with few exceptions, American.

Partly from association and partly because I count it the most truly
delightful story of its kind that ever was written, "Little Women" has
always retained its early place in my affections. "Meg," "Jo," "Beth,"
and "Amy" are my oldest and dearest friends; and when I think of them,
it is hard to believe that America could be a land of strangers to me
after all. I confess to a weakness for the "Wide, Wide World" and a
secret passion for "Queechy." I loved "Mr. Rutherford's Children," and
was always interested to hear "What Katy Did," Whilst the very thought
of "Melbourne House" thrills me with recollections of the joy I
experienced therein.

But this is all by the way; and for the egotism which is, I fear me,
displayed in this foreword, I can but plead, not only the difficulty
of writing a preface at all, when one has no personal inclination that
way, but the nervousness which must beset a writer who is directly
addressing not a tried and friendly public, but an unknown, and, it
may be, less easily pleased and more critical audience. It appears to
me that it would be a simpler thing to write another book; and I would
rather do so. I can only hope that some of the readers of "Peter's
Mother," if she is so happy as to find favour in American eyes, would
rather I did so too; in I which case I shall very joyfully try to
gratify their wishes, and my own.

BETTY DE LA PASTURE.

PETER'S MOTHER

CHAPTER I

Above Youlestone village, overlooking the valley and the river,
and the square-towered church, stood Barracombe House, backed by
Barracombe Woods, and owned by Sir Timothy Crewys, of Barracombe.

From the terrace before his windows Sir Timothy could take a
bird's-eye view of his own property, up the river and down the river;
while he also had the felicity of beholding the estate of his most
important neighbour, Colonel Hewel, of Hewelscourt, mapped out before
his eyes, as plainly visible in detail as land on the opposite side of
a narrow valley must always be.

He cast no envious glances at his neighbour's property. The Youle
was a boundary which none could dispute, and which could only be
conveniently crossed by the ferry, for the nearest bridge was seven
miles distant, at Brawnton, the old post-town.

From Brawnton the coach still ran once a week for the benefit of the
outlying villages, and the single line of rail which threaded the
valley of the Youle in the year 190