Peter gave her hands a little shake, as if he would have shaken her. I think that he would have shaken her if it had been two or three thousand years earlier in the world's history.
"You two!" he cried; "why, Miggy, when we marry do I want—or do you want—that it should stay just you and me? We want children. I want you for their mother as much as I want you for my wife."
It was the voice of the paramount, compelling spirit, the sovereign voice of the Family, calling through the wilderness. Peter knew,—this fine, vital boy seeking his own happiness; he gropingly understood this mighty thing, and he was trying his best to serve it. And, without knowing that she knew, Miggy knew too ... and the seal that she knew was in what was in the sunset. And as far removed from these things as the sunset itself was all Miggy's cheap cynicism about love and all the triviality of her criticism of Peter.
Miggy stood motionless, looking at Peter. And then, like an evil spell which began to work, another presence was in the room....
Somewhile before I had begun to hear the sound, as a faint undercurrent to consciousness; an unimportant, unpleasant, insisting sound that somehow interfered. Gradually it had come nearer and had interfered more and had mingled harshly with the tender treble of Little Child. Now, from Peter's gate the sound besieged my ears and entered the room and explained itself to us all—
"My Mary Anna Mary, what you mean I never know,
You don't make me merry, very, but you make me sorry, oh—"
the "oh" prolonged, undulatory, exploring the air....
I knew what it was, and they knew. At the sound of his father's voice, drunken, piteous, Peter dropped Miggy's hands and his head went down and he stood silent, like a smitten thing. My own heart sank, for I knew what Miggy had felt, and I thought I knew what she would feel now. So here was another unfulfilled intention, another plan gone astray in an unperfected order.
Peter had turned somewhat away before he spoke.