be ripping. I expect the old boy's rolling in
money. Grandfathers in books always are."

"Well, this one isn't in a book," said Mother, "so we mustn't expect him
to roll much."

"I say," said Peter, musingly, "wouldn't it be jolly if we all WERE in
a book, and you were writing it? Then you could make all sorts of jolly
things happen, and make Jim's legs get well at once and be all right
to-morrow, and Father come home soon and--"

"Do you miss your Father very much?" Mother asked, rather coldly, Peter
thought.

"Awfully," said Peter, briefly.

Mother was enveloping and addressing the second letter.

"You see," Peter went on slowly, "you see, it's not only him BEING
Father, but now he's away there's no other man in the house but
me--that's why I want Jim to stay so frightfully much. Wouldn't you like
to be writing that book with us all in it, Mother, and make Daddy come
home soon?"

Peter's Mother put her arm round him suddenly, and hugged him in silence
for a minute. Then she said:--

"Don't you think it's rather nice to think that we're in a book that
God's writing? If I were writing the book, I might make mistakes. But
God knows how to make the story end just right--in the way that's best
for us."

"Do you really believe that, Mother?" Peter asked quietly.

"Yes," she said, "I do believe it--almost always--except when I'm so sad
that I can't believe anything. But even when I can't believe it, I know
it's true--and I try to believe. You don't know how I try, Peter. Now
take the letters to the post, and don't let's be sad any more. Courage,
courage! That's the finest of all the virtues! I dare say Jim will be
here for two or three weeks yet."

For what was left of the evening Peter was so angelic that Bobbie feared
he was going to be ill. She was quite relieved in the morning to find
him plaiting Phyllis's hair on to the back of her chair in quite his old
manner.

It was soon after breakfast that a knock came at the door. The children
were hard at work cleaning the brass candlesticks in honour of Jim's
visit.

"That'll be the Doctor," said Mother; "I'll go. Shut the kitchen
door--you're not fit to be seen."

But it wasn't the Doctor. They knew that by the voice and by the sound
of the boots that went upstairs. They did not recognise the sound of the
boots, but everyone was certain that they had heard the voice before.

There was a longish interval. The boots and the voice did not come down
again.