"Oh, mother," said Peter to himself, "if you just knew who is sitting
on the rail at the foot of the bed."

Very gently he patted the little mound that her feet made, and he
could see by her face that she liked it. He knew he had but to say
"Mother" ever so softly, and she would wake up. They always wake up
at once if it is you that says their name. Then she would give such a
joyous cry and squeeze him tight. How nice that would be to him, but
oh, how exquisitely delicious it would be to her. That I am afraid is
how Peter regarded it. In returning to his mother he never doubted
that he was giving her the greatest treat a woman can have. Nothing
can be more splendid, he thought, than to have a little boy of your
own. How proud of him they are; and very right and proper, too.

But why does Peter sit so long on the rail, why does he not tell his
mother that he has come back?

I quite shrink from the truth, which is that he sat there in two
minds. Sometimes he looked longingly at his mother, and sometimes he
looked longingly at the window. Certainly it would be pleasant to be
her boy again, but, on the other hand, what times those had been in
the Gardens! Was he so sure that he would enjoy wearing clothes
again? He popped off the bed and opened some drawers to have a look
at his old garments. They were still there, but he could not remember
how you put them on. The socks, for instance, were they worn on the
hands or on the feet? He was about to try one of them on his hand,
when he had a great adventure. Perhaps the drawer had creaked; at any
rate, his mother woke up, for he heard her say "Peter," as if it was
the most lovely word in the language. He remained sitting on the