Aunt Ellen shuddered.
"Darling, don't you think a little walk would do you good?"
"I don't mind," said William. "May I take the bow and arrows?"
"I think not," said Aunt Ellen.
"All right," said William despondently.
******
William started off down the road. Aunt Ellen returned once more to her slumbers. Peace reigned once more over the house. But not over William. William walked slowly and dejectedly, his hands in his pockets. A week of sheer boredom lay before him—of a garden arranged purely for the grown-up world, of books containing obnoxious Peters, of irate gardeners, of spiteful cats. He didn't think that he was going to enjoy himself. He didn't think that there was going to be anything to do. He didn't think that his walk that afternoon would contain anything of the least interest. He didn't know any boys here. He didn't want to know any boys in a place like this. They were probably all Peters. He felt a burning hatred of Peter. He wouldn't mind meeting Peter....
He was tired of walking along the high road. He crawled through a hole in the hedge and found himself in someone's garden. He didn't care. He was in the reckless mood of the outlaw. He walked along the lawn and up to the house. He didn't care. He'd like to see anyone try to turn him out. That ole gardener—that ole cat—that ole Peter. Then he stopped suddenly——
Through an open window he could see a room, and a man sitting at a writing-desk. On the writing-desk was a pile of books: "What to do with Baby," "Hints on the Upbringing of Children," "Every Mother's Reference Book," and others of the same nature. There were also several type-written manuscripts and several copies of a magazine, "The Monthly Signal: A Magazine for Mothers."
But it was not on these that William fastened his scowling gaze. It was on a book, or rather a pile of books, from whose covers the simpering, curly-haired face of the hateful Peter looked out upon the world.