yawning vigorously, announced that he was as dull as a bull and as sick as a daisy. One night when I went to hear him say his prayers, he said:
"I'm not going to say any prayers."
"Oh, Peter," I said, "why?"
"'Cos I've prayed for a whole year it would be snow on Christmas and it wasn't—just rain."
"Then," I said very gravely, "God won't take care of you through the night."
"Put me in my bed," said the little ruffian, "and I'll see;" and I was awakened at break of day by a small figure in pyjamas dancing at my bedside, shouting with unholy joy, "I'm here, you see, I'm here," and it was weeks before I could bring him to a better state of mind.
So much younger than any of us—the other boys were at Oxford when he was in his first knickerbockers—he was a lonely little soul and lived in a world of his own, peopled by the creatures of his own imaginings. His great friend was Mr. Bathboth of Bathboth—don't you like the name?—and he would come in from a walk with his nurse, fling down his cap and remark, "I've been seeing Mr. Bathboth in his own house—oh! a lovely house. It's a public-house!"
I'm afraid he was a very low character this
