“Because nobody else loved him.” Peter caught his voice tripping on a sob and stopped.
“But he made other people unhappy. Just think for a minute: Aunt Jehane’s homeless and so are all your cousins.”
“I know. But it seemed so dreadful for him to be lonely, wandering about—wandering about at Christmas.”
“But wasn’t it his own fault?”
Peter bit his lip—he’d never thought of not loving people just because they’d done wrong. Things were all so tangled. He remembered Jesus and the dying thief on the cross. Surely that, too, was the thief’s own fault? But he knew that people rarely quoted the Bible except on Sundays—so he just looked at his father and said nothing.—Again the minutes dragged on.
There was a tap at the door. Glory entered shyly. “I’m going to bed, Uncle. May I kiss you and Peter goodnight?”
Barrington nodded. “Come here, little girl; but first close the door.”
As she stooped over him, he slipped his arm round her and drew her to his knee. “Peter isn’t going to kiss you to-night. He thinks he isn’t worthy.”
“Peter not worthy!” She shook back the hair from her eyes and gazed from Peter to her uncle incredulously.
“He doesn’t think he’s worthy to be loved by any of us. He expects he won’t live here much longer.”