At first Bobbie found it quite hard to be as nice to him as she wanted to be, for fear he should think her priggish. But that soon wore off, and both she and Phyllis were, as he observed, jolly good sorts. Mother sat with him when his sisters were out. And the words, “he's not a coward,” made Peter determined not to make any fuss about the pain in his foot, though it was rather bad, especially at night. Praise helps people very much, sometimes. There were visitors, too. Mrs. Perks came up to ask how he was, and so did the Station Master, and several of the village people. But the time went slowly, slowly. “I do wish there was something to read,” said Peter. “I've read all our books fifty times over.” “I'll go to the Doctor's,” said Phyllis; “he's sure to have some.” “Only about how to be ill, and about people's nasty insides, I expect,” said Peter. “Perks has a whole heap of Magazines that came out of trains when people are tired of them,” said Bobbie. “I'll run down and ask him.” So the girls went their two ways. Bobbie found Perks busy cleaning lamps. “And how's the young gent?” said he. “Better, thanks,” said Bobbie, “but he's most frightfully bored. I came to ask if you'd got any Magazines you could lend him.” “There, now,” said Perks, regretfully, rubbing his ear with a black and oily lump of cotton waste, “why didn't I think of that, now? I was trying to think of something as 'ud amuse him only this morning, and I couldn't think of anything better than a guinea-pig. And a young chap I know's going to fetch that over for him this tea-time.” “How lovely! A real live guinea! He will be pleased. But he'd like the Magazines as well.” “That's just it,” said Perks. “I've just sent the pick of 'em to Snigson's boy--him what's just getting over the pewmonia. But I've lots of illustrated papers left.” He turned to the pile of papers in the corner and took up a heap six inches thick. “There!” he said. “I'll just slip a bit of string and a bit of paper round 'em.” He pulled an old newspaper from the pile and spread it on the table, and made a neat parcel of it. “There,” said he, “there's lots of pictures, and if he likes to mess 'em about with his paint-box, or coloured chalks or what not, why, let him. _I_ don't want 'em.” “You're a dear,” said Bobbie, took the parcel, and started. The papers were heavy, and when she had to wait at the level-crossing while a train went by, she rested the parcel on the top of the gate. And idly she looked at the printing on the paper that the parcel was wrapped in. Suddenly she clutched the parcel tighter and bent her head over it. It seemed like some horrible dream. She read on--the bottom of the column was torn off--she could read no farther.