"I never complain, Canon Birch," said Lady Belstone, resignedly; "but it is a great relief, as I cannot deny, to open my mind to you, who know so well what this place used to be like in my dear brother's time."

The canon had been absent from Youlestone on a long holiday, and on his return found that the workmen, who had reigned over Barracombe for nearly two years, had at length departed.

The inhabitants had been hunted from one part of the house to another as the work proceeded; but now the usual living-rooms had been restored to their occupants, and peace and order prevailed, where all had been noise and confusion.

"I should not have known the place," said the canon, gazing round him.

"Nor I. We make a point of saying nothing," said Miss Crewys, pathetically, "but it's almost impossible not to look now and then."

"Speak for yourself, Georgina," said her sister, with asperity. "One can't look furniture out of one room and into another."

The old ladies sat forlornly in their corner by the great open hearth, whereon the logs were piled in readiness for a fire, because they often found the early June evenings chilly. But the sofa with broken springs, which they specially affected, had been mended, and recovered; and was no longer, they sadly agreed, near so comfortable as in its crippled past.

The banqueting-hall, which was the very heart of Barracombe House, had been carefully and skilfully restored to its ancient dignity.

The paint and graining, which had disfigured its mighty beams and solid panelling, had been removed; and the freshly polished oak shone forth in its noble age, shorn of all tawdry disguise.

The spaces of wall and roof between the beams, and above the panels, were now of a creamy tint not far removed, as the two indignant critics pointed out, from common whitewash. A great screen of Spanish leather sheltered the door from the vestibule, and secured somewhat more privacy for the hall as a sitting-room.

The Vandyck commanded the staircase, attracting immediate attention, as it faced the principal entry. In the wide space between the two great windows were two portraits of equal size; the famous Sir Peter Crewys, by Lely, painted to resemble, as nearly as possible, his royal master, in dress and attitude; and his brother Timothy, by Kneller.

Farmer Timothy's small, shrewd, grey eyes appeared to follow the gazer all over the hall; and his sober wearing apparel, a plain green coat without collar or cape, contrasted effectively with the cavalier's laced doublet and feathered hat.

Gone were the Early Victorian portraits; gone the big glass cases of stuffed birds and weasels; gone the round mahogany table, the waxen bouquets, and the horsehair chairs. The ancient tapestry beside the carven balustrade of the staircase remained, but it had been cleaned, and even mended.

An oak dresser, black with age, and laden with blue and white china, lurked in a shadowy corner. Comfortable easy-chairs and odd, old-fashioned settees furnished the hall. In the oriel window stood a spinning-wheel and a grandfather's chair. A great bowl of roses stood on the broad window-seat. There were roses, indeed, everywhere, and books on every table. But the crowning grievance of all was the cottage piano which John had sent to Lady Mary. The case had been specially made of hand-carven oak to match the room as nearly as might be. It was open, and beside it was a heap of music, and on it another bowl of roses.

"Ay, you may well look horrified," said Miss Crewys to the canon, whose admiration and delight were very plainly depicted on his rubicund countenance. "Where are our cloaks and umbrellas? That's what I say to Isabella. Where are our goloshes? Where is anything, indeed, that one would expect to find in a gentleman's hall? Not so much as a walking-stick. Everything to be kept in the outer hall, where tramps could as easily step in and help themselves; but our poor foolish Mary fancies that Peter will be delighted to find his old home turned upside down."

"My belief is," said Lady Belstone, "that Peter will just insist on all this wooden rubbish trotting back to the attics, where my dear granny, not being accustomed to wooden furniture, very properly hid it away. If you will believe me, canon, that dresser was brought up from the kitchen, and every single pot and pan that decorates it used to be kept in the housekeeper's room. That lumbering old chest was in the harness-room. Pretty ornaments for a gentleman's sitting-room! If Peter has grown up anything like my poor brother, he won't put up with it at all."

"I suppose, in one sense, it's Peter's house, or will be very shortly?" said the canon.

"In every sense it's Peter's house," cried Lady Belstone; "and he comes of age, thank Heaven, in October."

"I had hoped to hear he had sailed," said the canon. "No news is good news, I hope."

"The last telegram said his wound was doing well, but did not give any date for his return. Young John says we may expect him any time. I do not know what he knows about it more than any one else, however," said Miss Crewys.

"His letters give no details about himself," said Lady Belstone; "he makes no fuss about his wounded arm. He is a thorough Crewys, not given to making a to-do about trifles."

"He could only write a few words with his left hand," said Miss Crewys; "more could not have been expected of him. Yet poor Mary was quite put out, as I plainly saw, though she said nothing, because the boy had not written at greater length."

"I find they've made a good many preparations for his welcome down in the village," said the canon, "in case he should take us by surprise. So many of the officers have got passages at the last moment, unexpectedly. And we shall turn out to receive him en masse. Mr. Crewys has given us carte blanche for fireworks and flags; and they are to have a fine bean-feast."

"Our cousin John takes a great deal upon himself, and has made uncommonly free with Peter's money," said Lady Belstone, shaking her head. "I wish he may not find himself pretty nigh ruined when he comes to look into his own affairs. In my opinion, Fred Crawley is little better than a fool."

"He is most devoted to Peter's interests, my dear lady," said the canon, warmly, "and he informed me that Mr. John Crewys had done wonders in the past two years."

"He has turned the whole place topsy-turvy in two years, in my opinion," said Miss Crewys. "I don't deny that he is a rising young man, and that his manners are very taking. But what can a Cockney lawyer know, about timber, pray?"

"No man on earth, lawyer or no lawyer," said Lady Belstone, emphatically, "will ever convince me that one can be better than well."

"My sister alludes to the drains. It is a sore point, canon," said Miss Crewys. "In my opinion, it is all this modern drainage that sets up typhoid fever, and nothing else."

"Bless me!" said the canon.

"Our poor Mary has grown so dependent on John, however, that she will hear nothing against him. One has to mind one's p's and q's," said Lady Belstone.

"He planned the alterations in this very hall," said Miss Crewys, "and the only excuse he offered, so far as I could understand, was that it would amuse poor Mary to carry them out."

"Does a widow wish to be amused?" said Lady Belstone, indignantly.

"And was she amused, dear lady?" asked the canon, anxiously.

"When she saw our horror and dismay she smiled."

"Did you call that a smile, Georgina? I called it a laugh. It takes almost nothing to make her laugh nowadays."

"You would not wish her to be too melancholy," said the canon, almost pleadingly; "one so—so charming, so—"

"Canon Birch," said Lady Belstone, in awful tones, "she is a widow."

The canon was silent, displaying an embarrassment which did not escape the vigilant observation of the sisters, who exchanged a meaning glance.

"Well may you remind us of the fact, Isabella," said Miss Crewys, "for she has discarded the last semblance of mourning."

"Time flies so fast," said the canon, as though impelled to defend the absent. "It is—getting on for three years since poor Sir Timothy died."

"It is but two years and four months," said Miss Crewys.

"It is thirty-three years since the admiral went aloft," said Lady Belstone, who often became slightly nautical in phrase when alluding to her departed husband; "and look at me."

The pocket-handkerchief she held up was deeply bordered with ink.
Orthodox streamers floated on either side her severe countenance.

The canon looked and shook his head. He felt that the mysteries of a widow's garments had best not be discussed by one who dwelt, so to speak, outside them.

"Poor Mary can do nothing gradually," said Miss Crewys. "She leapt in a single hour out of a black dress into a white one."

"Her anguish when our poor Timothy succumbed to that fatal operation surpassed even the bounds of decorum," said Lady Belstone, "and yet—she would not wear a cap!"

She appealed to the canon with such a pathetic expression in her small, red-rimmed, grey eyes that he could not answer lightly.

They faced him with anxious looks and drooping, tremulous mouths. They had grown curiously alike during the close association of nearly eighty years, though in their far-off days of girlhood no one had thought them to resemble each other.

Miss Crewys crocheted a shawl with hands so delicately cared for and preserved, that they scarce showed any sign of her great age; her sister wore gloves, as was the habit of both when unoccupied, and she grasped her handkerchief in black kid fingers that trembled slightly with emotion.

The canon realized that the old ladies were seriously troubled concerning their sister-in-law's delinquencies.

"We speak to you, of course, as our clergyman," said Miss Crewys; and the poor gentleman could only bow sympathetically.

"I am an old friend," he said feelingly, "and your confidences are sacred. But I think in your very natural—er—affection for Lady Mary"—the word stuck in his throat—"you are, perhaps, over-anxious. In judging those younger than ourselves," said the canon, gallantly coupling himself with his auditors,' though acutely conscious that he was some twenty years the junior of both, "we must not forget that they recover their spirits, by a merciful dispensation of Providence, more quickly than we should ourselves in the like circumstances," said the canon, who was as light-hearted a cleric as any in England.

"They do, indeed," said Lady Belstone, emphatically; "when they can sing and play all the day and half the night, like our dear Mary and young John."

"You see the piano blocking up the hall, though Sir Timothy hated music?" said Miss Crewys.

Her own mourning was thoughtfully graduated to indicate the time which had elapsed since Sir Timothy's decease. She wore a violet silk of sombre hue, ornamented by a black silk apron and a black lace scarf. The velvet bow which served so very imperfectly as a skull-cap was also violet, intimating a semi-assuaged, but respectfully lengthened, grief for the departed.

"And now this maddest scheme of all," said Miss Crewys.

"Bless me! What mad scheme?"

"A house in London is to be hired as soon as Peter comes home."

"Is that all? But surely that is very natural. For my part, I have often wondered why none of you ever cared to go to London, if only for your shopping. I am very fond of a trip to town myself, now and then, for a few days."

"A few days, it seems, would not suffice our cousin John's notions. He is pleased to think Peter may require skilled medical attendance; and, since he wrote he was in rags, a new outfit. These, it seems, can only be obtained in the Metropolis nowadays. My brother's tailor still lives in Exeter; and with all his faults—and nobody can dislike him more than I do—I have never heard it denied that Dr. Blundell is a skilful apothecary."

"Very skilful," added Miss Crewys. "You remember, Isabella, how quickly he put your poor little Fido out of his agony."

"That is nothing; all doctors understand animals' illnesses. They kill numbers of guinea-pigs before they are allowed to try their hands on human beings," said Lady Belstone. "The point is, that if my poor brother Timothy had not been mad enough to go to London, he would have been alive at this moment. I have never heard of Dr. Blundell finding it necessary—much as I detest the man—to perform an operation on anybody."

"Apart from this painful subject, my dear lady," murmured the canon,
"I presume it is only a furnished house that Lady Mary contemplates?"

"During all the years of his married life Sir Timothy never hired a furnished house," said Miss Crewys. "The home of his fathers sufficed him."

"She may want a change?" suggested the canon.

Miss Crewys interpreted him literally. "No; she is in the best of health."

"Better than I have ever seen her, and—and gayer" said Lady
Belstone, with emphasis.

"People who are gay and bright in disposition are the very ones who—who pine for a little excitement at times," said the courageous canon. "There is so much to be seen and done and heard in London. For instance, as you say—she is passionately fond of music."

"She gets plenty. We get more than enough," said Miss Crewys, grimly.

"I mean good music;" then he recollected himself in alarm. "No, no; I don't mean hers is not charming, and Mr. John's playing is delightful, but—"

"There is an organ in the parish church," said Miss Crewys, crocheting more busily than ever. "I have heard no complaints of the choir. Have you?"

"No, no; but—besides music, there are so many other things," he said dismally. "She likes pictures, too."

"It does not look like it, canon," said Lady Belstone, sorrowfully. She waved her handkerchief towards the panelled walls. "She has removed the family portraits to the lumber-room."

"At least the Vandyck has never been seen to greater advantage," said the canon, hopefully; "and I hear the gallery upstairs has been restored and supported, to render it safe to walk upon, which will enable you to take pleasure in the fine pictures there."

"I am sadly afraid that it is not pictures that poor Mary hankers after, but theatres," said Miss Crewys. "John has persuaded her, if persuasion was needed, which I take leave to doubt, that there is nothing improper in visiting such places. My dear brother thought otherwise."

"You know I do not share your opinions on that point," said the canon.
"Though not much of a theatre-goer myself, still—"

"A widow at the theatre!" said Lady Belstone. "Even in the admiral's lifetime I did not go. Being a sailor, and not a clergyman," she added sternly, "he frequented such places of amusement. But he said he could not have enjoyed a ballet properly with me looking on. His feelings were singularly delicate." "I am afraid people must be talking about dear Mary a good deal, canon," said Miss Crewys, whisking a ball of wool from the floor to her knee with much dexterity.

Her keen eyes gleamed at her visitor through her spectacles, though her fingers never stopped for a moment.

"I hope not. I've heard nothing."

"My experience of men," said Lady Belstone, "is that they never do hear anything. But a widow cannot be too cautious in her behaviour. All eyes are fixed, I know not why, upon a widow," she added modestly.

"We do our best to guard dear Mary's reputation," said Miss Crewys.

The impetuous canon sprang to his feet with a half-uttered exclamation; then recollecting the age and temperament of the speaker, he checked himself and tried to laugh.

"I do not know," he said, "who has said, or ever could say, one single word against that—against our dear and sweet Lady Mary. But if there is any one, I can only say that such word had better not be uttered in my presence, that's all."

"Dear me, Canon Birch, you excite yourself very unnecessarily," said Lady Belstone, with assumed surprise. "You are just confirming our suspicions."

"What suspicions?" almost shouted the canon,

"That our dear Lady Mary's extraordinary partiality for our cousin
John has not escaped the observation of a censorious world."

"Though we have done our best never to leave him alone with her for a single moment," interpolated Miss Crewys.

The canon turned rather pale. "There can be no question of censure," he said. "Lady Mary is a very charming and beautiful woman. Who could dare to blame her if she contemplated such a step as—as a second marriage?"

"A second marriage! We said nothing of a second marriage," said Lady Belstone, sharply. "You go a great deal too fast, canon. Luckily, our poor Mary is debarred from any such act of folly. I have no patience with widows who re-marry."

"Debarred from a second marriage!"

"Is it possible you don't know?"

The sisters exchanged meaning glances.

He looked from one to the other in bewilderment.

"If our sister-in-law remarries," said Miss Crewys, "she forfeits the whole of her jointure."

"Is that all?" he cried.

"Is that all!" echoed Miss Crewys, much offended. "It is no less than two thousand a year. In my opinion, far too heavy a charge on poor Peter's estate."

"No man with any self-respect," said Lady Belstone, "would desire to marry a widow without a jointure. I should have formed a low opinion, indeed, of any gentleman who asked me to marry him without first making sure that the admiral had provided for me as he ought, and as he has."

The canon, though mentally echoing the sentiment with much warmth, thought it wiser to change the topic of conversation. Experience had taught him to discredit most of the assumptions of Lady Mary's sisters-in-law, where she was concerned, and he rose in hope of effecting his escape without further ado.

"I believe I am to meet Mr. Crewys at luncheon," he said, "and with your permission I will stroll out into the grounds, and look him up. He told me where he was to be found."

"He is to be found all over the place. He seizes every opportunity of coming down here. I cannot believe in his making so much money in London, when he manages to get away so often. As for Mary, you know her way of inviting people to lunch, and then going out for a walk, or up to her room, as likely as not. But I suppose she will be down directly, if you like to wait here," said Lady Belstone, who had plenty more to say.

"I should be glad of a turn before luncheon," said the canon, who had no mind to hear it. "And there is an hour and a half yet. You lunch at two? I came straight from the school-house, as Lady Mary suggested. I wanted to have a look at the improvements."

"Sarah Hewel is coming to lunch," said Miss Crewys. "I cannot say we approve of her, since she has been out so much in London, and become such a notorious young person."

"It's very odd to me," said the canon, benevolently, "little Sarah growing up into a fashionable beauty. I often see her name in the papers."

"She is exactly the kind of person to attract our cousin John, who is quite foolish about her red hair. In my young days, red hair was just a misfortune like any other," said Miss Crewys. "Dr. Blundell is lunching here also, I need hardly say. Since my dear brother's death we keep open house."

"It used not to be the fashion to encourage country doctors to be tame cats," said Lady Belstone, viciously; "but he pretends to like the innovations, and gets round young John; and inquires after Peter, and pleases Mary."

"Ay, ay; it will be a great moment for her when the boy comes back. A great moment for you all," said the canon, absently.

He stood with his back to the tall leather screen which guarded the entrance to the hall, and did not hear the gentle opening of the great door.

"I trust," said Miss Crewys, "that we are not a family prone to display weak emotion even on the most trying occasions."

"To be sure not," said the canon, disconcerted; "still, I cannot think of it myself without a little—a great deal—of thankfulness for his preservation through this terrible war, now so happily ended. And to think the boy should have earned so much distinction for himself, and behaved so gallantly. God bless the lad! You are well aware," said the canon, blowing his nose, "that I have always been fond of Peter."

"Thank you, canon," said Peter.

For a moment no one was sure that it was Peter, who had come so quietly round the great screen and into the hall, though he stood somewhat in the shadow still.

A young man, looking older than his age, and several inches taller than Peter had been when he went away; a young man deeply tanned, and very wiry and thin in figure; with a brown, narrow face, a dark streak of moustache, a long nose, and a pair of grey eyes rendered unfamiliar by an eyeglass, which was an ornament Peter had not worn before his departure.

The old ladies sat motionless, trembling with the shock; but the canon seized the hand which Peter held out, and, scarcely noticing that it was his left hand, shook it almost madly in both his own.

"Peter! good heavens, Peter!" he cried, and the tears ran unheeded down his plump, rosy cheeks. "Peter, my boy, God bless you! Welcome home a thousand thousand times!"

"Peter!" gasped Lady Belstone. "Is it possible?"

"Why, he's grown into a man," said Miss Crewys, showing symptoms of an inclination to become hysterical.

Peter was aghast at the commotion, and came hurriedly forward to soothe his agitated relatives.

"Is this your boasted self-command, Georgina?" said Lady Belstone, weeping.

"We cannot always be consistent, Isabella. It was the unexpected joy," sobbed Miss Crewys.

"Peter! your arm!" screamed Lady Belstone and she fell back almost fainting upon the sofa.

Peter stood full in the light now, and they saw that he had lost his right arm. The empty sleeve was pinned to his breast.

His aunt tottered towards him. "My poor boy!" she sobbed.

"Oh, that's all right," said Peter, in rather annoyed tones. "I can use my left hand perfectly well. I hardly notice it now."

Something in the tone of this speech caused his aunts to exclaim simultaneously—

"Dear boy, he has not changed one bit!"

"You never told us, Peter," said the canon, huskily.

"I didn't want a fuss," Peter said, very simply, "so I just got the newspaper chap to cork it down about my being shot in the arm, without any details. It had to be amputated first thing, as a matter of fact."

"It has given your aunt Georgina and me a terrible shock," said Lady
Belstone, faintly.

"You can't expect a fellow who has been invalided home to turn up without a single scratch," said Peter, in rather surly tones.

"How like his father!" said Miss Crewys.

"Besides, you know very well my mother would have tormented herself to death if I had told her," said Peter. "I want her to see with her own eyes how perfectly all right I am before she knows anything about it."

"It was a noble thought," said the canon.

"Where is she?" demanded Peter.

He seemed about to cross the hall to the staircase but the canon detained him.

"Oughtn't some one to prepare her?"

"Oh, joy never kills," said Peter. "She's quite well, isn't she?"

"Quite well."

"Very well indeed" said Miss Crewys, with emphasis that seemed to imply Lady Mary was better than she had any need to be.

"I have never," said the canon, with a nervous side-glance at Peter, "seen her look so well, nor so—so lovely, nor so—so brilliant. Only your return was needed to complete—her happiness."

Peter looked at the canon through his newly acquired eyeglass with some slight surprise.

"Well," he said, "I wouldn't telegraph. I wanted to slip home quietly, that's the fact; or I knew the place would be turned upside down to receive me."

"The people are preparing a royal welcome for you," said the canon, warmly. "Banners, music, processions, addresses, and I don't know what."

"That's awful rot!" said Peter. "Tell them I hate banners and music and addresses, and everything of the kind."

"No, no, my dear boy," said the canon, in rather distressed tones. "Don't say that, Peter, pray. You must think of their feelings, you know. There's hardly one of them who hasn't sent somebody to the war; son or brother or sweetheart. And all that's left for—for those who stay behind—not always the least hard thing to do for a patriot, Peter—is to honour, as far as they can, each one who returns. They work off some of their accumulated feelings that way, you know; and in their rejoicings they do not forget those who, alas! will never return any more."

There was a pause; and Peter remained silent, embarrassed by the canon's emotion, and not knowing very well how to reply.

"There, there," said the canon, saving him the trouble; "we can discuss it later. You are thinking of your mother now."

As he spoke, they all heard Lady Mary's voice in the corridor above. She was humming a song, and as she neared the open staircase the words of her song came very distinctly to their ears—

Entends tu ma pensÉe qui le rÉspond tout bas? Ton doux chant me rappelle les plus beaux de mes jours.

"My mother's voice," said Peter, in bewildered accents; and he dropped his eyeglass.

The canon showed a presence of mind that seldom distinguished him.

He hurried away the old ladies, protesting, into the drawing-room, and closed the door behind him.

Peter scarcely noticed their absence.

Ah! le rire fidÈle prouve un coeur sans dÉtours, Ah! riez, riez—ma belle—riez, riez toujours,

sang Lady Mary.

"I never heard my mother sing before," said Peter.