It was about five o’clock in the afternoon that Peter entered a small market-town.  
There were a good many people in the streets, for it was market-day, and there was an air of leisurely business about the place; completed business chiefly, for already stalls were being dismantled, and unsold butter, eggs, and chickens were being repacked in big baskets. Small groups of men stood about together discussing the weather and the prospect of the various crops. Carts drove slowly down the steep High Street, returning to outlying farms.
 
Peter walked up the hill. One or two people turned to look at him. Something about him—probably the peacock feather in his hat—attracted attention.
 
Half-way up the street stood a big red-brick [Pg 22]post-office. It was an imposing edifice, and seemed to dominate the other buildings with an air of Government importance.
 
As Peter approached it he felt his heart beating quickly. On the steps he paused for a moment. A girl with a small Yorkshire terrier tucked under her arm was just coming out. She saw Peter on the steps, and kept her hand on the swinging door in order that he might enter. There was nothing for it but to go forward quickly and catch the door from her with a murmured word of thanks. Peter was inside the post-office. He approached the counter.
 
“Are there any letters for the name of Carden?” he asked. And he could hear his heart going klip-klop.
 
The young woman behind the counter glanced at him. Her look was rather disdainful, and she turned in a nonchalant fashion to the pigeon-holes behind her. She did not think it likely there would be letters. The young man was—A, B, C. She took a parcel and several letters from the pigeon-hole marked C and ran carelessly through them.
 
Peter saw her stop. She put back several [Pg 23]documents and came towards him. There was a letter and a parcel in her hand.
 
The girl looked at him. She was a little puzzled. Perhaps her first instinct had been at fault. In spite of the shabby coat and hat and the extremely fantastic feather, he did not look altogether a tramp. She handed the things across the counter.
 
“Thanks,” said Peter. He tried hard to keep a note of excited pleasure out of his voice.
 
He put the letter into his pocket, but kept the parcel in his hand. He came out of the post-office and turned up the hill, walking rather quickly. He passed shops and some old-fashioned houses in a row. At the top of the street was a big house wall-enclosed. He left it on his right, and passed more houses of the villa order, evidently recently built. Presently they gave place to cottages. Peter quickened his pace, and all the time he was fingering that brown-paper parcel. At last the cottages, too, were left behind, and there was nothing but hedges and fields before him.
 
Peter turned into one of the fields and sat down on the grass. He took out his clasp-knife and cut the string that held the parcel, pulling forth [Pg 24]the contents. A book, green-covered, with the title in gold lettering, was in his hand.
 
“Under the Span of the Rainbow, by Robin Adair,” so the lettering ran. The last was, of course, a pseudonym.
 
Peter looked at it; then slowly, shyly, he opened the cover.
 
With almost just such reverence might a mother look on her new-born babe, marvelling at her own creation, and quite regardless of the fact that the same great miracle has been performed times out of number in the world, and will be performed again as frequently.
 
This was Peter’s child, his first-born. Through months of slow travail it had been created and brought forth. Under hedges in the open air, in barns by the light of a single candle, he had worked while dumb beasts had looked at him with mild, wondering eyes. In sunshine and in cloud it had been with him; soft winds had rustled its pages, cold blasts had crept under doors and chilled his fingers while he wrote. And now at last, fair and in dainty garb, it came forth to the world, breathing the clean freshness of open spaces, of sun and wind and rain; tender with the magic of nights, [Pg 25]buoyant with the vitality of sunrise. And yet through it all, as through his piping, lay the strange minor note, the underhint of longing.
 
Peter looked up. His blue eyes were dancing with happiness.
 
“Ouf!” he said with a sigh of supreme content, stretching his long lean limbs; “it’s good to have done it.”
 
Then he opened the letter. It was merely a typewritten communication from the publishers, informing him that they were sending him one copy only of his book, according to his wish, and were addressing both it and the letter to the post-office he had mentioned. It ended by hoping that the book would be successful, to their mutual advantage.
 
The businesslike tone of the letter brought Peter down to earth again. He had been temporarily in heaven. The descent, however, was not a jarring one.
 
He replaced the book in the brown paper, put it carefully in his wallet, and started off across the fields.