At eleven o'clock Marie called Peter, who was asleep on the horsehair sofa.
“He asks for you.”
Peter was instantly awake and on his feet. The boy's eyes were open and fixed on him.
“Is it another day?” he asked.
“Yes, boy; another morning.”
“I am cold, Peter.”
They blanketed him, although the room was warm. From where he lay he could see the mice. He watched them for a moment. Poor Peter, very humble, found himself wondering in how many ways he had been remiss. To see this small soul launched into eternity without a foreword, without a bit of light for the journey! Peter's religion had been one of life and living, not of creed.
Marie, bringing jugs of hot water, bent over Peter.
“He knows, poor little one!” she whispered.
And so, indeed, it would seem. The boy, revived by a spoonful or two of broth, asked to have the two tame mice on the bed. Peter, opening the cage, found one dead, very stiff and stark. The catastrophe he kept from the boy.