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 wit