“Yes,” said Mother, “I know it's dull for you, dear. But I can't help it. Next year perhaps I can send you to school--you'd like that, wouldn't you?” “I do miss the other chaps, rather,” Peter confessed; “but if Jim could stay after his leg was well, we could have awful larks.” “I've no doubt of it,” said Mother. “Well--perhaps he could, but you know, dear, we're not rich. I can't afford to get him everything he'll want. And he must have a nurse.” “Can't you nurse him, Mother? You do nurse people so beautifully.” “That's a pretty compliment, Pete--but I can't do nursing and my writing as well. That's the worst of it.” “Then you MUST send the letter to his grandfather?” “Of course--and to his schoolmaster, too. We telegraphed to them both, but I must write as well. They'll be most dreadfully anxious.” “I say, Mother, why can't his grandfather pay for a nurse?” Peter suggested. “That would be ripping. I expect the old boy's rolling in money. Grandfathers in books always are.” “Well, this one isn't in a book,” said Mother, “so we mustn't expect him to roll much.” “I say,” said Peter, musingly, “wouldn't it be jolly if we all WERE in a book, and you were writing it? Then you could make all sorts of jolly things happen, and make Jim's legs get well at once and be all right to-morrow, and Father come home soon and--” “Do you miss your Father very much?” Mother asked, rather coldly, Peter thought. “Awfully,” said Peter, briefly. Mother was enveloping and addressing the second letter. “You see,” Peter went on slowly, “you see, it's not only him BEING Father, but now he's away there's no other man in the house but me--that's why I want Jim to stay so frightfully much. Wouldn't you like to be writing that book with us all in it, Mother, and make Daddy come home soon?” Peter's Mother put her arm round him suddenly, and hugged him in silence for a minute. Then she said:-- “Don't you think it's rather nice to think that we're in a book that God's writing? If I were writing the book, I might make mistakes. But God knows how to make the story end just right--in the way that's best for us.” “Do you really believe that, Mother?” Peter asked quietly. “Yes,” she said, “I do believe it--almost always--except when I'm so sad that I can't believe anything. But even when I can't believe it, I know it's true--and I try to believe. You don't know how I try, Peter. Now take the letters to the post, and don't let's be sad any more. Courage, courage! That's the finest of all the virtues! I dare say Jim will be here for two or three weeks yet.” For what was left of the evening Peter was so angelic that Bobbie feared he was going to be ill. She was quite relieved in the morning to find him plaiting Phyllis's hair on to the back of her chair in quite his old manner. It was soon after breakfast that a knock came at the door. The children were hard at work cleaning the brass candlesticks in honour of Jim's visit.