"I just do know," he said.

So as he persisted in his wish, they had to grant it. The way they
gave him power to fly was this: They all tickled him on the shoulder,
and soon he felt a funny itching in that part and then up he rose
higher and higher and flew away out of the Gardens and over the
house-tops.

It was so delicious that instead of flying straight to his old home he
skimmed away over St. Paul's to the Crystal Palace and back by the
river and Regent's Park, and by the time he reached his mother's
window he had quite made up his mind that his second wish should be to
become a bird.

The window was wide open, just as he knew it would be, and in he
fluttered, and there was his mother lying asleep.

Peter alighted softly on the wooden rail at the foot of the bed and
had a good look at her. She lay with her head on her hand, and the
hollow in the pillow was like a nest lined with her brown wavy hair.
He remembered, though he had long forgotten it, that she always gave
her hair a holiday at night.

How sweet the frills of her night-gown were. He was very glad she was
such a pretty mother.

But she looked sad, and he knew why she looked sad. One of her arms
moved as if it wanted to go round something, and he knew what it
wanted to go round.