n, which, of course, would not
prevent his returning to New York early enough next day for the first
opening of the first shop. He wished there were not so many shops.
Unless luck were with him on his search, he might not reach the dryad
for days.

In spite of all that had happened, midnight was not long past when
Peter tiptoed softly through the quiet house at home and opened the
door of his own den. He had expected to find the room in darkness, but
to his surprise the green-shaded reading lamp on the book-scattered
mahogany table was alight, and there in the horsehair-covered
rocking-chair sat mother with her inevitable work. Close by the window
was wide open, and the night breeze from over the Sound was
rhythmically waving the white dimity curtains.

The sweetness of home-coming swept over Peter with the perfume of
wallflowers which blew in on the wind--a sweetness almost as poignant
as that of fresias. Half unconsciously he had been wishing to see his
mother--perhaps not even to speak, but just to see her placid face in
its kind womanliness. It was almost as if his wish had been whispered
to her telepathically and she had answered it. She made a charming
picture, too, he thought, in the shadowy room where the pale, moving
curtains in the dimness were like spirits bringing peace, and all the
light focussed upon the white-haired, white-gowned woman in the high,
black chair seemed to radiate from her whiteness.

Mother looked up, pleased but not surprised, as the opening door
framed her son.

"Howdy do, deary!" She smiled at him. "I thought you'd be coming along
about this time."

Peter threw his hat and coat at the whale, whose large, shining
surface hospitably received them. Mrs. Rolls's small, plump feet in
cheap Japanese slippers rested upon a "hassock" on whose covering
reposed (in worsted) a black spaniel with blue high lights. This
animal she had herself created before the birth of Peter or Ena, but
it was as bright a beast as if it had been finished yesterday. No one
at Sea Gull Manor except Peter would have given Fido house room. But
he liked the dog, and now sat down on it, lifting his mother's little
feet to place them on his knee.

"You oughtn't to have waited up," he remarked, having kissed her
snow-white hair and both apple-pink cheeks and settled himself more or
less comfortably on Fido.

"I thought I would," she returned placidly. "I like being here. And I
had just this to finish." She held up