"Try my salts, dear Mary," said Miss Crewys, hastening to apply the remedies which were always to be found in her black velvet reticule.

"I blame myself," said the canon, distressfully—"I blame myself. I should have insisted on breaking the news to her gently."

Lady Mary smiled upon them all. "On the contrary," she said, "I was offering, not a moment ago, to take Peter round and show him the improvements. We have been so much occupied with each other that he has not had time to look round him."

"I wish he may think them improvements, my love," said Lady Belstone.

Miss Crewys, joyously scenting battle, hastened to join forces with her sister.

"We are far from criticizing any changes your dear mother may have been induced to make," she said; "but as your Aunt Isabella has frequently observed to me, what can a Londoner know of landscape gardening?"

"A Londoner?" said Peter.

"Your guardian, my boy," said the canon, nervously. "He has slightly opened out the views; that is all your good aunt is intending to say."

Peter's good aunt opened her mouth to contradict this assertion indignantly, but Lady Mary broke in with some impatience.

"I do not mean the trees. Of course the house was shut in far too closely by the trees at the back and sides. We wanted more air, more light, more freedom." She drew a long breath and flung out her hands in unconscious illustration. "But there are many very necessary changes that—that Peter will like to see," said Lady Mary, glancing almost defiantly at the pursed-up mouths and lowered eyelids of the sisters.

Peter walked suddenly into the middle of the banqueting-hall and looked round him.

"Why, what's come to the old place? It's—it's changed somehow. What have you been doing to it?" he demanded.

"Don't you—don't you like it, Peter?" faltered Lady Mary. "The roof was not safe, you know, and had to be mended, and—and when it was all done up, the furniture and curtains looked so dirty and ugly and inappropriate. I sent them away and brought down some of the beautiful old things that belonged to your great-grandmother, and made the hall brighter and more livable."

Peter examined the new aspect of his domain with lowering brow.

"I don't like it at all," he announced, finally. "I hate changes."

The sisters breathed again. "So like his father!"

Their allegiance to Sir Timothy had been transferred to his heir.

"Your guardian approved," said Lady Mary.

She turned proudly away, but she could not keep the pain altogether out of her voice. Neither would she stoop to solicit Peter's approval before her rejoicing opponents.

"Mr. John Crewys is a very great connoisseur," said the canon. He taxed his memory for corroborative evidence, and brought out the result with honest pride. "I believe, curiously enough, that he spends most of his spare time at the British Museum."

Lady Mary's lip quivered with laughter in the midst of her very real distress and mortification.

But the argument appeared to the canon a most suitable one, and he was further encouraged by Peter's reception of it.

"If my guardian approves, I suppose it's all right," said the young man, with an effort. "My father left all that sort of thing in his hands, I understand, and he knew what he was doing. I say, where's that great vase of wax flowers that used to stand on the centre table under a glass shade?"

"Darling," said Lady Mary, "it jarred so with the whole scheme of decoration."

"I am taking care of that in my room, Peter," said Miss Crewys.

"And the stuffed birds, and the weasels, and the ferrets that I was so fond of when I was a little chap. You don't mean to say you've done away with those too?" cried Peter, wrathfully.

"They—they are in the gun-room," said Lady Mary. "It seemed such a—such—an appropriate place for them."

"I believe," said the canon, nervously, "that stuffing is no longer considered decorative. After all, why should we place dead animals in our sitting-rooms?"

He looked round with the anxious smile of the would-be peacemaker.

"They were very much worm-eaten, Peter," said Lady Mary. "But if you would like them brought back—"

Perhaps the pain in her voice penetrated even Peter's perception, for he glanced hastily towards her.

"It doesn't matter," he said magnanimously. "If you and my guardian decided they were rotten, there's an end of it. Of course I'd rather have things as they used to be; but after all this time, I expect there's bound to be a few changes." He turned from the contemplation of the hall to face his relatives squarely, with the air of an autocrat who had decreed that the subject was at an end.

"By-the-by," said Peter, "where is John Crewys? They told me he was stopping here."

"He will be in directly," said Lady Mary, "and Sarah Hewel ought to be here presently too. She is coming to luncheon."

"Sarah!" said Peter. "I should like to see her again. Is she still such a rum little toad? Always getting into scrapes, and coming to you for comfort?"

"I think," said Lady Mary, and her blue eyes twinkled—"I think you may be surprised to see little Sarah. She is grown up now."

"Of course," said Peter. "She's only a year younger than I am."

Lady Mary wondered why Peter's way of saying of course jarred upon her so much. He had always been brusque and abrupt; it was the family fashion. Was it because she had grown accustomed to the tactful and gentle methods of John Crewys that it seemed to have become suddenly such an intolerable fashion? Sir Timothy had quite honestly believed tactfulness to be a form of insincerity. He did not recognize it as the highest outward expression of self-control. But Lady Mary, since she had known John Crewys, knew also that it is consideration for the feelings of others which causes the wise man to order his speech carefully.

The canon shook his head when Peter stated that Miss Hewel was his junior by a twelvemonth.

"She might be ten years older," he said, in awe-struck tones. "I have always heard that women were extraordinarily adaptable, but I never realized it before. However, to be sure, she has seen a good deal more of the world than you have. More than most of us, though in such a comparatively short space of time. But she is one in a thousand for quickness."

"Seen more of the world than I have?" said Peter, astonished. "Why,
I've been soldiering in South Africa for over two years."

"I don't think soldiering brings much worldly wisdom in its train. I should be rather sorry to think it did," said Lady Mary, gently. "But Sarah has been with Lady Tintern all this while."

"A very worldly woman, indeed, from all I have heard," said Miss
Crewys, severely.

"But a very great lady," said Lady Mary, "who knows all the famous people, not only in England, but in Europe. The daughter of a viceroy, and the wife of a man who was not only a peer, and a great landowner, but also a distinguished ambassador. And she has taken Sarah everywhere, and the child is an acknowledged beauty in London and Paris. Lady Tintern is delighted with her, and declares she has taken the world by storm."

"We never thought her a beauty down here," said Peter, rather contemptuously.

"Perhaps we did not appreciate her sufficiently down here," said Lady
Mary, smiling.

"Why, who is she, after all?" cried Peter.

"A very beautiful and self-possessed young woman, and Lady Tintern's niece, 'whom not to know argues yourself unknown,'" said Lady Mary, laughing outright. "John says people were actually mobbing her picture in the Academy; he could not get near it."

"I mean," said Peter, almost sulkily, "that she's only old Colonel
Hewel's daughter, whom we've known all our lives."

"Perhaps one is in danger of undervaluing people one has known all one's life," said Lady Mary, lightly.

Peter muttered something to the effect that he was sorry to hear Sarah had grown up like that; but his words were lost in the tumultuous entry of Dr. Blundell, who pealed the front door bell, and rushed into the hall, almost simultaneously.

His dark face was flushed and enthusiastic. He came straight to Peter, and held out his hand.

"A thousand welcomes, Sir Peter. Lady Mary, I congratulate you. I came up in my dog-cart as fast as possible, to let you know the people are turning out en masse to welcome you. They're assembling at the Crewys Arms, and going to hurry up to the house in a regular procession, band and all."

"We're proud of our young hero, you see," said the canon; and he laid his hand affectionately on Peter's shoulder.

"You will have to say a few words to them," said Lady Mary.

"Must I?" said the hero. "Let's go out on the terrace and see what's going on. We can watch them the whole way up."

He opened the door into the south drawing-rooms; and through the open windows there floated the distant strains of the village band.

"Canon, your arm," said Lady Belstone.

Lady Mary and her son had hastened out on to the terrace.

The old ladies paused in the doorway; they were particular in such matters.

"I believe I take precedence, Georgina," said Lady Belstone, apologetically.

"I am far from disputing it, Isabella," said Miss Crewys, drawing back with great dignity. "You are the elder."

"Age does not count in these matters. I take precedence, as a married woman. Will you bring up the rear, Georgina, as my poor admiral would have said?"

Miss Crewys bestowed a parting toss of the head upon the doctor, and followed her victorious sister.

The doctor laughed silently to himself, standing in the pretty shady drawing-room; now gay with flowers, and chintz, and Dresden china.

"I wonder if she would not have been even more annoyed with my presumption if I had offered her my arm," he said to himself, amusedly, "than she is offended by my neglect to do so?"

He did not follow the others into the blinding sunshine of the terrace. He had had a long morning's work, and was hot and tired. He looked at his watch.

"Past one o'clock; h'm! we are lucky if we get anything to eat before half-past two. All the servants have run out, of course. No use ringing for whisky and seltzer. All the better. But, at least, one can rest."

The pleasantness of the room refreshed his spirit. The interior of his own house in Brawnton was not much more enticing than the exterior. The doctor had no time to devote to such matters. He sat down very willingly in a big armchair, and enjoyed a moment's quiet in the shade; glancing through the half-closed green shutters at the brilliant picture without.

The top level of the terrace garden was carpeted with pattern beds of heliotrope, and lobelia, and variegated foliage. Against the faint blue-green of the opposite hill rose the grey stone urns on the pillars of the balcony; and from the urns hung trailing ivy geraniums with pink or scarlet blossom, making splashes of colour on the background of grey distance. Round the pillars wound large blue clematis, and white passion-flowers.

Lady Mary stood full in the sunshine, which lent once more the golden glory of her vanished youth to her brown hair, and the dazzle of new-fallen snow to her summer gown.

Close to her side, touching her, stood the young soldier; straight and tall, with uncovered head, towering above the little group.

The old sisters had parasols, and the canon wore his shovel hat; but the doctor wasted no time in observing their manifestations of delight and excitement.

"So my beautiful lady has got her precious boy back safe and sound, save for his right arm, and doubly precious because that is missing. God bless her a thousand times!" he thought to himself. "But her sweet face looked more sorrowful than joyful when I came in. What had he been saying, I wonder, to make her look like that, already?"

John Crewys entered from the hall. "What's this I hear," he said, in glad tones—"the hero returned?"

"Ay," said the doctor. "Sir Timothy is forgotten, and Sir Peter reigns in his stead."

"Where is Lady Mary?"

The doctor drew him to the window. "There," he said grimly. "Why don't you go out and join her?"

"She has her son," said John, smiling.

He looked with interest at the group on the terrace; then he started back with an exclamation of horror.

"Why, good heavens—"

"Yes," said the doctor quietly, "the poor fellow has lost his right arm."

There was a sound of distant cheering, and the band could be heard faintly playing the Conquering Hero.

"He said nothing of it," said John.

"No; he's a plucky chap, with all his faults."

"Has he so many faults?" said John.

The doctor shook his head. "I'm mistaken if he won't turn out a chip of the old block. Though he's better-looking than his father, he's got Sir Timothy's very expression."

"He's turned out a gallant soldier, anyway," said John, cheerily.
"Don't croak, Blundell; we'll make a man of him yet."

"Please God you may, for his mother's sake," said the doctor; and he returned to his armchair.

John Crewys stood by the open French window, and drank in the refreshing breeze which fluttered the muslin curtains. His calm and thoughtful face was turned away from the doctor, who knew very well why John's gaze was so intent upon the group without.

"Shall I warn him, or shall I let it alone?" thought Blundell. "I suppose they have been waiting only for this. If that selfish cub objects, as he will—I feel very sure of that—will she be weak enough to sacrifice her happiness, or can I trust John Crewys? He looks strong enough to take care of himself, and of her."

He looked at John's decided profile, silhouetted against the curtain, and thought of Peter's narrow face. "Weak but obstinate," he muttered to himself. "Shrewd, suspicious eyes, but a receding chin. What chance would the boy have against a man? A man with strength to oppose him, and brains to outwit him. None, save for the one undoubted fact—the boy holds his mother's heart in the hollow of his careless hands."

There was a tremendous burst of cheering, no longer distant, and the band played louder.

Lady Mary came hurrying across the terrace. Weeping and agitated, and half blinded by her tears, she stumbled over the threshold of the window, and almost fell into John's arms. He drew her into the shadow of the curtain.

"John," she cried; she saw no one else. "Oh, I can't bear it! Oh,
Peter, Peter, my boy, my poor boy!"

The doctor, with a swift and noiseless movement, turned the handle of the window next him, and let himself out on to the terrace.

When John looked up he was already gone. Lady Mary did not hear the slight sound.

"Oh, John," she said, "my boy's come home—but—but—"

"I know," John said, very tenderly.

"I was afraid of breaking down before them all," she whispered. "Peter was afraid I should break down, and I felt my weakness, and came away."

"To me," said John.

His heart beat strongly. He drew her more closely into his arms, deeply conscious that he held thus, for the first time, all he loved best in the world.

"To you," said poor Lady Mary, very simply; as though aware only of the rest and support that refuge offered, and not of all of its strangeness. "Alas! it has grown so natural to come to you now."

"It will grow more natural every day," said John.

She shook her head. "There is Peter now," she said faintly. Then, looking into his face, she realized that John was not thinking of Peter.

For a moment's space Lady Mary, too, forgot Peter. She leant against the broad shoulder of the man who loved her; and felt as though all trouble, and disappointment, and doubt had slidden off her soul, and left her only the blissful certainty of happy rest.

Then she laid her hand very gently and entreatingly on his arm.

"I will not let you go," said John. "You came to me—at last—of your own accord, Mary."

She coloured deeply and leant away from his arm, looking up at him in distress.

"I could not help it, John," she said, very simply and naturally. "But oh, I don't know if I can—if I ought—to come to you any more."

"What do you mean?" said John.

"I—we—have been thinking of Peter as a boy—as the boy he was when he went away," she said, in low, hurrying tones; "but he has come home a man, and, in some ways, altogether different. He never used to want me; he used to think this place dull, and long to get away from it—and from me, for that matter. But now he's—he's wounded, as you know; maimed, my poor boy, for life; and—and he's counting on me to make his home for him. We never thought of that. He says it wouldn't be home without me; and he asked my pardon for being selfish in the past; my poor Peter! I used to fear he had such a little, cold heart; but I was all wrong, for when he was so far away he thought of me, and was sorry he hadn't loved me more. He's come home wanting to be everything to me, as I am to be everything to him. And I should have been so glad, so thankful, only two years ago. Oh, have I changed so much in two little years?"

John put her out of his arms very gently, and walked towards the window. His face was pale, but he still smiled, and his hazel eyes were bright.

"You're angry, John," said Lady Mary, very sweetly and humbly. "You've a right to be angry."

"I am not angry," he said gently. "I may be—a little—disappointed."
He did not look round.

"You know I was too happy," said poor Lady Mary. She sank into a chair, and covered her face with her hands. "It was wicked of me to be so happy, and now I'm going to be punished for it."

John's great heart melted within him. He came swiftly back to her and knelt by her side, and kissed the little hand she gave him.

"Too happy, were you?" he said, with a tenderness that rendered his deep voice unsteady. "Because you promised to marry me when Peter came home?"

"That, and—and everything else," she whispered. "Life seemed to have widened out, and grown so beautiful. All the dull, empty hours were filled. Our music, our reading, our companionship, our long walks and talks, our letters to each other—all those pleasures which you showed me were at once so harmless and so delightful. And as if that were not enough—came love. Such love as I had only dreamed of—such understanding of each other's every thought and word, as I did not know was possible between man and woman—or at least"—she corrected herself sadly—"between any man and a woman—of my age."

"You talk of your age," said John, smiling tenderly, "as though it were a crime."

"It is not a crime, but it is a tragedy," said Lady Mary. "Age is a tragedy to every woman who wants to be happy."

"No more, surely, than to every man who loves his work, and sees it slipping from his grasp," said John, slowly. "It's a tragedy we all have to face, for that matter."

"But so much later," said Lady Mary, quickly.

"I don't see why women should leave off wanting to be happy any sooner than men," he said stoutly.

"But Nature does," she answered.

John's eyes twinkled. "For my part, I am thankful to fate, which caused me to fall in love with a woman only ten years my junior, instead of with a girl young enough to be my daughter. I have gained a companion as well as a wife; and marvellously adaptive as young women are, I am conceited enough to think my ideas have travelled beyond the ideas of most girls of eighteen; and I am not conceited enough to suppose the girl of eighteen would not find me an old fogey very much in the way. Let boys mate with girls, say I, and men with women."

Lady Mary smiled in spite of herself. "You know, John, you would argue entirely the other way round if you happened to be in love with—Sarah," she said.

"To be sure," said John; "it's my trade to argue for the side which retains my services. I am your servant, thank Heaven, and not Sarah's. And I have no intention of quitting your service," he added, more gravely. "We have settled the question of the future."

"The empty future that suddenly grew so bright," said Lady Mary, dreamily. "Do you remember how you talked of—Italy?"

"Where we shall yet spend our honeymoon," said John. "But I believe you liked better to hear of my shabby rooms in London which you meant to share."

"Of course," she said simply. "I knew I should bring you so little money."

"And you thought barristers always lived from hand to mouth, and made no allowance for my having got on in my profession."

"Ah! what did it matter?"

"I think you will find it makes just a little difference," John said, smiling.

"Outside circumstances make less difference to women than men suppose," said Lady Mary. "They are, oh, so willing to be pampered in luxury; and, oh, so willing to fly to the other extreme, and do without things."

"Are they really?" said John, rather dryly.

He glanced at the little, soft, white hand he held, and smiled. It looked so unfitted to help itself.

Lady Mary was resting in her armchair, her delicate face still flushed with emotion. A transparent purple shade beneath the blue eyes betrayed that she had been weeping; but she was calmed by John's strong and tranquil presence. The shady room was cool and fragrant with the scent of heliotrope and mignonette.

The band had reached a level plateau below the terrace garden, and was playing martial airs to encourage stragglers in the procession, and to give the principal inhabitants of Youlestone time to arrive, and to regain their wind after the steep ascent.

Every time a batch of new arrivals recognized Peter's tall form on the terrace, a fresh burst of cheering rose.

From all sides of the valley, hurrying figures could be seen approaching Barracombe House.

The noise and confusion without seemed to increase the sense of quiet within, and the sounds of the gathering crowd made them feel apart and alone together as they had never felt before.

"So all our dreams are to be shattered," said John, quietly, "because your prayer has been granted, and Peter has come home?"

"If you could have heard all he said," she whispered sadly. "He has come home loving me, trusting me, dependent on me, as he has never been before, since his babyhood. Don't you see—that even if it breaks my heart, I couldn't fail my boy—just now?"

There was a pause, and she regarded him anxiously; her hands were clasped tightly together in the effort to still their trembling, her blue eyes looked imploring.

John knew very well that it lay within his powers to make good his claim upon that gentle heart, and enforce his will and her submission to it. But the strongest natures are those which least incline to tyranny; and he had already seen the results of coercion upon that bright and joyous, but timid nature. He knew that her love for him was of the fanciful, romantic, high-flown order; and as such, it appealed to every chivalrous instinct within him. Though his love for her was, perhaps, of a different kind, he desired her happiness and her peace of mind, as strongly as he desired her companionship and the sympathy which was to brighten his lonely life. He was silent for a moment, considering how he should act. If love counselled haste, common sense suggested patience.

"I couldn't disappoint him now. You see that, John?" said the anxious, gentle voice.

"I am afraid I do see it, Mary," he said. "Our secret must remain our secret for the present."

"God bless you, John!" said Lady Mary, softly. "You always understand."

"I am old enough, at least, to know that happiness cannot be attained by setting duty aside," he said, as cheerfully as he could.

There was a pause in the music outside, and a voice was heard speaking.

John rose and straightened himself.

"Have you decided what is to be done—what we had best do?" she said timidly.

"I am going to prove that a lover can be devoted, and yet perfectly reasonable; in defiance of all tradition to the contrary," he said gaily. "I shall return to town as soon as I can decently get away—probably to-morrow."

She uttered a cry. "You are going to leave me?"

"I must give place to Peter."

She came to his side, and clung to his arm as though terrified by the success of her own appeal.

"But you'll come back?"

"I have to account for my stewardship when Peter comes of age in the autumn," he said, smiling down upon her.

She was too quick of perception not to know that strength, and courage, too, were needed for the smile wherewith John strove to hide a disappointment too deep for words. He answered the look she gave him; a look which implored forgiveness, understanding, even encouragement.

"I'm not yielding a single inch of my claim upon you when the time comes, my darling; only I think, with you, that the time has not come yet. I think Peter may reasonably expect to be considered first for the present; and that you should be free to devote your whole attention to him, especially as he has such praiseworthy intentions. We will postpone the whole question until the autumn, when he comes of age; and when I shall, consequently, be able to tackle him frankly, man to man, and not as one having authority and abusing that same," he laughed. "Meantime, we must be patient. Write often, but not so often as to excite remark; and I shall return in the autumn."

"To stay?"

"Ah!" said John, "that depends on you."

He had not meant to be satirical, but the slight inflection of his tone cut Lady Mary to the heart.

Her vivid imagination saw her conduct in its worst light: vacillating, feeble, deserting the man she loved at the moment she had led him to expect triumph; dismissing her faithful servant without his reward. Then, in a flash, came the other side of the picture—the mother of a grown-up son—a wounded soldier dependent on her love—seeking her personal happiness as though there existed no past memories, no present duties, to hinder the fulfilling of her own belated romance.

"Oh, John," said Lady Mary, "tell me what to do? No, no; don't tell me—or I shall do it—and I mustn't."

"My darling," he said, "I only tell you to wait." He rallied himself to speak cheerfully, and to bring the life and colour back to her sad, white face.

"Just at this moment I quite realize I should be a disturbing element, and I am going to get myself out of the way as quickly as politeness permits. And you are to devote yourself to Peter, and not to be torn with self-reproach. If we act sensibly, and don't precipitate matters, nobody need have a grievance, and Peter and I will be the best of friends in the future, I hope. There is little use in having grown-up wits if we snatch our happiness at the expense of other people's feelings, as young folk so often do."

The twinkle in his bright eyes, and the kindly humour of his smile, restored her shaken self-confidence.

"Oh, John, no one else could ever understand—as you understand. If only Peter—"

"Peter is a boy," said John, "dreaming as a boy dreams, resolving as a boy resolves; and his dreams and his resolutions are as light as thistledown: the first breath of a new fancy, or a fresh interest, will blow them away. I put my faith in the future, in the near future. Time works wonders."

He stooped and kissed her hands, one after the other, with a possessive tenderness that told her better than words, that he had not resigned his claims.

"Now I'll go and offer my congratulations to the hero of the day," said John. "I must not put off any longer; and it is quite settled that our secret is to remain our secret—for the present."

Then he stepped out on to the terrace, and Lady Mary looked after him with a little sigh and smile.

She lifted a hand-mirror from the silver table that stood at her elbow, and shook her head over it.

"It's all very well for him, and it's all very well for Peter," she said; "but Time—Time is my worst enemy."