Peter's Mother

rive, and there met Dr. Blundell, who had left his dog

ded his usual good humour; but Dr. Blundell divined it, with the quickne

eard-you know how quickly news spreads here-that you had arrived.

. "Will you come in, o

and he led the way across the south terrace, to a sheltered corner of the level

rels which sheltered it from the east, little or no sunshine found its way to the grey, moss-grown basin and the stone fi

tern corner of the house, and around a great mullioned window which overlo

his place is reeking with damp. I should like to cut down some of these poisonous laur

energy in his tone that John stopped short in

st as unlike in appea

e was moved or excited. A tall, gaunt man, lined and wrinkled beyond his years; careless of appearance, so far as his s

en in pursuit of the profession he loved; and he knew no other interest in life, save one. He had the face of a fanati

neither resigned to his disap

ok out eagerly, sadly, pitifully at the pain and sorrow of the world; a pain he toiled

most casual observer, a successful man; a ma

an in the doctor's nervous energy. His clear eyes,

taken for a poet, but Joh

doctor was evidently a countryman, and a hermit. His advantages over the doctor inclu

matter of John's speech, had

g the impression he wished to convey, in tones that charm; and held his audi

e biting his subtly chosen words, the more courteous his manner; now deadly earnest, now humo

no such control over himself as John Crewys carri

a view of the outside world, and as much sunshine as possible into

d John. "I should be much obliged if yo

r and more kindly tones had Sar

ith him, of all people in the world? As though there were an

How pallid was that tired face; and the hollow eyes, how sad and tired too! The doctor had be

ing very near his heart; no presuming and interfering outsider who

he had finished what he had to say; but he liste

es on;" and he neither mentioned any name,

out incoherently from the depth

ure in her life before; but what is left to her now? De mortuis nil nisi bo

h, and strove to speak ca

e exaggerated the importance of birth till it became almost a mania. If you hadn't known the man, you couldn't have believed a human being-one of the million crawling units on the earth-could be so absurdly inflated with self-importance. It was pitiful. He went nowhere, and saw no one. I believe he thought that Providence had sent a wife of high rank to his very door to enable him partially to wipe out his reproach. She looked like a child when she came, but she shot up very suddenly into womanhood. If you ask me if she was unhappy, I declare I don't think so. She had never realized, I should think, what it was to be snubbed or found fault with in her life. She was a motherless child, and had lived with her old grandfather and her young father, and had been very much spoilt. And they were both snatched away from her, as it were, in a breath; and she alone in the world, with an uncle who was only glad to get rid of her to her stranger guardian. Well,-she was to

esent," s

em had a word to say. It wasn't as if she were an heiress. I believe she had next to nothing. She was just like a child, laughing, and pleased at getting married, and with all her finery, perhaps,-or at getting rid of her lessons with the old women may be,-and the thought of babies of her own. Who knows

the gaps of the doctor's narra

a child herself; and Peter, between you and me, was an unpromising doll for a child to play with. He was ugly and ill-tempered, and he wouldn't be caressed, or dressed up, or made much of, from the first minute he had a will of his own. As he grew bigger he was for ever having rows with his father, and hi

ine will do him a great deal

irresponsive youth, who had there listened to his mother's messages with lowering brow and downcast eye. Peter had betra

hem," John had said to himself on his homeward journey; dreading, yet expecting, the new

it's not of Peter I'm thinking, one way or the other. From the time he went first

gather strength and en

ary bookcases were locked. Sir Timothy opened them once in a while, and his sisters dusted the books with their own hands; it was against tradition to handle such valuable bindings. He hated music, and the piano was not to be played in his presence. Have you ever tried it? I'm told you're musical. It belonged to Lady Belstone's mother, the Honourable Rachel. That is her harp which stands in the corner of the hall. Her da

wer tones, as he recur

ny one. Mrs. Hewel is a fool-there was only little Sarah whom Lady Mary made a pet of-but she had no friends. Sir Timothy and his sisters made visiting such a stiff and formal business, that it was no wonder she hated paying calls; the more especially as it could lead to nothing. He would not entertain; he grudged the expense. I w

hough he was vaguely conscious that he un

n the end of the bench, leant on his bony knee, and looked down wist

Somehow you inspire me with confidence. I believe you can save her. I believe you could find a way to bring back her peace of mind; the interest in life-the gaiety of heart-that is natural to her. If I were in your place, not

almost scornfully. He thought he knew Lady

to break the spells that have been woven round her, bound as she is, hand and foot, with the prejudices of the dea

and looked at the doctor. "You have known her longe

of Peter, and to him. The lad has forgiven me; he is a man, you see, with all his faults. But Lady Mary, thoug

not," sa

ou'll

overgrown place?" said John, slowly. "Let in light, air, and sunshine to Barracombe, and do my

aid the doctor, joyfully

" sai