hough
he had long forgotten it, that she always gave her hair a holiday at
night. How sweet the frills of her nightgown 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.

'O 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.

[Illustration: The fairies sit round on mushrooms, and at first they
are well behaved]

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 should 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 floor and held his
breath, wondering how she knew that he had come back. If she said
'Peter' again, he meant to cry 'Mother' and run to her. But she spoke
no more, she made little moans only, and when he next peeped at her she
was once more asleep, with tears on her face.

It made Peter very miserable, and what do you thi