“Tired, Peter? Hadn’t you better——”
“Oh, not yet! Please, just another five minutes.”
“The dustman’s come to my Peterkin’s eyes,” his mother murmured.
He sat up, valiantly trying to look wakeful.
They had not the heart to cut short his respite—it was such an eternity till Christmas. His head sank against his mother’s knees and his eyes closed tightly, tightly.
“Poor little fellow,” his father said.
“My darling little Peterkins”—that was his mother.
They carried him up to bed. On the half-landing, outside the nursery door, they halted, remembering how their dreams had shaped his character long before God had made his body.
Next morning, soon after breakfast, Mr. Grace drove up to the door as he had promised. He drove all the best people of Topbury to their battlefields of joy or sorrow. He was Topbury’s herald of change, and had learnt to control his emotions under the most trying circumstances. But this morning, when the straight little figure came bravely down the steps, something happened to Mr. Grace’s eyes.
“Good-bye, darlingest mother. Good-bye, little kitten Kay. Good-bye. Good-bye. Good-bye.”