"Don't cry, Peter, dear.

It'll soon be all right--all right--" And the sob came again into her throat, and clung there like a choking fist, until they came to the edge of the big forest.
She looked down, and saw that Peter's eyes were closed; and not until then did the miracle of understanding come upon her fully that there was no difference at all between the dying baby's face and dying Peter's, except that one had been white and soft, and Peter's was different--and covered with hair.
"God'll take care o' you, Peter," she whispered.

"He will--God, 'n' me, and Mister Roger--" She knew there was untruth in what she was saying for no one, not even God, would ever take care of Peter again--in life.

His still little face and the terrible grief in her own heart told her that.

For Peter's back was broken, and he was going--going even now--as she ran moaningly with him through the deep aisles of the forest.