The man turned his head slightly.
"That seems hard," he said; "what's the reason?"
"I'm 'most twelve," said Caroline; "you have to be a young lady,
then."
"I see," the man said. He looked at her thoughtfully. "I suppose you
_would_ look larger in more clothes," he added.
"That's it," she assured him, "I do. That's just it."
"And so you expect to avoid all this by running away?" he asked,
settling into his own stump seat. "I am afraid you can't do it."
Caroline set her teeth. He regarded her quizzically.
"See here," he went on, "I wish you'd take my advice in this
matter."
They confronted each other in the starlight, a strange pair before
the dying fire. The moon had gone, and the stars, though bright,
seemed less solid and less certainly gold than before. A cool breeze
swept through the wood and Caroline shivered in her torn nightdress.
The man stepped into the tent and returned with a long army cloak.
This he wrapped round her and resumed his seat, with Rufus on his
knee.
"My name," he said, "is Peter. Everybody calls me that--just Peter.
I don't know exactly why it is, but a lot of people--all over--have
got into the way of taking my advice. Perhaps because I've knocked
about all over the world more or less, and haven't got any wife or
children or brothers and sisters of my own to advise, so I take it
out on everybody else.
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