ssionately grateful she was
because he had divined them; because he had in no way fallen short of
the man he had seemed to be.

She had sacrificed John to Peter; and John, who had shown so much
wisdom and delicacy in leaving her alone with her son, was avenged;
for only his absence could have made clear to her how he had grown
into the heart she had guarded so jealously for Peter's sake.

She knew now that Peter's companionship made her more lonely than
utter solitude.

The _joie de vivre_, which had distinguished her early days, and was
inherent in her nature, had been quenched, to all appearance, many
years since; but the spark had never died, and John had fanned it into
brightness once more.

His strong hand had swept away the cobwebs that had been spun across
her life; and the drooping soul had revived in the sunshine of his
love, his comradeship, his warm approval.

Timidly, she had learnt to live, to laugh, to look about her, and dare
utter her own thoughts and opinions, instead of falsely echoing those
she did not share. Lady Mary had recovered her individuality; the
serene consciousness of a power within herself to live up to the ideal
her lover had conceived of her.

But now, in his absence, that confidence had been rudely shaken. She
had come to perceive that she, who charmed others so easily, could
not charm her sullen son. It was part of the penalty she paid for her
quick-wittedness, that she could realize herself as Peter saw her,
though she was unable to present herself before him in a more
favourable light.

"I must be myself--or nobody," she thought despairingly. But Peter
wanted her to be once more the meek, plainly dressed, low-spirited,
silent being whom Sir Timothy had created; and who was not in the
least like the original laughing, loving, joyous Mary Setoun.

It did not occur to her, in her sorrowful humility, that possibly her
qualities stood on a higher level than Peter's powers of appreciation.
Yet it is certain that people can only admire intelligently what
is good within their comprehension; and their highest flights of
imagination may sometimes scarcely touch mediocrity.

The noblest ideals, the fairest dreams, the subtlest reasoning, the
finest ethics, contained in the writings of the mighty dead, meant
nothing at all to Sir Timothy. His widow knew that she had never heard
him utter one high or noble or selfless thought. But with, perhaps,
pardonable egotism, she had taken it fo