“Then let's call it Pax,” said Peter, magnanimously: “bury the hatchet in the fathoms of the past. Shake hands on it. I say, Bobbie, old chap, I am tired.”
He was tired for many days after that, and the settle seemed hard and uncomfortable in spite of all the pillows and bolsters and soft folded rugs. It was terrible not to be able to go out. They moved the settle to the window, and from there Peter could see the smoke of the trains winding along the valley. But he could not see the trains.
At first Bobbie found it quite hard to be as nice to him as she wanted to be, for fear he should think her priggish. But that soon wore off, and both she and Phyllis were, as he observed, jolly good sorts. Mother sat with him when his sisters were out. And the words, “he's not a coward,” made Peter determined not to make any fuss about the pain in his foot, though it was rather bad, especially at night.
Praise helps people very much, sometimes.
There were visitors, too. Mrs. Perks came up to ask how he was, and so did the Station Master, and several of the village people. But the time went slowly, slowly.
“I do wish there was something to read,” said Peter. “I've read all our books fifty times over.”
“I'll go to the Doctor's,” said Phyllis; “he's sure to have some.”
“Only about how to be ill, and about people's nasty insides, I expect,” said Peter.
“Perks has a whole heap of Magazines that came out of trains when people are tired of them,” said Bobbie. “I'll run down and ask him.”
So the girls went their two ways.