“And Barbara is a girl,” commented Kit. “I hope you don’t think boys are less fit to live than girls, little Anne?”
“Well,” said little Anne, slowly, “Sister Gervase teaches the middle-sized ones at my school, and she says boys pass through a trying—I think she said ‛stage,’ but there aren’t any in Cleavedge; there are buses in New York on Fifth Avenue, and I rode on top, but I do think she said ‛stage.’ Sister says they have to be rather bad, but that there’s lots of good mixed up with it, too. Anyway, she says, what would we do if there weren’t any boys to grow up men, and that’s what I think.”
“Do you?” said a gruff voice from the doorway, laden with pessimistic contempt. “What I think is that no boy at your age ever talked one-sixteenth part as much as you do, and if boys were more trying than girls I’d pity ’em. But what’s more, I’d pity their families.” Peter stalked into the room and threw down an armful of books, nodded to Kit, and said with the air of one who had outlived emotion:
“I got your books changed at the library, Joan, but what you wanted was out, except that history essay stuff Antony wanted. And the girl over there sent something she hoped would suit you, but I don’t suppose it will.”
“You poor dear Pete!” cried Joan. “You’re a trump to do this tiresome errand! If they’re not right, never mind; I’ll take them back in the baby’s carriage when I go out with her to-morrow. I’m sorry I didn’t do that in the first place; I’ve no business to be such a nuisance!”
“You’re no nuisance; you never were, Joan,” said Peter, graciously. “If I thought Anne would ever grow up to be a little like you it sure would be a pleasant thought!”
“Now never mind about little Anne,” interposed Mrs. Berkley, seeing little Anne getting ready for self-defence, at which she was only too adept. “She’s a loving little girl who tries to correct her faults, especially now.” Mrs. Berkley held up the thin white material on which she was sewing. “You see, Peter, dear, you are too near Anne’s age to remember how it feels to be that age; we understand it better from our greater distance. But you are the best lad in the world, Peter the Second, just as Anne is the dearest little girl.”
Mrs. Berkley, having contrived to suggest to Peter his extreme youth, proceeded to rejoice the heart which adored her by beaming on him affectionately that his vanity might not be too deeply wounded.
As Kit looked on and listened to this talk the disturbance of mind with which he had set out faded away. They were not saying wise things that could be quoted; they were not doing great deeds, unless it were both wise and great thus to correct, guide, make happy. Kit felt that it was. He was not an analyst; he instinctively felt much that he could not formulate in words; he possessed a code for his own guidance that he would have found difficult to write out for another. Now he began to see by the steady light of inward vision recent events cast upon the screen in their true proportions, the unconscious goodness of this simple family, the standard by which he measured them.
“I’ve some money that my mother left me,” he said, aloud, as unexpectedly to himself as to his audience.