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“And you’re not spoiled! Oh, no. Not a-tall!” growled Peter, returning to his room to prepare for the merry sport of driving his hens out of a neighbour’s garden. The worst of it to Peter’s mind was that he knew that Anne would be able to do precisely as she promised, that her explanation would mollify, if not amuse, his father, and that Peter would keep his hens through her intercession. The thought infuriated him. He turned back to the stairway and called down:

“You get a move on you and come help me head those hens, or they’ll go down to the city hall and dig out the statue of old Carrington on the mall!”

“Oh, Peter-two, take care! That’s Kit’s great-grandfather, or somebody, and he’s here!” remonstrated Anne in a shocked voice, as one always right.

Anne Dallas and Joan managed to have their faces hidden in the baby’s preparations for departure when little Anne came back, but Kit was caught in throes of laughter. He was waiting to walk home with Anne Dallas.

“I hope you don’t mind, Kit?” little Anne said, anxiously. “Peter-two wasn’t hitting at your great-grandfather’s statue, or whoever he is; he meant me and the hens. I’m sorry mother wasn’t home, but I did enjoy your call, Mr. Carrington.” She gave Kit her hand with the air of a fine lady.