By Graham Greene
Peter Morton woke with a start to face the first light. Raintapped against the glass. It was January the fifth.
He looked across a table on which a night-light had gutteredinto a pool of water， at the other bed. Francis Morton was stillasleep， and Peter lay down again with his eyes on his brother.
It amused him to imagine it was himself whom he watched， thesame hair， the same eyes， the same lips and line of cheek. Butthe thought palled， and the mind went back to the fact whichlent the day importance. It was the fifth of January. He couldhardly believe a year had passed since Mrs Henne-Falcon hadgiven her last children’s party.
Francis turned suddenly upon his back and threw an armacross his face， blocking his mouth. Peter’s heart began to beatfast， not with pleasure now but with uneasiness. He sat up andcalled across the table， “Wake up.” Francis’s shoulders shookand he waved a clenched fist in the air， but his eyes remainedclosed. To Peter Morton the whole room seemed to darken，and he had the impression of a great bird swooping. He criedagain， “Wake up，” and once more there was silver light and thetouch of rain on the windows.
Francis rubbed his eyes. “Did you call out？” he asked.
“You are having a bad dream，” Peter said. Already experiencehad taught him how far their minds reflected each other. Buthe was the elder， by a matter of minutes， and that brief extrainterval of light， while his brother still struggled in pain anddarkness， had given him self-reliance and an instinct ofprotection towards the other who was afraid of so many things.
“I dreamed that I was dead，” Francis said.
“What was it like？” Peter asked.
“I can’t remember，” Francis said.
“You dreamed of a big bird.”
“Did I？”
The two lay silent in bed facing each other， the same greeneyes， the same nose tilting at the tip， the same firm lips， andthe same premature modelling of the chin. The fifth of January，Peter thought again， his mind drifting idly from the image ofcakes to the prizes which might be won. Egg-and-spoon races，spearing apples in basins of water， blind man’s buff.
“I don’t want to go，” Francis said suddenly. “I supposeJoyce will be there ... Mabel Warren.” Hateful to him， thethought of a party shared with those two. They were older thanhe. Joyce was eleven and Mabel Warren thirteen. The longpigtails swung superciliously to a masculine stride. Their sexhumiliated him， as they watched him fumble with his egg，from under lowered scornful lids. And last year... he turned hisface away from Peter， his cheeks scarlet.
“What’s the matter？” Peter asked.
“Oh， nothing. I don’t think I’m well. I’ve got a cold. I oughtn’tto go to the party.”
Peter was puzzled. “But Francis， is it a bad cold？”
“It will be a bad cold if I go to the party. Perhaps I shall die.”
“Then you mustn’t go，” Peter said， prepared to solve alldifficulties with one plain sentence， and Francis let his nervesrelax， ready to leave everything to Peter. But though he wasgrateful he did not turn his face towards his brother. His cheeksstill bore the badge of a shameful memory， of the game of hideand seek last year in the darkened house， and of how he hadscreamed when Mabel Warren put her hand suddenly upon hisarm. He had not heard her coming. Girls were like that. Theirshoes never squeaked. No boards whined under the tread. Theyslunk like cats on padded claws.
When the nurse came in with hot water Francis lay tranquilleaving everything to Peter. Peter said， “Nurse， Francis has gota cold.”
The tall starched woman laid the towels across the cansand said， without turning， “The washing won’t be back tilltomorrow. You must lend him some of your handkerchiefs.”
“But， Nurse，” Peter asked， “hadn’t he better stay in bed？”
“We’ll take him for a good walk this morning，” the nursesaid. “Wind’ll blow away the germs. Get up now， both of you，”
and she closed the door behind her.
“I’m sorry，” Peter said. “Why don’t you just stay in bed？
I’ll tell mother you felt too ill to get up.” But rebellion againstdestiny was not in Francis’s power. If he stayed in bed theywould come up and tap his chest and put a thermometer in hismouth and look at his tongue， and they would discover he wasmalingering. It was true he felt ill， a sick empty sensation inhis stomach and a rapidly beating heart， but he knew the causewas only fear， fear of the party， fear of being made to hideby himself in the dark， uncompanioned by Peter and with nonight-light to make a blessed breach.
“No， I’ll get up，” he said， and then with sudden desperation，“But I won’t go to Mrs Henne-Falcon’s party. I swear on theBible I won’t.” Now surely all would be well， he thought. Godwould not allow him to break so solemn an oath. He wouldshow him a way. There was all the morning before him andall the afternoon until four o’clock. No need to worry whenthe grass was still crisp with the early frost. Anything mighthappen. He might cut himself or break his leg or really catch abad cold. God would manage somehow.
He had such confidence in God that when at breakfast hismother said， “I hear you have a cold， Francis，” he made lightof it. “We should have heard more about it，” his mother saidwith irony， “if there was not a party this evening，” and Francissmiled， amazed and daunted by her ignorance of him.
His happiness would have lasted longer if， out for a walkthat morning， he had not met Joyce. He was alone with hisnurse， for Peter had leave to finish a rabbit-hutch in thewoodshed. If Peter had been there he would have cared less；the nurse was Peter’s nurse also， but now it was as thoughshe were employed only for his sake， because he could not betrusted to go for a walk alone. Joyce was only two years olderand she was by herself.