“I shall be extremely little use,” said Peter.

“Extremely little,” Leslie agreed.  “You’d much better not try.  But if you must you must.”

“I’m afraid I must,” said Peter.

So Leslie wrote letters about him, and secured him a humble post in a warehouse.  Leslie was not going to return to England at present.  He was going a tour round the world.  Since Peter refused to accompany him, he went alone.

“There’s no one else I can fancy hanging round me day and night,” he said.  “I wanted you, Margery”—­the nickname fell from him with a clumsy pathos—­“but if you won’t you won’t.  I shall acquire an abominable collection of objects without you to guide me; but that can’t be helped.”

The other thing that happened was that Mrs. Johnson fell suddenly ill and died.  Before she died, she talked to Peter about Rhoda.

“It’s leaving of her as I can’t bear,” she whispered.  “All alone and unprotected like.  I can’t leave her by herself in this heathen country.  I want to get her back to England.  But she’s got no relatives there as’ll do for her; none, you know, as I should care to trust her to, or as ’ud be really good to her.  And I’m afraid of what’ll come to the child without me; I’m afraid, Mr. Peter.  That man—­it gives me the creeps of nights to think of him comin’ after Rhoder when I’m gone.  I’m just frightened as he’ll get her; you know what Rhoder is, like a soft wax candle that gets droopy and gives before his bold look; he can do anythin’ with her.  And if he gets her, he won’t be good to her, I know that.  He’ll just break her and toss her away, my little gal.  Oh, what can I do, Mr. Peter, to save that?”

She was in great pain; drops of sweat kept gathering on her forehead and rolling on to the pillow.  Peter took her hand that picked at the blanket.

“May we try to take care of her?” he gently asked.  “If she will come and stay with us, in London, it would be better than being alone among strangers, wouldn’t it?  She could get work near, and live with us.  Peggy is fond of her, you know; we all are.  We would try to make her as happy as we could.”

She smiled at him, between laboured breaths.

“God bless you, dear Mr. Peter.  I somehow thought as how you’d be good to my little gal....  You are so sympathetic to everyone always....  Yes, Rhoder shall do that; I’ll have her promise.  And that man—­you’ll keep him off of her?”

“I will try,” said Peter.  “I will do my very best.”

“Oh, Lord, oh, dear Lord,” said Mrs. Johnson, “the pain!”

But it didn’t last long, for she died that night.

And four days later the boarding-house was broken up, and the Margerison family and Rhoda Johnson left Italy together.

Rhoda was very quiet and still and white.  She was terribly alone, for her mother was gone, and the man she loved was gone, hurriedly, without a word to her.  There remained the Margerisons; Peter, with his friendly smile and gentle companionableness; Hilary, worried and weary and hardly noticing her unobtrusive presence; Silvio, Caterina, and Illuminato sucking gingerbread and tumbling off the rack, and Peggy, on whose broad shoulder Rhoda suddenly laid her head and wept, all through the Mont Cenis tunnel.