“I'd thought of that. But I didn't like to mention it. Janey and I, working together, can get things ready.” “All right, then. And I'll see to the presents.” He rose and laid his hand on Jehane's shoulder. “Come, Jehane, things are never so bad but what they may mend. I've not always been considerate of you. Let's be friends.” It was one of those patched-up truces which, like milestones, were to dot the road of their latent enmity. Kay's and Peter's money-boxes were brought out; their savings for the year were counted. Nan gave to Jehane's children an equal sum with which to go out and buy presents. Peter was kept running all morning on errands; in the afternoon he was busy decorating with mistletoe and holly. The preparations were so belated that everyone was pressed into service. Tea was over and the dark had fallen when he set out to do his own shopping. “Be careful, Peter, and come back quickly,” his mother called from the doorway. And Kay, thrusting her vivid little face under her mother's arm, piped up, “Don't be 'stravagant, Peter. Don't buy too much. 'Member birfdays is coming.” Peter felt happy. It was as though a long sickness had ended and a life that had been despaired of had been restored to them. He knew that nothing for the better had really happened; but, because people had laughed, it seemed as if it had. Down in the Vale of Holloway the bells of the Chapel of Ease were ringing. They seemed to be saying, over and over, “Peace and good-will to men.” Far away, at the bottom of the Crescent, he could see the spume of gas-light flung against the dusk. All the shops were there and the crowds of jaded people who had become for one night extraordinarily young and compassionate. He began to calculate how far his money would go in buying gifts for the family. Formerly there had been just his mother, and father, and Kay, and Grace to buy for. Now there were how many? He counted. With his cousins and Aunt Jehane there were nine people. He would divide his money into ten shares; Kay should have two of them. He was passing the gateway of an empty house; a hand stretched out of the dark and grabbed him. “Peter. Peter.” The voice was hoarse and terrified at its own sound. Peter broke away and jumped into the road that he might have room to run. He turned and looked back. He could see nothing--only the walls of the garden, the gateway and the wooden sign hanging over it, with the words, _To Let._ “Don't do that,” came the hoarse voice, “they may see you.” “Who are you?” asked Peter, peering into the shadows. “You know who I am,” came the voice; “this little boy can't have changed as much as that.” _This little boy!_ “Look out. Someone's coming.” A heavy tread was heard. Grace's policeman approached with the plain-clothes man. Peter bent down to the pavement and pretended to be searching. “Hulloa!” said Grace's policeman. “Who's there?” “It's Peter. How are you?” He continued his searching, moving away from the gate.