Sometimes he hung in the air until he had to beat on it with his fist. They don’t want me to land, Peter thought. But he could not say who “they” were. With great effort, he touched down in a glade. At his feet, lay Wendy, a mass of blonde curls in a nightdress and as still as the grave. “She is dead,” he said uncomfortably. “Perhaps she is frightened at being dead.” He started to turn away but Wendy’s arm stayed him (for indeed she was not dead, but merely very ill and in peril of dying). “If she lies here,” Peter bemoaned, “she will die.” Then Peter had a wonderful idea. He would build a little house round her that would protect her until she recovered. Kneeling, Peter declared to Wendy, “I am your servant. If only you could tell me which type of house you like best?” Wendy stirred in her sleep. Her lovely mouth opened into a perfect ‘O’ and without opening her eyes, she began to sing: “I wish I had a pretty house, Gay windows all about. With roses peeping in, you know, And babies peeping out.”
