Peter might even then be hanging dead in some of the familiar home
places had caused that never-ending walk of yesterday. Her soft
eyes never were the same again after that; they had always a
restless, craving look, as if seeking for what they could not find.
Oh! it was an awful time; coming down like a thunder-bolt on the
still sunny day when the lilacs were all in bloom."

"Where was Mr Peter?" said I.

"He had made his way to Liverpool; and there was war then; and some
of the king's ships lay off the mouth of the Mersey; and they were
only too glad to have a fine likely boy such as him (five foot nine
he was), come to offer himself. The captain wrote to my father,
and Peter wrote to my mother. Stay! those letters will be
somewhere here."

We lighted the candle, and found the captain's letter and Peter's
too. And we also found a little simple begging letter from Mrs
Jenkyns to Peter, addressed to him at the house of an old
schoolfellow whither she fancied he might have gone. They had
returned it unopened; and unopened it had remained ever since,
having been inadvertently put by among the other letters of that
time. This is it:-


"MY DEAREST PETER,--You did not think we should be so sorry as we
are, I know, or you would never have gone away. You are too good.
Your father sits and sighs till my heart aches to hear him. He
cannot hold up his head for grief; and yet he only did what he
thought was right. Perhaps he has been too severe, and perhaps I