o to bed, Hilary, and leave these two to watch
together."

"Give me the froglet." She took it from his arms, gently, and kissed
first one then the other.

"Good night, little Peter. You are a darling entirely, and I love you.
And don't worry, not over not being liked or anything else, because it
surely isn't worth it."

She was always affectionate and maternal to Peter; but to-night she was
more so than usual. Looking at her as she stood in her loose, slatternly
_neglige_, beneath the extravagantly blazing chandelier, the red bundle
cuddling a round black head into her neck, her grey eyes smiling at him,
lit with love and laughter and a pity that lay deeper than both, Peter
was caught into her atmosphere of debonair and tranquil restfulness, that
said always, "Take life easy; nothing's worth worrying over, not problems
or poverty or even one's sins." How entirely true. Nothing _was_ worth
worrying over; certainly other people's strange points of view weren't.
It was a gospel of ease and _laissez-faire_ well suited to Peter's
temperament. He smiled at Peggy and Hilary and their son, and went up
the marble stairs to bed. He was haunted till he slept by the memory of
Hilary's nervous, tired face as he had seen it in the moonlight in the
gondola, and again in the hall as he said good night. Hilary wasn't
coming to bed yet. He stayed to talk to Peggy. If anything could be good
for Hilary's moods of depression, thought Peter, Peggy would. How jolly
for Hilary to be married to her! She was such a refreshment always. She
was so understanding; and was there a lapse somewhere in that very
understandingness of her that made it the more restful--that made her
a relaxation to strained minds? To those who were breaking their moral
sense over some problem, she would return simply, "There isn't any
problem. Take things as they come and make the best of them, and don't,
don't worry!" "I'm struggling with a temptation to steal a purse," Peter
imagined himself saying to her, "What can I do about it?" And her swift
answer came, with her indulgent, humorous smile, "Dear little boy, if it
makes you any happier--do it!" And then she would so well understand
the ensuing remorse; she would be so sympathetic, so wholly dear and
comforting. She would say anything in the world to help, except "Put it
back." Even that she would say if one's own inclinations were tending in
that direction. But never if they weren't. She would never be so hard, so