He knew now, of course, that Peter loved him; but Peter was a little boy,
and was taken by persons who were strong and liked a laugh and were kind in
little ways. Stephen knew that when Peter grew older he must love other and
wiser people. He was a very large man, six foot three and broad, with a
brown beard, and grey eyes like Peter's. He had been a fisherman, but now
he was a farmer, because it paid better--he had an old mother, one enemy,
and very many friends; he had loved a girl, and she had been engaged to him
for two years, but another man had taken her away and married her--and that
is why he had an enemy. He greeted his friends and kissed poor Jane Clewer
under the mistletoe, and then kissed old Mother Figgis, who pushed him away
with a laugh and "Coom up there--where are yer at?"--and Peter watched him
until his turn also should come. His legs were beating the wooden bars
again with excitement, but he would not say anything. He saw Stephen
as something very much larger and more stupendous than any one else in
the room. There were men there bigger of body perhaps, and men who were
richer--Stephen had only four cows on his farm and he never did much with
his hay--but there was no one who could change a room simply by entering it
as Stephen could.

At last the moment came--Stephen turned round--"Why, boy!"

Peter was glad that the rest of the room was busied once more with its
talking, laughing, and drinking, and some old man (sitting on a table and
his nose coming through the tobacco-smoke like a rat through a hole in the
wall) had struck up a tune on a fiddle. Peter was glad, because no one
watched them together. He liked to meet Stephen in private. He buried his
small hand in the brown depths of Stephen's large one, and then as Stephen
looked uncertainly round the room, he whispered: "Steve--my chair, and me
sitting on you--please."