opposite side of the hill, which echoed through the valley; she knew
what those sounds meant to Peter--the boy who had shot so straight and
true, and who would never shoulder a gun any more.

"I don't see why you should be so miserable," she said, as lightly
as she could; but there were tears in her eyes, she was so sorry for
Peter.

"I dare say you don't," said Peter, bitterly. "Nobody has ever made a
fool of you, no doubt. A wretched, self-confident fool, who gave you
his whole heart to trample in the dust. I suppose I ought to have
known you were only--playing with me--as you said--a wretched object
as I am now, but--"

"An object!" cried Sarah, so anxious to stem the tide of his
reproaches that she scarce knew what she was saying, "which appeals
to the soft side of every woman's heart, high or low, rich or poor,
civilized or savage--a wounded soldier."

"Do you think I want to be pitied?" said Peter, glowering.

"Pitied!" said Sarah, softly. "Do you call this pity?" She leant
forward and kissed his empty sleeve.

Peter trembled at her touch.

"It is--because you are sorry for me," he said hoarsely.

"Sorry!" said Sarah, scornfully; "I glory in it." Then she suddenly
began to cry. "I am a wicked girl," she sobbed, "and you _were a_
fool, if you ever thought I could be happy anywhere but in this stupid
old valley, or with--with any one but you. And I am rightly punished
if my--my behaviour has made you change your mind. Because I _did_
mean, just at first, to throw you over, and to--to go away from you,
Peter. But--but the arm that wasn't there--held me fast."

"Sarah!"

She hid her face against his shoulder.

* * * * *

John Crewys was playing softly on the little oak piano in the
banqueting hall, and Lady Mary stood before the open hearth, absently
watching the sparks fly upward from the burning logs, and listening.

The old sisters had gone to bed.

Sarah's bright face, framed in her white hood, fresh and rosy from the
cold breath of the October night, appeared in the doorway.

"Peter is in there--waiting for you," she whispered, blushing.

John Crewys rose from the piano, and came forward and held out his
hand to Sarah, with a smile.

Lady Mary hurried past them into the unlighted drawing-room. Her eyes,
dazzled by the sudden change, could distinguish nothing for a moment.

But Peter was there, waiting, and perhaps Lady Mary was thankful for
the darkness, which