Nan hesitated. “Our Peter’s very compassionate—— He loved Ocky. I’ve looked through his eyes often lately; I’m sure he’s condemning us.”
“Us! Poor little Peterkins! It must hurt—— Well, he doesn’t understand.”
They bent over him, kissing him, thinking he slept.
“Peter always fancies that everyone must be good whom he loves.”
And Nan answered, “You can make anyone good by love—don’t you think so, Billy?”
He slipped his arm about her and leant his face against her hair. “I know you made me better, dearest.”
The gas was extinguished and their feet died out on the stairs.
One! Two! Three! The grandfather-clock in the hall struck out the hours. Peter could not bear it. He must tell someone. He threw back the clothes and crept to the door; his parents’ room was under his—they must not hear him. A board creaked. He halted, his fingers on his mouth, his heart drumming. No one stirred; through the heavy silence came the light breathing of sleepers.
Pressing his hand against the wall to steady himself, he tiptoed along the passage, past Riska’s room, past Grace’s, till he came to the door of the room in which Glory and Kay lay together. He looked in; a shaft of moonlight fell across their faces on the pillow. He was struck with how alike they were: the same narrow penciled eyebrows; the same sensitive bowed mouth, just a little short in the upper lip; the same streaming honey-colored hair.
He stood looking down at them. Since he had noticed this, he felt a new kindness for Glory. Kay turned on her side and the paper on the presents at the foot of the bed crackled. Should he—should he tell Glory? She looked so gentle. No, it would be selfish; he must endure the burden of his knowledge himself. And yet——. He was very troubled.