"Girl."

Now surely he would understand; but not a bit of it.

"Peter," she said, faltering, "are you expecting me to fly away
with you?"

"Of course; that is why I have come." He added a little
sternly, "Have you forgotten that this is spring cleaning time?"

She knew it was useless to say that he had let many spring
cleaning times pass.

"I can't come," she said apologetically, "I have forgotten how
to fly."

"I'll soon teach you again."

"O Peter, don't waste the fairy dust on me."

She had risen; and now at last a fear assailed him. "What is
it?" he cried, shrinking.

"I will turn up the light," she said, "and then you can see for
yourself."

For almost the only time in his life that I know of, Peter was
afraid. "Don't turn up the light," he cried.

She let her hands play in the hair of the tragic boy. She was
not a little girl heart-broken about him; she was a grown woman
smiling at it all, but they were wet eyed smiles.

Then she turned up the light, and Peter saw. He gave a cry of
pain; and when the tall beautiful creature stooped to lift him in
her arms he drew back sharply.

"What is it?" he cried again.

She had to tell him.