But in June came three wet days; the rain came down, straight as lances, and it was very, very cold. Nobody could go out, and everybody shivered. They all went up to the door of Mother's room and knocked. “Well, what is it?” asked Mother from inside. “Mother,” said Bobbie, “mayn't I light a fire? I do know how.” And Mother said: “No, my ducky-love. We mustn't have fires in June--coal is so dear. If you're cold, go and have a good romp in the attic. That'll warm you.” “But, Mother, it only takes such a very little coal to make a fire.” “It's more than we can afford, chickeny-love,” said Mother, cheerfully. “Now run away, there's darlings--I'm madly busy!” “Mother's always busy now,” said Phyllis, in a whisper to Peter. Peter did not answer. He shrugged his shoulders. He was thinking. Thought, however, could not long keep itself from the suitable furnishing of a bandit's lair in the attic. Peter was the bandit, of course. Bobbie was his lieutenant, his band of trusty robbers, and, in due course, the parent of Phyllis, who was the captured maiden for whom a magnificent ransom--in horse-beans--was unhesitatingly paid. They all went down to tea flushed and joyous as any mountain brigands. But when Phyllis was going to add jam to her bread and butter, Mother said:-- “Jam OR butter, dear--not jam AND butter. We can't afford that sort of reckless luxury nowadays.” Phyllis finished the slice of bread and butter in silence, and followed it up by bread and jam. Peter mingled thought and weak tea. After tea they went back to the attic and he said to his sisters:-- “I have an idea.” “What's that?” they asked politely. “I shan't tell you,” was Peter's unexpected rejoinder. “Oh, very well,” said Bobbie; and Phil said, “Don't, then.” “Girls,” said Peter, “are always so hasty tempered.” “I should like to know what boys are?” said Bobbie, with fine disdain. “I don't want to know about your silly ideas.” “You'll know some day,” said Peter, keeping his own temper by what looked exactly like a miracle; “if you hadn't been so keen on a row, I might have told you about it being only noble-heartedness that made me not tell you my idea. But now I shan't tell you anything at all about it--so there!” And it was, indeed, some time before he could be induced to say anything, and when he did it wasn't much. He said:-- “The only reason why I won't tell you my idea that I'm going to do is because it MAY be wrong, and I don't want to drag you into it.” “Don't you do it if it's wrong, Peter,” said Bobbie; “let me do it.” But Phyllis said:-- “_I_ should like to do wrong if YOU'RE going to!” “No,” said Peter, rather touched by this devotion; “it's a forlorn hope, and I'm going to lead it. All I ask is that if Mother asks where I am, you won't blab.” “We haven't got anything TO blab,” said Bobbie, indignantly.