Sarah Hewel ran into the drawing-room before Lady Mary found courage to put her newly gained composure to the test, by joining the crowd on the terrace.

"Oh, Lady Mary, are you there?" she cried, pausing in her eager passage to the window. "I thought you would be out-of-doors with the others!"

"Sarah, my dear!" said Lady Mary, kissing her.

"I—I saw all the people," said Sarah, in a breathless, agitated way, "I heard the news, and I wasn't sure whether I ought to come to luncheon all the same or not; so I slipped in by the side door to see whether I could find some one to ask quietly. Oh!" cried Sarah, throwing her arms impetuously round Lady Mary's neck, "tell me it isn't true?"

"My boy has come home," said Lady Mary.

Sarah turned from red to white, and from white to red again.

"But they said," she faltered—"they said he—"

"Yes, my dear," said Lady Mary, understanding; and the tears started to her own eyes. "Peter has lost an arm, but otherwise—otherwise," she said, in trembling tones, "my boy is safe and sound."

Sarah turned away her face and cried.

Lady Mary was touched. "Why, Sarah!" she said; and she drew the girl down beside her on the sofa and kissed her softly.

"I am sorry to be so silly," said Sarah, recovering herself. "It isn't a bit like me, is it?"

"It is like you, I think, to have a warm heart," said Lady Mary, "though you don't show it to every one; and, after all, you and Peter are old friends—playmates all your lives."

"It's been like a lump of lead on my heart all these months and years," said Sarah, "to think how I scoffed at Peter in the Christmas holidays before he went to the war, because my brothers had gone, whilst he stayed at home. Perhaps that was the reason he went. I used to lie awake at night sometimes, thinking that if Peter were killed it would be all my fault. And now his arm has gone—and Tom and Willie came back safely long ago." She cried afresh.

"It may not have been that at all," said Lady Mary, consolingly. "I don't think Peter was a boy to take much notice of what a goose of a little girl said. He felt he was a man, and ought to go—and his grandfather was a soldier—it is in the blood of the Setouns to want to fight for their country," said Lady Mary, with a smile and a little thrill of pride; for, after all, if her boy were a Crewys, he was also a Setoun. "Besides, poor child, you were so young; you didn't think; you didn't know—"

"You always make excuses for me," said Sarah, with subdued enthusiasm; "but I understand better now what it means—to send an only son away from his mother."

"The young take responsibility so lightly," said Lady Mary. "But now he has come home, my darling, why, you needn't reproach yourself any longer. It is good of you to care so much for my boy."

"It—it isn't only that. Of course, I was always fond of Peter," said Sarah; "but even if I had nothing to do with his going"—her voice sounded incredulous—"you know how one feels over our soldiers coming home—and a boy who has given his right arm for England. It makes one so choky and yet so proud—I can't say all I mean—but you know—"

"Yes, I know," said Lady Mary; and she smiled, but the tears were rolling down her cheeks.

"And what it must be to you," sobbed Sarah, "the day you were to have been so happy, to see him come back like that! No wonder you are sad. One feels one could never do enough to—to make it up to him."

"But I'm far more happy than sad," said Lady Mary; and to prove her words she leant back upon the cushions and cried.

"You're not," said Sarah, kneeling by her; "how can you be, my darling, sweet Lady Mary? But you must be happy," she said; and her odd, deep tones took a note of coaxing that was hard to resist. "Think how proud every one will be of him, and how—how all the other mothers will envy you! You—you mustn't care so terribly. It—it isn't as if he had to work for his living. It won't make any real difference to his life. And he'll let you do everything for him—even write his letters—"

"Oh, Sarah, Sarah, stop!" said Lady Mary, faintly. "It—it isn't that."

"Not that!" said Sarah, changing her tone. She pounced on the admission like a cat on a mouse. "Then why do you cry?"

Lady Mary looked up confused into the severely inquiring young face.

Sarah's apple-blossom beauty, as was to have been expected, had increased a thousand-fold since her school girl days. She had grown tall to match the plumpness of her figure, which had not decreased. Her magnificent hair showed its copper redness in every variety of curl and twist upon her white forehead, and against her whiter throat.

She was no longer dressed in blue cotton. Lady Tintern knew how to give such glorious colouring its true value. A gauzy, transparent black flowed over a close-fitting white gown beneath, and veiled her fair arms and neck. Black bÉbÉ ribbon gathered in coquettishly the folds which shrouded Sarah's abundant charms, and a broad black sash confined her round young waist. A black chip hat shaded the glowing hair and the face, "ruddier than the cherry, and whiter than milk;" and the merry, dark blue eyes had a penthouse of their own, of drooping lashes, which redeemed the boldness of their frank and open gaze.

"If it is not that—why do you cry?" she demanded imperiously.

"It's—just happiness," said Lady Mary.

Sarah looked wise, and shook her head. "Oh no," she quoth. "Those aren't happy tears."

"You're too old, dear Sarah, to be an enfant terrible still," said
Lady Mary; but Sarah was not so easily disarmed.

"I will know! Come, I'm your godchild, and you always spoil me. He's not come back in one of his moods, has he?"

"Who?" cried Lady Mary, colouring.

"Who! Why, who are we talking of but Peter?" said Sarah, opening her big-pupilled eyes.

"Oh no, no! He's changed entirely—"

"Changed!"

"I don't mean exactly changed, but he's—he's grown so loving and so sweet—not that he wasn't always loving in his heart, but—

"Oh," cried Sarah, impatiently, "as if I didn't know Peter! But if it wasn't that which made you so unhappy, what was it?" She bent puzzled brows upon her embarrassed hostess.

"Let me go, Sarah; you ask too much!" said Lady Mary. "Oh no, my darling, I'm not angry! How could I be angry with my little loyal Sarah, who's always loved me so? It's only that I can't bear to be questioned just now." She caressed the girl eagerly, almost apologetically. "I must have a few moments to recover myself. I'll go quietly away into the study—anywhere. Wait for me here, darling, and make some excuse for me if any one comes. I want to be alone for a few moments. Peter mustn't find me crying again."

"Yes—that's all very well," said Sarah to herself, as the slight form hurried from the drawing-room into the dark oak hall beyond. "But why is she unhappy? There is something else."

It was Dr. Blundell who found the answer to Sarah's riddle.

He had seen the signs of weeping on Lady Mary's face as she stumbled over the threshold of the window into the very arms of John Crewys, and his feelings were divided between passionate sympathy with his divinity, and anger with the returned hero, who had no doubt reduced his mother to this distressful state. The doctor was blinded by love and misery, and ready to suspect the whole world of doing injustice to this lady; though he believed himself to be destitute of jealousy, and capable of judging Peter with perfect impartiality.

His fancy leapt far ahead of fact; and he supposed, not only that Lady Mary must be engaged to John Crewys, but that she must have confided her engagement to her son, and that Peter had already forbidden the banns.

He wandered miserably about the grounds, within hearing of the rejoicings; and had just made up his mind that he ought to go and join the speechmakers, when he perceived John Crewys himself standing next to Peter, apparently on the best possible terms with the hero of the day.

The doctor hastened round to the hall, intending to enter the drawing-room unobserved, and find out for himself whether Lady Mary had recovered, or whether John Crewys had heartlessly abandoned her to her grief.

The brilliant vision Miss Sarah presented, as she stood, drawn up to her full height, in the shaded drawing-room, met his anxious gaze as he entered.

"Why, Miss Sarah! Not gone back to London yet? I thought you only came down for Whitsuntide."

"Mamma wasn't well, so I am staying on for a few days. I am supposed to be nursing her," said Sarah, demurely.

She was a favourite with the doctor, as she was very well aware, and, in consequence, was always exceedingly gracious to him.

"Where is Lady Mary?" he asked.

She stole to his side, and put her finger on her lips, and lowered her voice.

"She went through the hall—into the study. And she's alone—crying."

"Crying!" said the doctor; and he made a step towards the open door, but Sarah's strong, white hand held him fast.

"Play fair," she said reproachfully; "I told you in confidence. You can't suppose she wants you to see her crying."

"No, no," said the poor doctor, "of course not—of course not."

She closed the doors between the rooms. "Look here, Dr. Blundell, we've always been friends, haven't we, you and me?"

"Ever since I had the honour of ushering you into the world you now adorn," said the doctor, with an ironical bow.

"Then tell me the truth," said Sarah. "Why is she unhappy, to-day of all days?"

The doctor looked uneasily away from her. "Perhaps—the joy of Peter's return has been too much for her," he suggested.

"Yes," said Sarah. "That's what we'll tell the other people. But you and I—why, Dr. Blunderbuss," she said reproachfully, using the name she had given him in her saucy childhood, "you know how I've worshipped Lady Mary ever since I was a little girl?"

"Yes, yes, my dear, I know," said the doctor.

"You love her too, don't you?" said Sarah.

He started. "I—I love Lady Mary! What do you mean?" he said, almost violently.

"Oh, I didn't mean that sort of love," said Sarah, watching him keenly. Then she laid her plump hand gently on his shabby sleeve. "I wouldn't have said it, if I'd thought—"

"Thought what?" said the doctor, agitated.

"What I think now," said Sarah.

He walked up and down in a silence she was too wise to break. When he looked at her again, Sarah was leaning against the piano. She had taken off the picture-hat, and was swinging it absently to and fro by the black ribbons which had but now been tied beneath her round, white chin. She presented a charming picture—and it is possible she knew it—as she stood in that restful pose, with her long lashes pointed downwards towards her buckled shoes.

The doctor stopped in front of her. "You are too quick for me, Sarah. You always were, even as a little girl," he said. "You've surprised my—my poor secret. You can laugh at the old doctor now, if you like."

"I don't feel like laughing," said Sarah, simply. "And your secret is safe with me. I'm honest; you know that."

"Yes, my dear; I know that. God bless you!" said the doctor.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Blundell," said Sarah, softly.

The deep voice which came from the full, white chest, and which had once been so unmanageable, was one of Sarah's surest weapons now.

When she sang, she counted her victims by the dozen; when she lowered it, as she lowered it now, to speak only to one man, every note went straight to his heart—if he had an ear for music and a heart for love.

When Sarah said, in these dulcet tones, therefore, that she was sorry for her old friend, the tears gathered to the doctor's kind, tired eyes.

"For me!" he said gratefully. "Oh, you mustn't be sorry for me. She—she could hardly be further out of my reach, you know, if she were—an angel in heaven, instead of being what she is—an angel on earth. It is—of her that I was thinking."

"I know," said Sarah; "but she has been looking so bright and hopeful, ever since we heard Peter was coming home—until to-day—when he has actually come; and that is what puzzles me."

"To-day—to-day!" said the doctor, as though to himself. "Yes; it was to-day I saw her touch happiness timidly, and come face to face with disappointment."

"You saw her?"

"Oh, when one loves," he said bitterly, "one has intuitions which serve as well as eyes and ears. You will know all about it one day, little Sarah."

"Shall I?" said Sarah. She turned her face away from the doctor.

"You've not been here very much lately," he said, "but you've been here long enough to guess her secret, as you—you've guessed mine. Eh? You needn't pretend, for my sake, to misunderstand me."

"I wasn't going to," said Sarah, gently.

"John Crewys is the very man I would have chosen—I did choose him," said the doctor, looking at her almost fiercely. It was an odd consolation to him to believe he had first led John Crewys to interest himself in Lady Mary. He recognized his rival's superior qualifications very fully and humbly. "You know all about it, Miss Sarah, don't tell me; so quick as you are to find out what doesn't concern you."

"I saw that—Mr. John Crewys—liked her," said Sarah, in a low voice; "but, then, so does everybody. I wasn't sure—I couldn't believe that she—"

"You haven't watched as I have," he groaned; "you haven't seen the sparkle come back to her eye, and the colour to her cheek. You haven't watched her learning to laugh and sing and enjoy her innocent days as Nature bade; since she has dared to be herself. It was love that taught her an that."

"Love!" said Sarah.

Her soft, red lips parted; and her breath quickened with a sudden sensation of mingled interest, sympathy, and amusement.

"Ay, love," said the doctor, half angrily. He detected the deepening of Sarah's dimples. "And I am an old fool to talk to you like this. You children think that love is reserved for boys and girls, like you and—and Peter."

"I don't know what Peter has to do with it," said Sarah, pouting.

"I heard Peter explaining to his tenants just now," said the doctor, with a harsh laugh, "that he was going to settle down here for good and all—with his mother; that nothing was to be changed from his father's time. Something in his words would have made me understand the look on his mother's face, even if I hadn't read it right—already. She will sacrifice her love for John Crewys to her love for her son; and by the time Peter finds out—as in the course of nature he will find out—that he can do without his mother, her chance of happiness will be gone for ever."

Sarah looked a little queerly at the doctor.

"Then the sooner Peter finds out," she said slowly, "that he can live without his mother, the better. Doesn't that seem strange?"

"Perhaps," said the doctor, heavily. "But life gives us so few opportunities of a great happiness as we grow older, little Sarah. The possibilities that once seemed so boundless, lie in a circle which narrows round us, day by day. Some day you'll find that out too."

There was a sudden outburst of cheering.

Sarah started forward. "Dr. Blundell," she said energetically, "you've told me all I wanted to know. She sha'n't be unhappy if I can help it."

"You!" said the doctor, shrugging his shoulders rather rudely. "I don't see what you can do."

Sarah reddened with lofty indignation. "It would be very odd if you did," she said spitefully; "you're only a man, when all is said and done. But if you'll only promise not to interfere, I'll manage it beautifully all by myself."

"What will you do?" said the doctor, inattentively; and his blindness to Sarah's charms and her powers made her almost pity such obtuseness.

"I will go and fetch Lady Mary, for one thing, and cheer her up."

"Not a word to her!" he cried, starting up; "remember, I told you in confidence—though why I was such a fool—"

"Am I likely to forget?" said Sarah; "and you will see one day whether you were a fool to tell me." She said to herself, despairingly, that the stupidity of mankind was almost past praying for. As the doctor opened the door for Sarah, Lady Mary herself walked into the room.

She had removed all traces of tears from her face, and, though she was still very pale, she was quite composed, and ready to smile at them both.

"Were you coming to fetch me?" she said, taking Sarah's arm affectionately. "Dr. Blundell, I am afraid luncheon will be terribly late. The servants have all gone off their heads in the confusion, as was to be expected. The noise and the welcome upset me so that I dared not go out on the terrace again. Ash has just been to tell me it's all over, and that Peter made a capital speech; quite as good as Mr. John's, he said; but that is hardly a compliment to our K.C.," she laughed. "I'm afraid Ash is prejudiced."

"Ash was doing the honours with all his might," said the doctor, gruffly; "handing round cider by the hogshead. Hallo! the speeches must be really all over," he said, for, above vociferous cheering, the strains of the National Anthem could just be discerned.

Peter came striding across the terrace, and looked in at the open window.

"Are you better again, mother?" he called. "Could you come out now?
They've done at last, but they're calling for you."

"Yes, yes; I'm quite ready. I won't be so silly again," said Lady
Mary.

But Peter did not listen. "Why—" he said, and stopped short.

"Surely you haven't forgotten Sarah," said Lady Mary, laughing—"your little playmate Sarah? But perhaps I ought to say Miss Hewel now."

"How do you do, Sir Peter?" said Sarah, in a very stately manner. "I am very glad to be here to welcome you home."

Peter, foolishly embarrassed, took the hand she offered with such gracious composure, and blushed all over his thin, tanned face.

"I—I should hardly have known you," he stammered.

"Really?" said Sarah.

"Won't you," said Peter, still looking at her, "join us on the terrace?"

"The people aren't calling for me" said Sarah.

"But it might amuse you," said Peter, deferentially.

He put up his eyeglass—but though Sarah's red lip quivered, she did not laugh.

"It's rather jolly, really," he said. "They've got banners, and flags, and processions, and things. Won't you come?"

"Well—I will," said Sarah. She accepted his help in descending the step with the air of a princess. "But they'll be so disappointed to see me instead of your mother."

"Disappointed to see you!" said Peter, stupefied.

She stepped forth, laughing, and Peter followed her closely. John Crewys stood aside to let them pass. Lady Mary, half amazed and half amused, realized suddenly that her son had forgotten he came back to fetch her. She hesitated on the threshold. More cheers and confused shouting greeted Peter's reappearance on the balcony. He turned and waved to his mother, and the canon came hurrying over the grass.

"The people are shouting for Lady Mary; they want Lady Mary," he cried.

John Crewys looked at her with a smile, and held out his hand, and she stepped over the sill, and went away across the terrace garden with him.

The doctor turned his face from the crowd, and went back alone into the empty room.

"Who doesn't want Lady Mary?" he said to himself, forlornly.