“When you get too fed up, send me an S.O.S. and we’ll throw a party. Happy days, old dear!” She kissed him thoroughly. “Don’t wince, Glen. I’ve kissed Peter many times before, and with any sort of luck I expect to kiss him many times again! Cheerio!” She sped away and left the three of them alone together, the pale youth with his bandaged head, the glowing girl with the flame of coppery hair about her face, and the small, preternaturally grave child. Peter Parker walked to the Persian rug and stood looking down at it. “After to-night,” he said, “we’ll have it framed and hung on the wall. It’s entirely too potent. Remember how I wished that somebody would make a good job of burning down the Altonia? It isn’t safe to have the thing about, for one drops wishes as a tree drops leaves.” “Have you any idea who it was?” He shook his head. “Perhaps your little playmate Black Orlo, sneaking back to complete his chore; perhaps one of his chums. It doesn’t matter. We must make gestures of inquiry of course, but in reality I’m pleased to the bone. And now,” he stopped and looked at the child, “Henry Clay, would you like to go out and sit in the front seat with Hopkins?” “I _’druther_ stay with yo’, suh,” the little boy replied earnestly. “Very well, then.” He sighed slightly. “We will regard you merely as part of the stage setting.” He stepped on to the Wishing Carpet. “Now, Beany, old son, you’ll see how this thing works! I wish,” he said solemnly and urgently, holding out his arms to Glen Darrow, “I wish you would come here.” She came to him, walking slowly and steadily, her eyes on his face. “You see, Beany?” He caught her in his arms so that she, too, stood upon the rich and mellow tones which had delighted Glenwood Darrow’s pale bride. “I’ve never kissed you, have I? I’ve planned, and pictured, and imagined, and of course, when I was off my head--but I’ve never actually kissed you, have I?” She shook her head, but the little place in the center of her palm gave a sudden warm throb. “No. We are arrived, then, at the longed-for, dreamed-of moment when I begin to kiss you.” She stirred in his arms and they tightened about her. “I am still frail,” murmured Peter Parker reproachfully, “and I _wish_ you would remain quite still while I ... begin ... to ... kiss you....” There in the quaintly lovely room which fragile Effie Darrow’s yearnings had brought into being, with Miss Ada, blushing, tearful, creeping out in her crocheted slippers to hang over the stair rail, looking and listening, with the Altonia perishing in cleansing flame, with Mrs. Eugenia Adams Parker exulting in her room at the Bella Vista, and Janice Jennings, halted on a dim street, smudging her vivid make-up with a torrent of wild weeping, with a mocking bird tuning up for his night’s engagement, they stood upon The Wishing Carpet in a high oblivion of young joy. But a sound, so strange and unwonted that it pierced even that armored moment, made them turn and stare.