I heard from all the home people, even Peter wrote, a most characteristic epistle with only about half the words wrongly spelt, and finishing with a spirited drawing of the Scotia attacked by pirates, an abject figure crouching in the bows being labelled “You!” How I miss that young brother of mine!  I ache to see his nubbly features ("nubbly” is a portmanteau word and exactly describes them) and the hair that no brush can persuade to lie straight, and to hear the broad accent—­a legacy from a nurse who hailed from a mining village in Lithgow—­which is such a trial to his relatives I have no illusions about Peter’s looks any more than he has himself.  A too candid relative commenting once on his excessive plainness in his presence, he replied, “Yes, I know, but I’ve a nice good face.”  I sometimes feel that if Peter turns out badly it will be greatly my fault.  Mother was so busy with many things that I naturally, as the big sister, did most of the training, and it wasn’t easy.  When I read to him on Sunday Tales of the Covenanters, he at once made up his mind that he much preferred Claverhouse to John Brown of Priesthill, an unheard-of heresy, and 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 Mr. Bathboth.  According to Peter, “he smoked, and he swored, and he put his fingers to his nose when his mother said he wasn’t to,” so we weren’t surprised to hear of his end.  He was pulled up to heaven by a crane for bathing in the sea on Sunday.  Another of Peter’s creatures was a bogle called “Windy Wallops” who lived in the garrets and could only be repulsed with hairbrushes.  “Whippetie Stoowrie,” on the other hand, was a kindly creature inhabiting the nursery chimney, and given to laying small offerings such as a pistol and caps or a sugar mouse on the fender.