and had had an old-fashioned
paper of bunched rosebuds put up there. It was very long and low, and
looked eastward into the fountain garden, and over the tree-tops far
away to the open country.

The sisters had thought one of the handsome modern rooms of the south
front would be more suitable for the bride, but Lady Mary had her way.
She preferred the older part of the house, and liked the steps
down into her room, the uneven floor, the low ceiling, the quaint
window-seats, and the powdering closet where she hung her dresses.

The great oriel window formed almost a sitting-room apart. Here was
her writing-table, whereon stood now a green jar of scented arums and
trailing white fuchsias.

A bunch of sweet peas in a corner of the window-seat perfumed the
whole room, already fragrant with potpourri and lavender.

A low bookcase was filled with her favourite volumes; one shelf with
the story-books of her childhood, from which she had long ago read
aloud to Peter, on rainy days when he had exhausted all other kinds
of amusement; for he had never touched a book if he could help it,
therein resembling his father.

In the corner next the window stood the cot where Peter had slept
often as a little boy, and which had been playfully designated the
hospital, because his mother had always carried him thither when
he was ill. Then she had taken him jealously from the care of his
attendant, and had nursed and guarded him herself day and night, until
even convalescence was a thing of the past. She had never suffered
that little cot to be moved; the white coverlet had been made and
embroidered by her own hands. A gaudy oleograph of a soldier on
horseback--which little Peter had been fond of, and which had been
hung up to amuse him during one of those childish illnesses--remained
in its place. How often had she looked at it through her tears when
Peter was far away! Beside the cot stood a table with a shabby book
of devotions, marked by a ribbon from which the colour had long since
faded. The book had belonged to Lady Mary's father, young Robbie
Setoun, who had become Lord Ferries but one short month before he met
with a soldier's death. His daughter said her prayers at this little
table, and had carried thither her agony and petitions for her boy in
his peril, during the many, many months of the South African War.

The morning was brilliant and sunny, and the upper casements stood
open, to let in the fresh autumn air, and the s