Lady Mary came down the oak staircase singing. The white draperies of her summer gown trailed softly on the wide steps, and in her hands she carried a quantity of roses. A black ribbon was bound about her waist, and seemed only to emphasize the slenderness of her form. Her brown hair was waved loosely above her brow; it was not much less abundant, though much less bright, than in her girlhood. The freshness of youth had gone for ever; but her loveliness had depended less upon that radiant colouring which had once been hers than upon her clear-cut features, and exquisitely shaped head and throat. Her blue eyes looked forth from a face white and delicate as a shell cameo, beneath finely pencilled brows; but they shone now with a new hopefulness—a timid expectancy of happiness; they were no longer pensive and downcast as Peter had known them best.

The future had been shrouded by a heavy mist of hopelessness always—for Lady Mary. But the fog had lifted, and a fair landscape lay before her. Not bright, alas! with the brightness and the promise of the morning-time; but yet—there are sunny afternoons; and the landscape was bright still, though long shadows from the past fell across it.

Peter saw only that his mother, for some extraordinary reason, looked many years younger than when he had left her, and that she had exchanged her customary dull, old-fashioned garb for a beautiful and becoming dress. He gave an involuntary start, and immediately she perceived him.

She stretched out her arms to him with a cry that rang through the rafters of the hall. The roses were scattered.

"My boy! O God, my darling boy!"

In the space of a flash—a second—Lady Mary had seen and understood. Her arms were round him, and her face hidden upon his empty sleeve. She was as still as death. Peter stooped his head and laid his cheek against her hair; he felt for one fleeting moment that he had never known before how much he loved his mother.

"Forgive me for keeping it dark, mother," he whispered presently; "but I knew you'd think I was dying, or something, if I told you. It had to be done, and I don't care—much—now; one gets used to anything. My aunts nearly had a fit when I came in; but I knew you'd be too thankful to get me home safe and sound, to make a fuss over what can't be helped. It's—it's just the fortune of war."

"Oh, if I could meet the man who did it!" she cried, with fire in her blue eyes.

"It wasn't a man; it was a gun," said Peter. "Let's forget it. I say—doesn't it feel rummy to be at home again?"

"But you have come back a man, Peter. Not a boy at all," said Lady Mary, laughing through her tears. "Do let me look at you. You must be six feet three, surely."

"Barely six feet one in my boots," said Peter, reprovingly.

"And you have a moustache—more or less."

"Of course I have a moustache," said Peter, gravely stroking it. He mechanically replaced his eyeglass.

Lady Mary laughed till she cried.

"Do forgive me, darling. But oh, Peter, it seems so strange. My boy grown into a tall gentleman with an eyeglass. Nothing has happened to your eye?" she cried, in sudden anxiety.

"No, no; I am just a little short-sighted, that is all," he mumbled, rather awkwardly.

He found it difficult to explain that he had travelled home with a distinguished man who had captivated his youthful fancy, and caused him to fall into a fit of hero-worship, and to imitate his idol as closely as possible. Hence the eyeglass, and a few harmless mannerisms which temporarily distinguished Peter, and astonished his previous acquaintance.

But there was something else in Peter's manner, too, for the moment. A new tenderness, which peeped through his old armour of sulky indifference; the chill armour of his boyhood, which had grown something too strait and narrow for him even now, and from which he would doubtless presently emerge altogether—but not yet.

Though Lady Mary laughed, she was trembling and shaken with emotion. Peter came to the sofa and knelt beside her there, and she took his hand in both hers, and laid her face upon it, and they were very still for a few moments.

"Mother dear," said Peter presently, without looking at her, "coming home like this, and not finding my father here, makes me realize for the first time—though it's all so long ago—what's happened."

"My poor boy!"

"Poor mother! You must have been terribly lonely all this time I've been away."

"I've longed for your return, my darling," said Lady Mary.

Her tone was embarrassed, but Peter did not notice that.

"You see—I went away a boy, but I've come back a man, as you said just now," said Peter.

"You're still very young, my darling—not one-and-twenty," she said fondly.

"I'm older than my age; and I've been through a lot; more than you'd think, all this time I've been away. I dare say it hasn't seemed so long to you, who've had no experiences to go through," he said simply.

She kissed him silently.

"Now just listen, mother dear," said Peter, firmly. "I made up my mind to say something to you the very first minute I saw you, and it's got to be said. I'm sorry I used to be such a beast to you—there."

"Oh, Peter!"

"I dare say," said Peter, "that it's all this rough time in South Africa that's made me feel what a fool I used to make of myself, when I was a discontented ass of a boy; that, or being ill, or something, used to—make one think a bit. And that's why I made up my mind to tell you. I know I used to disappoint you horribly, and be bored by your devotion, and all that. But you'll see," said Peter, decidedly, "that I mean to be different now; and you'll forgive me, won't you?"

"My darling, I forgave you long ago—if there was anything to forgive," she cried,

"You know there was," said Peter; and he sounded like the boy Peter again, now that she could not see his face. "Well, my soldiering's done for." A faint note of regret sounded in his voice. "I had a good bout, so I suppose I oughtn't to complain; but I had hoped—however, it's all for the best. And there's no doubt," said Peter, "that my duty lies here now. In a very few months I shall be my own master, and I mean to keep everything going here exactly as it was in my father's time. You shall devote yourself to me, and I'll devote myself to Barracombe; and we'll just settle down into all the old ways. Only it will be me instead of my father—that's all."

"You instead of your father—that's all," echoed Lady Mary. She felt as though her mind had suddenly become a blank.

"I used to rebel against poor papa," said Peter, remorsefully. "But now I look back, I know he was just the kind of man I should like to be."

She kissed his hand in silence. Her face was hidden.

"I want you—and my aunts, to feel that, though I am young and inexperienced, and all that," said Peter, tenderly, "there are to be no changes."

"But, Peter," said his mother, rather tremulously, "there are—sure to be—changes. You will want to marry, sooner or later. In your position, you are almost bound to marry."

"Oh, of course," said Peter. He released his hand gently, in order to stroke the cherished moustache. "But I shall put off the evil day as long as possible, like my father did."

"I see," said Lady Mary. She smiled faintly.

"And when it does arrive," said Peter, "my wife will just have to understand that she comes second. I've no notion of being led by the nose by any woman, particularly a young woman. I'm sure my father never dreamt of putting his sisters on one side, or turning them out of their place, when he married you, did he?"

"Never," said Lady Mary.

"Of course they were snappish at times. I suppose all old people get like that. But, on the whole, you managed to jog along pretty comfortably, didn't you?"

"Oh yes," said Lady Mary. "We jogged along pretty comfortably."

"Then don't you see how snug we shall be?" said Peter, triumphantly. "I can tell you a fellow learns to appreciate home when he has been without one, so to speak, for over two years. And home wouldn't be home without you, mother dear."

Lady Mary sank suddenly back among the cushions. Her feelings were divided between dismay and self-reproach. Yet she was faintly amused too—amused at Peter and herself. Her boy had returned to her with sentiments that were surely all that a mother could desire; and yet—yet she felt instinctively that Peter was Peter still; that his thoughts were not her thoughts, nor his ways her ways. Then the self-reproach began to predominate in Lady Mary's mind. How could she criticize her boy, her darling, who had proved himself a son to be proud of, and who had come back to her with a heart so full of love and loyalty?

"And you couldn't live without me, could you?" said Peter, affectionately; and he laughed. "I suppose you meant to go into that little, damp, tumble-down Dower House, and watch over me from there; now didn't you, mummy?"

"I—I thought, when you came of age," faltered Lady Mary, "that I should give up Barracombe House to you, naturally. I could come and stay with you sometimes—whether you were married or not, you know. And—and, of course, the Dower House does belong to me."

"I won't hear of your going there," said Peter, stoutly, "whether I'm married or not. It's a beastly place."

"It's very picturesque," said Lady Mary, guiltily; "and I—I wasn't thinking of living there all the year round."

"Why, where on earth else could you have gone?" he demanded, regarding her with astonishment through the eyeglass.

"There are several places—London," she faltered.

"London!" said Peter; "but my father had a perfect horror of London.
He wouldn't have liked it at all."

"He belonged—to the old school," said Lady Mary, meekly; "to younger people, perhaps—an occasional change might be pleasant and profitable."

"Oh! to younger people," said Peter, in mollified tones. "I don't say I shall never run up to London. I dare say I shall be obliged, now and then, on business. Not often though. I hate absentee landlords, as my father did."

"Travelling is said to open the mind," murmured Lady Mary, weakly pursuing her argument, as she supposed it to be.

"I've seen enough of the world now to last me a lifetime," said Peter, in sublime unconsciousness that any fate but his own could be in question.

"I didn't think you would have changed so much as this, Peter," she said, rather dismally. "You used to find this place so dull."

"I know I used," Peter agreed; "but oh, mother, if you knew how sick I've been now and then with longing to get back to it! I made up my mind a thousand times how it should all be when I came home again; and that you and me would be everything in the world to each other, as you used to wish when I was a selfish boy, thinking only of getting away and being independent. I'm afraid I used to be rather selfish, mother?"

"Perhaps you were—a little," said Lady Mary.

"You will never have to complain of that again," said Peter.

She looked at him with a faint, pathetic smile.

"I shall take care of you, and look after you, just as my father used to do," said Peter. "Now you rest quietly here"—and he gently laid her down among the cushions on the sofa—"whilst I take a look round the old place."

"Let me come with you, darling."

"Good heavens, no! I should tire you to death. My father never liked you to go climbing about."

"I am much more active than I used to be," said Lady Mary.

"No, no; you must lie down, you look quite pale." Peter's voice took an authoritative note, which came very naturally to him. "The sudden joy of my return has been too much for you, poor old mum."

He leant over her fondly, and kissed the sweet, pale face, and then regarded her in a curious, doubtful manner.

"You're changed, mother. I can't think what it is. Isn't your hair done differently—or something?"

Poor Lady Mary lifted both hands to her head, and looked at him with something like alarm in her blue eyes.

"Is it? Perhaps it is," she faltered. "Don't you like it, Peter?"

"I like the old way best," said Peter.

"But this is so much more becoming, Peter."

"A fellow doesn't care," said Peter, loftily, "whether his mother's hair is becoming or not. He likes to see her always the same as when he was a little chap."

"It is—sweet of you, to have such a thought," murmured Lady Mary. She took her courage in both hands. "But the other way is out of fashion, Peter."

"Why, mother, you never used to follow the fashions before I went away; you won't begin now, at your age, will you?"

"At my age" repeated Lady Mary, blankly. Then she looked at him with that wondering, pathetic smile, which seemed to have replaced already, since Peter came home, the joyousness which had timidly stolen back from her vanished youth. "At my age!" said Lady Mary; "you are not very complimentary, Peter."

"You don't expect a fellow to pay compliments to his mother," said Peter, staring at her. "Why, mother, what has come to you? And besides—"

"Besides?"

"I'm sure papa hated compliments, and all that sort of rot," Peter blurted out, in boyish fashion. "Don't you remember how fond he was of quoting, 'Praise to the face is open disgrace'?"

The late Sir Timothy, like many middle-class people, had taken a compliment almost as a personal offence; and regarded the utterer, however gracious or sincere, with suspicion. Neither had the squire himself erred on the side of flattering his fellow-creatures.

"Oh yes, I remember," said Lady Mary; and she rose from the sofa.

"Why, what's the matter?" asked Peter. "I haven't vexed you, have I?"

She turned impetuously and threw her arms round him as he stood by the hearth, gazing down upon her in bewilderment.

"Vexed with my boy, my darling, my only son, on the very day when God has given him back to me?" she cried passionately. "My poor wounded boy, my hero! Oh no, no! But I want only love from you to-day, and no reproaches, Peter."

"Why, I wasn't dreaming of reproaching you, mother." He hesitated.
"Only you're a bit different from what I expected—that's all."

"Have I disappointed you?"

"No, no! Only I—well, I thought I might find you changed, but in a different way," he said, half apologetically. "Perhaps older, you know, or—or sadder."

Lady Mary's white face flushed scarlet from brow to chin; but Peter, occupied with his monocle, observed nothing.

"I'd prepared myself for that," he said, "and to find you all in black. And—"

"I threw off my mourning," she murmured, "the very day I heard you were coming home." She paused, and added hurriedly, "It was very thoughtless. I'm sorry; I ought to have thought of your feelings, my darling."

"Aunt Isabella has never changed hers, has she?" said Peter.

"Aunt Isabella is a good deal more conventional than I am; and a great many years older," said Lady Mary, tremulously.

"I don't see what that has to do with it," said Peter.

She turned away, and began to gather up her scattered roses. A few moments since the roses had been less than nothing to her. What were roses, what was anything, compared to Peter? Now they crept back into their own little place in creation; their beauty and fragrance dumbly conveyed a subtle comfort to her soul, as she lovingly laid one against another, until a glowing bouquet of coppery golden hue was formed. She lifted an ewer from the old dresser, and poured water into a great silver goblet, wherein she plunged the stalks of her roses. Why should they be left to fade because Peter had come home?

"You remember these?" she said, "from the great climber round my bedroom window? I leant out and cut them—little thinking—"

Peter signified a gloomy assent. He stood before the chimneypiece watching his mother, but not offering to help her; rather as though undecided as to what his next words ought to be.

"Peter, darling, it's so funny to see you standing there, so tall, and so changed—" But though it was so funny the tears were dropping from her blue eyes, which filled and overflowed like a child's, without painful effort or grimaces. "You—you remind me so of your father," she said, almost involuntarily.

"I'm glad I'm like him," said Peter.

She sighed. "How I used to wish you were a little tiny bit like me too!"

"But I'm not, am I?"

"No, you're not. Not one tiny bit," she answered wistfully. "But you do love me, Peter?"

"Haven't I proved I love you?" said Peter; and she perceived that his feelings were hurt. "Coming back, and—and thinking only of you, and—and of never leaving you any more. Why, mother"—for in an agony of love and remorse she was clinging to him and sobbing, with her face pressed against his empty sleeve—"why, mother," Peter repeated, in softened tones, "of course I love you."

The drawing-room door was cautiously opened, and Peter's aunts came into the hall on tiptoe, followed by the canon.

"Ah, I thought so," said Lady Belstone, in the self-congratulatory tones of the successful prophet, "it has been too much for poor Mary. She has been overcome by the joy of dear Peter's return."