Peter was busy writing when the knock came on his door. Now, whether it was telepathy or clairvoyance is not known, but his heart jumped at the knock, and he got up quickly, opening wide the door.
“What is wrong?” he queried anxiously as he saw Anne’s face. He almost forgot to be surprised at her presence there.
“It’s Dickie,” said Anne. “He’s ill, very ill. The child has got some queer ideas into his head. He has mixed you up in an odd way with the Pied Piper of Hamelin. He has been talking about you a great deal—half in delirium, you understand. He wants you to pipe to him.” She stopped.
“Oh!” ejaculated Peter, his voice full of sympathy. “The pathetic little mite! I’ll come at once.” And then he, too, stopped, hesitated. “If you will go on,” he said, “I’ll follow you.”
“Can’t you,” asked Anne, “come back with me now at once? I fancy—I may be wrong—that the doctor thinks every minute is of importance.”
Peter flushed. “Of course,” he said, “I’ll come now. It was only—” Again he stopped, and Anne waited, wondering.
“Only,” said Peter desperately, “that I thought perhaps you would rather not walk with me. I—the villagers, you know, look upon me with disfavour.”
Anne raised her chin. There was a little regal [Pg 198]air in the gesture. “But really,” she assured him, “I am not accustomed to consider the opinion of the villagers.”
“Oh, you idiot,” groaned Peter inwardly, “you idiot, you double-dyed dolt! Now you’ve offended her, though I protest your intentions were good.” Aloud he said meekly, “I’ll come with you at once.”