' the eager voices calling, 'The baby was so sleepy that she had to go to bed!'” Thinking these thoughts, Nan would sink her face in her hands, foretasting the solitude that was surely coming. But it was for Peter's good, his father said. He looked very intently at the Dutch landscape by Cuyp, seeking quiet from it, when he said it. As for curing him, Miss Rufus was the wrong person to do that. Peter was aware of it. He had made her as bad as himself. He had set her loving. He must look for help elsewhere. On Saturdays Mr. Waffles called for him--quite a splendid Mr. Waffles with soaped mustaches and rather shabby spats. He was taken to Madeira Lodge, shiny with its newly purchased highly polished furniture. In the afternoons he walked with Mr. Waffles to Birchdale, where the dunes stretched away in billows of sand and the air was always blowy. In the evenings he played with his cousins till it was time to return to Miss Rufus. Across the road from Madeira Lodge was a Methodist Chapel and beside it a plot of waste land. To this place he would escape when he got the chance. The grass grew rank; it was easy to hide among the withered evening-primroses. He had come to a great conclusion: no one but God could cure him. There, behind the Methodist Chapel, he argued with God about it, praying for Kay's sake that he might be made well. Nothing happened--perhaps because Glory found him and, having found him, was always following him to his place of hiding. He pledged her to secrecy, told her his trouble and asked her advice about it. But she only stared with dumb love in her eyes and shook her quiet head.