"Oh, yes, but not on the stage any more, you know," Caroline explained.
"I see. Does she sing, I wonder, a song about— Oh, something about 'my heart'?"
"'My heart's own heart,' you mean," Caroline said importantly; "yes, indeed. It's her encore song."
"I see," said Peter again.
He looked into the fire, and there was a long silence. After a while he shook his shoulders like a water-dog.
"Now, Caroline," he said briskly, "here's the way of this business. You can't wear knickers until you're one of the boys, and you can't be one of the boys until you wear knickers. Do you see? So you don't get anywhere."
Caroline looked puzzled. She was suddenly overcome with sleep, and the old familiar names and ways tasted of home and comfort to her soul.
"You're too nice to be a boy, Caroline," said Peter, leaning over her and brushing her azalea-crowned hair tenderly with his lips. "If you persist in this plan of running away to be a boy, some boy, growing up anxiously, somewhere,
