“Won’t I do, Peter? She’s busy at present.”
“Please, I’ve got to speak to her.”
Miss Madge ruffled his hair—she had seen his mother do that. “What a strange little boy you are this morning! You look almost stern.”
She wanted to show him into the faded dining-room where a meager fire was burning; but he said that he preferred to wait in the hall. She looked back and laughed at him as she mounted the stairs. He did not reply to her friendliness. Then she ran; he had some trouble which he would not tell her.
He stood there on the mat twisting his cap. From the varnished paper on the wall a portrait of old Mr. Jacobite looked fiercely down. It seemed to say to him, “Little coward, coming to a pack of women! Learn to bear your own burdens.”
But where else could he go? Even if other friends were willing to help him, they kept servants and had people in and out of their houses. At the Misses Jacobite, provided he kept away from the windows, Uncle Waffles might hide for a twelve-month and never be caught.
Eerily, from the second floor, came the sound of Miss Leah singing. Her song never varied and never quite came to an end. Peter could picture how she sat staring straight before her through her red-rimmed eyes, her empty hands folded in her lap.
“On the other side of Jordan
In the sweet fields of Eden
Where the Tree of Life is growing