him, the blue lamps very bright in his pale face, and thought what a
jolly voice and face Urquhart had. Urquhart stood by the bed, his hands
in his pockets, and looked rather pleasantly down at the thin, childish
figure in pink striped pyjamas. Peter was fourteen, and looked less,
being delicate to frailness. Urquhart had been rather shocked by his
extreme lightness. He had also been pleased by his pluck; hence the
pleasant expression of his eyes. He was a little touched, too, by the
unmistakable admiration in the over-bright blue regard. Urquhart was not
unused to admiration; but here was something very whole-hearted and
rather pleasing. Margerison seemed rather a nice little kid.

Then, quite suddenly, and still in his pleasant, soft, casual tones,
Urquhart dragged Peter's immense secret into the light of day.

"How are your people?" he said.

Peter stammered that they were quite well.

"Of course," Urquhart went on, "I don't remember your mother; I was only
a baby when my father died. But I've always heard a lot about her. Is
she..."

"She's dead, you know," broke in Peter hastily, lest Urquhart should make
a mistake embarrassing to himself. "A long time ago," he added, again
anxious to save embarrassment.

"Yes--oh yes." Urquhart, from his manner, might or might not have known.

"I live with my uncle," Peter further told him, thus delicately and
unobstrusively supplying the information that Mr. Margerison too was