“He says you won't be lame or anything,” said Bobbie. “Oh, course I shan't, silly,” said Peter, very much relieved all the same. “Oh, Peter, I AM so sorry,” said Bobbie, after a pause. “That's all right,” said Peter, gruffly. “It was ALL my fault,” said Bobbie. “Rot,” said Peter. “If we hadn't quarrelled, it wouldn't have happened. I knew it was wrong to quarrel. I wanted to say so, but somehow I couldn't.” “Don't drivel,” said Peter. “I shouldn't have stopped if you HAD said it. Not likely. And besides, us rowing hadn't anything to do with it. I might have caught my foot in the hoe, or taken off my fingers in the chaff-cutting machine or blown my nose off with fireworks. It would have been hurt just the same whether we'd been rowing or not.” “But I knew it was wrong to quarrel,” said Bobbie, in tears, “and now you're hurt and--” “Now look here,” said Peter, firmly, “you just dry up. If you're not careful, you'll turn into a beastly little Sunday-school prig, so I tell you.” “I don't mean to be a prig. But it's so hard not to be when you're really trying to be good.” (The Gentle Reader may perhaps have suffered from this difficulty.) “Not it,” said Peter; “it's a jolly good thing it wasn't you was hurt. I'm glad it was ME. There! If it had been you, you'd have been lying on the sofa looking like a suffering angel and being the light of the anxious household and all that. And I couldn't have stood it.” “No, I shouldn't,” said Bobbie. “Yes, you would,” said Peter. “I tell you I shouldn't.” “I tell you you would.” “Oh, children,” said Mother's voice at the door. “Quarrelling again? Already?” “We aren't quarrelling--not really,” said Peter. “I wish you wouldn't think it's rows every time we don't agree!” When Mother had gone out again, Bobbie broke out:-- “Peter, I AM sorry you're hurt. But you ARE a beast to say I'm a prig.” “Well,” said Peter unexpectedly, “perhaps I am. You did say I wasn't a coward, even when you were in such a wax. The only thing is--don't you be a prig, that's all. You keep your eyes open and if you feel priggishness coming on just stop in time. See?” “Yes,” said Bobbie, “I see.” “Then let's call it Pax,” said Peter, magnanimously: “bury the hatchet in the fathoms of the past. Shake hands on it. I say, Bobbie, old chap, I am tired.” He was tired for many days after that, and the settle seemed hard and uncomfortable in spite of all the pillows and bolsters and soft folded rugs. It was terrible not to be able to go out. They moved the settle to the window, and from there Peter could see the smoke of the trains winding along the valley. But he could not see the trains.