CHAPTER ONE.

PETER'S HOME AND FRIENDS.

"Are you better, mother, to-day?" asked little Peter, as he went up to
the bed on which Widow Gray lay, in a small chamber of their humble
abode.

"I trust so, my boy," she answered, in a doubtful tone, as she gazed
fondly on the ruddy, broad, honest face of her only child, and put aside
the mass of light hair which clustered curling over his brow, to imprint
on it a loving kiss. "I tried to get up to help Betsy when she came to
tidy the house, but did not feel strong enough; and the doctor, who
looked in soon after, said I had better stay quiet, and gave me some
stuff which I trust may do me good. Betsy kindly stopped and put
everything to rights, but since she went I have felt lonely, and have
been longing for you to come home."

Betsy was an old woman who lived nearly half a mile off, on the
hill-side. She had known Mary Gray from her childhood, and came every
day, without fee or reward, to assist her during the grievous illness
from which she had long been suffering, while little Peter was away
tending Farmer Ashton's sheep on the neighbouring downs.

Widow Gray's cottage stood towards the bottom on the sloping side of
some lofty downs, which extended far away east and west, as well as a
considerable distance southward towards the ocean, which was, as the
crow flies, about ten miles off from the highest point above it. The
hill formed one side of a valley, through which flowed a sparkling
stream bordered by trees, with here and there scattered about the
cottages of the hamlet of Springvale. Far away at the lower end rose
amid the trees the slender spire of the little church. On the other
side of the valley was a further succession of open downs, crossed only
by a single road a considerable distance, off, so that a more secluded
nook than Springvale could not be found for many a mile round.

The widow's cottage gave signs of decay, though it was evident that such
attempts as required no expense had been made to keep it in repair. The
holes in the roof had been stuffed full of furze and grass, kept down by
heavy stones from being blown off by the wind; the broken panes in the
windows were replaced by pieces of board or stout paper; and rough
stakes filled up the spaces where the once neat palings had given way.
Each foot of the small garden was cultivated, though clearly by an
unscientific hand. Indeed, little Peter was the sole labourer, he
devoting to it eve