o placidly on the floor that she allowed him
to remain there. "And I know you meant to be kind," she said, relenting,
"so you may give me a kiss."

For the moment she had forgotten his ignorance about kisses. "I thought
you would want it back," he said a little bitterly, and offered to
return her the thimble.

"Oh dear," said the nice Wendy, "I don't mean a kiss, I mean a thimble."

"What's that?"

"It's like this." She kissed him.

"Funny!" said Peter gravely. "Now shall I give you a thimble?"

"If you wish to," said Wendy, keeping her head erect this time.

Peter thimbled her, and almost immediately she screeched. "What is it,
Wendy?"

"It was exactly as if someone were pulling my hair."

"That must have been Tink. I never knew her so naughty before."

And indeed Tink was darting about again, using offensive language.

"She says she will do that to you, Wendy, every time I give you a
thimble."

"But why?"

"Why, Tink?"

Again Tink replied, "You silly ass." Peter could not understand why,
but Wendy understood, and she was just slightly disappointed when he
admitted that he came to the nursery window not to see her but to listen
to stories.

"You see, I don't know any stories. None of the lost boys knows any
stories."

"How perfectly awful," Wendy said.

"Do you know," Peter asked "why swallows build in the eaves of houses?
It is to listen to the stories. O Wendy, your mother was telling you
such a lovely story."

"Which story was it?"

"About the prince who couldn't find the lady who wore the glass
slipper."

"Peter," said Wendy excitedly, "that was Cinderella, and he found her,
and they lived happily ever after."

Peter was so glad that he rose from the floor, where they had been
sitting, and hurried to the window.

"Where are you going?" she cried with misgiving.

"To tell the other boys."

"Don't go Peter," she entreated, "I know such lots of stories."

Those were her precise words, so there can be no denying that it was she
who first tempted him.

He came back, and there was a greedy look in his eyes now which ought to
have alarmed her, but did not.

"Oh, the stories I could tell to the boys!" she cried, and then Peter
gripped her and began to draw her toward the window.

"Let me go!" she ordered him.

"Wendy, do come with me and tell the other boys."

Of course she was very pleased to be asked, but she said, "Oh dear, I
can't. Think of mummy! Besides, I can't fly."

"I'l