"I can manage, thank you," she said coldly. "No need for you or your mother to bother," and she walked on.

"Peter, don't be a beast. Wait for me. I've run away specially."

Perhaps she was being rather a beast after all.

"Sorry, Jenny. I'm feeling grumpy. It was decent of you to come, though, but I think I can find my way. Why wouldn't your mother let you come?"

But Jenny would not answer the last question. All she said was:

"If you leave your bike in this field I'll collect it on my way back and get your puncture mended in the morning. I promise I will, and then you needn't push it along now."

This was certainly a good idea, and when Jenny insisted on carrying the knapsack for a little Peter felt very ashamed of her bad manners. Soon they came to the second lane, and when they had turned down it, Peter said again:

"It's jolly good of you to come, Jenny. Will you get into trouble when you get back? Why didn't your mother want you to come with me?"

"Oh - I expect I will. I'm always getting into trouble. I wish I could go away to school like you do - I hate it here. I hate this place. Will you come and get your bike tomorrow and come and see me?"

"'Course I will. I'd like to. There'll be nobody at Seven Gates of my age. And you must come up there. I'll ask Aunt Carol to ask you."

"I don't expect Mum would let me do that - but we'll meet somehow, Peter. It'll be grand."

They had reached the wood now and the whispering trees shut out the twilight of the stormy evening. In another ten minutes it would be quite dark.

Suddenly Jenny stopped.

"I can't come any farther," she said sharply, but with an odd break in her voice. "I must go back at once. You're nearly at the first gate, and when you're there you just follow the track. Good-bye, Peter - and good luck!" she added unexpectedly, and before she could be thanked she had turned and was running back down the lane.