ed
to do," said Peter. "Now you rest quietly here"--and he gently laid
her down among the cushions on the sofa--"whilst I take a look round
the old place."

"Let me come with you, darling."

"Good heavens, no! I should tire you to death. My father never liked
you to go climbing about."

"I am much more active than I used to be," said Lady Mary.

"No, no; you must lie down, you look quite pale." Peter's voice took
an authoritative note, which came very naturally to him. "The sudden
joy of my return has been too much for you, poor old mum."

He leant over her fondly, and kissed the sweet, pale face, and then
regarded her in a curious, doubtful manner.

"You're changed, mother. I can't think what it is. Isn't your hair
done differently--or something?"

Poor Lady Mary lifted both hands to her head, and looked at him with
something like alarm in her blue eyes.

"Is it? Perhaps it is," she faltered. "Don't you like it, Peter?"

"I like the old way best," said Peter.

"But this is so much more becoming, Peter."

"A fellow doesn't care," said Peter, loftily, "whether his mother's
hair is becoming or not. He likes to see her always the same as when
he was a little chap."

"It is--sweet of you, to have such a thought," murmured Lady Mary. She
took her courage in both hands. "But the other way is out of fashion,
Peter."

"Why, mother, you never used to follow the fashions before I went
away; you won't begin now, at your age, will you?"

"_At my age_" repeated Lady Mary, blankly. Then she looked at him with
that wondering, pathetic smile, which seemed to have replaced already,
since Peter came home, the joyousness which had timidly stolen back
from her vanished youth. "At my age!" said Lady Mary; "you are not
very complimentary, Peter."

"You don't expect a fellow to pay compliments to his mother," said
Peter, staring at her. "Why, mother, what has come to you? And
besides--"

"Besides?"

"I'm sure papa hated compliments, and all that sort of rot," Peter
blurted out, in boyish fashion. "Don't you remember how fond he was of
quoting, 'Praise to the face is open disgrace'?"

The late Sir Timothy, like many middle-class people, had taken a
compliment almost as a personal offence; and regarded the utterer,
however gracious or sincere, with suspicion. Neither had the squire
himself erred on the side of flattering his fellow-creatures.

"Oh yes, I remember," said Lady Mary; and she rose from the sofa.

"Why, w