without his father's blessing and his mother's kiss."

"He has chosen to do so, Mary," said Sir Timothy, coldly.

She clung to him caressingly. "But you're going to forgive him before
he goes, Timothy. There's no time to be angry before he goes. It may
be too late to-morrow."

"It may be too late to-morrow," repeated Sir Timothy, heavily.

He resented, in a dull, self-pitying fashion, the fact that his wife's
thoughts were so exclusively fixed on Peter, in her ignorance of his
own more immediate danger.

"Don't think I'm blind to his faults," urged Lady Mary, "only I can
laugh at them better than you can, because I _know_ all the while that
at the very bottom of his heart he's only my baby Peter after all.
He's not--God bless him--he's _not_ the dreary, cold-blooded, priggish
boy he sometimes pretends to be. Don't remember him like that now,
Timothy. Think of that morning in June--that glorious, sunny morning
in June, when you knelt by the open window in my room and thanked God
because you had a son. Think of that other summer day when we couldn't
bear even to look at the roses because little Peter was so ill, and we
were afraid he was going back to heaven."

Her soft, rapid words touched Sir Timothy to a vague feeling of pity
for her, and for Peter, and for himself. But the voice of the charmer,
charm she never so wisely, had no power, after all, to dispel the dark
cloud that was hanging over him.