came in from my stroll round
to the pillar-box with a letter, and he told me he was one of Mrs.
Lesley's little sons, and then we got talking. But I had no idea his
mamma would be alarmed. I am afraid it has been much more than a few
minutes. I _am_ sorry.'

It was impossible to say anything to trouble the poor old lady: she
looked as if she were going to cry.

'It will be all right now,' said Clement. 'Mamma will be so delighted to
see him safe and sound. But we had better hurry home. Come along,
Peterkin.'

But nothing would make Peterkin forget his good manners. He tugged off
his sailor cap again, which he had just put on, and held out his hand,
for the second or third time, I daresay, as he and his old lady had
evidently been hobnobbing over their leave-takings for some minutes
before we made our appearance.

'Good-bye!' he said; 'and thank you very much. And I'll ask mamma to let
me come whenever you fix the day for the parrot. And please tell me all
he tells you about the little girl. And--thank you very much.'

They were the funniest pair. She so tiny and thin and white, with bright
dark eyes, like some bird's, and Peterkin so short and sturdy and rosy,
with his big dreamy ones looking up at her. She was just a little taller
than he. And suddenly I saw his rosy face grow still rosier; crimson or
scarlet, really. For Mrs. Wylie made a dash at him and kissed him, and
unluckily Peterkin did not like being kissed, except by mamma and Elf.
His politeness, however, stood him in good stead. He did not pull away,
or show that he hated it, as lots of fellows would have done. He stood
quite still, and then, with another tug at his cap, ran down the steps
after Clem and me.

Clement waited a moment or two before he spoke. It was his way; but just
now it was a good thing, as Mrs. Wylie did not shut the door quite at
once, and everything was so quiet in that little side street, in the
evening especially, that very likely our voices would have carried back
to her. I, for my part, was longing to shake Peterkin, though I felt
very inclined to burst out laughing, too. But I knew it was best to
leave the 'rowing' to Clem.

'Peterkin,' he began at last, 'I don't know what to say to you.'

Peterkin had got hold of Clem's hand and was holding it tight, and he
was already rather out of breath, as Clem was walking fast--very fast
for him--and he has always been a long-legged chap for his age, thin and
wiry, too; whereas, in