Last of all, the Grey Hill. Peter climbed it on the last afternoon of all.
He was quite alone, and the world was very still; he could not hear the sea
at all. At last he was at the top and leant his back against the Giant's
Finger. Looking round there are the hills that guard Truro, there are the
woods where the rabbits are, there is the sea, and a wonderful view of
Treliss rising into a peak which is The Man at Arms--and the smoke of the
town mingled with the grey uncertain clouds, and the clouds mingled with
the sea, and the only certain and assured thing was the strength of the
Giant's Finger. That at least he could feel cold and hard against his
hands. He felt curiously solemn and grave, and even a little tearful--and
he stole down, through the dusk, softly as though his finger were on his
lips.

And then after this a multitude of hurrying sensations with their climax
in a very, very early morning, when one dressed with a candle, when one's
box was corded and one's attic looked strangely bare, when there was a
surprising amount to eat at breakfast, when one stole downstairs softly. He
had said good-bye to his mother on the previous evening, and she had kissed
him, and he had felt uncomfortable and shy.

Then there were Mrs. Trussit and his aunt to see him off, there was a cab
and, most wonderful of all, there was his father coming in the cab. That
was a dreadful thing and the journey to the station seemed endless because
of it. His father was perfectly silent, and any thrill that Peter might
have snatched from the engines, the porters, the whistles, and his own
especial carriage were negatived by this paralysing occurrence. He would
have liked to have said something himself, but he could only think of
things that were quite impossible like "How funny Mrs. Trussit's nose is
early in the morning," "I wonder what old Parlow's doing."