"

"What do you mean?" said John.

"I--we--have been thinking of Peter as a boy--as the boy he was when
he went away," she said, in low, hurrying tones; "but he has come home
a man, and, in some ways, altogether different. He never used to
want me; he used to think this place dull, and long to get away from
it--and from me, for that matter. But now he's--he's wounded, as you
know; maimed, my poor boy, for life; and--and he's counting on me to
make his home for him. We never thought of that. He says it wouldn't
be home without me; and he asked my pardon for being selfish in the
past; my poor Peter! I used to fear he had such a little, cold heart;
but I was all wrong, for when he was so far away he thought of me,
and was sorry he hadn't loved me more. He's come home wanting to be
everything to me, as I am to be everything to him. And I should have
been so glad, so thankful, only two years ago. Oh, have I changed so
much in two little years?"

John put her out of his arms very gently, and walked towards the
window. His face was pale, but he still smiled, and his hazel eyes
were bright.

"You're angry, John," said Lady Mary, very sweetly and humbly. "You've
a right to be angry."

"I am not angry," he said gently. "I may be--a little--disappointed."
He did not look round.

"You know I was too happy," said poor Lady Mary. She sank into a
chair, and covered her face with her hands. "It was wicked of me to be
so happy, and now I'm going to be punished for it."

John's great heart melted within him. He came swiftly back to her and
knelt by her side, and kissed the little hand she gave him.

"Too happy, were you?" he said, with a tenderness that rendered his
deep voice unsteady. "Because you promised to marry me when Peter came
home?"

"That, and--and everything else," she whispered. "Life seemed to have
widened out, and grown so beautiful. All the dull, empty hours were
filled. Our music, our reading, our companionship, our long walks and
talks, our letters to each other--all those pleasures which you showed
me were at once so harmless and so delightful. And as if that were
not enough--came love. Such love as I had only dreamed of--such
understanding of each other's every thought and word, as I did not
know was possible between man and woman--or at least"--she corrected
herself sadly--"between any man and a woman--of my age."

"You talk of your age," said John, smiling tenderly, "as though it
were a crime."

"It