In the darkness of his room he lay awake, listening to footsteps in the downstairs part of the house. The servants came up and the gas on the landing was lowered to a jet. Then he heard the rustling of paper, and his mother and father whispering together.
“That’s for Glory.”
“It won’t go into her stocking.”
“Oh, yes, it will at a stretch.”
“And who’s this for?”
“That’s for Peter, old silly; go and lay it on his bed.” Through half-closed eyes Peter saw his father enter, straight and tall, with his cropped hair and direct way of walking, so much like a soldier-man. He came on tiptoe, trying to be stealthy; but he stumbled against a chair.
Nan came hurrying noiselessly. “Oh Billy, darling, you’re a rotten Santa Claus. Have you wakened him now?”
They listened. When Peter did not stir, his father whispered, “It’s all right, kiddy; the little chap sleeps soundly. By Jove, he’s not hung up his stocking!”
They examined the end of the bed. Then his mother spoke. “No, he hasn’t. He couldn’t have been feeling well. He’s been worrying, I’m sure he has, all this last month.”
“A boy of his age oughtn’t to worry. What about?”