"Well—hardly," he said.
The Lady looked pretty surprised. When she wasn't looking surprised she looked thoughtful.
Her voice sounded little when she got it started again.
"Maybe—Maybe I DO take my responsibilities too heavily," she said. "But it's this—this sleeping business that worries me so."
"I should think it would," said our Uncle Peter.
"No Nurse Maid will stay with me," said the Lady. "They say it gives them the creeps.—It's enough to give anyone the creeps.—A grown person of course expects a certain amount of wakefulness, but a child,—a little care-free—heedless child—? Just when you think you've got him safely to sleep—all cuddled up in your own bed or even in his own bed—and are just drowsing off into the first real sleep you've had for a week—?—Patter—Patter—Patter in the hall! Creak—Creak—Creak on the stairs! A chair bumped over in the Library!—Bumped over on purpose you understand! Just to make a noise! 'Noises are his friends,' he says. Why once—once—" The Lady's mouth smiled a little. "Once when I woke and missed him and hunted everywhere—I found him at last in the Pantry—on the floor—with his ear cuddled close up to a mouse-hole! Mouse-Nibble Noises he says are his special friends in the middle of the night when there isn't anything else.—ANYTHING to break the silence it seems to be!—Why in the world should he be afraid of a Silence? Nobody can account for it!"
"Possibly not," said our Uncle Peter. "Yet the fact remains that either within or just outside the borders of his consciousness the only two people responsible for his Being have disappeared unaccountably into a Silence——from which they have not returned."
"Oh dear," said the Lady. "I never thought of that! You mean—You mean—that perhaps he thinks that a Silence is a Hole that you might fall into if you don't fill it up with a Noise? Why the poor little fellow!—How in the world is one ever to tell?—Oh dear—Oh dear——" She sank back in her chair and floated her hands in her lap. Her eyes looked as though she was going to cry again. But she didn't cry. That is, not much. Mostly she just sighed. "It isn't as though he was an easy child to understand," she sighed. "He catches cold so easily, and mumps and everything.—And he's so irritable.—He kicks,—he bites,—he scratches!"
"So I have seen demonstrated," said our Uncle Peter.
"Oh, it's quite evident," cried the Lady, "that you think I'm harsh with him!—But whatever in the world would YOU do?" She threw out her hands toward the pretty room,—the rugs,—the pictures,—the fire,—the toys. "Perhaps you can tell me what he NEEDS?" she said.