died out of his voice and face.

"But you are not to think, mother, that I shall ever again be the
selfish boy I used to be--the boy who didn't value your love and
devotion."

"No, dear, no," she answered, with wet eyes; "I will never think
so. We can love each other just the same, perhaps even batter, even
though--Oh, Peter--"

But Peter was in no mind to brook interruption. He was burning to pour
out his plans for her future, and his own.

"Wherever we may go, and whatever we may be doing," he said
emotionally, "it will be a joy and a comfort to me to know that my
dear old mother is always _here_. Taking care of the place and looking
after the people, and waiting always to welcome me, with her old sweet
smile on her dear old face."

Peter was not often moved to such enthusiasm, and he was almost
overcome by his own eloquence in describing this beautiful picture.

Lady Mary was likewise overcome. She sank back once more in her
cushioned corner, looking at him with a blank dismay that could not
escape even his dull observation. How impossible it was to tell Peter,
after all! How impossible he always made it!

"I know you must feel it just at first," he said anxiously; "but
you--you can't expect to keep me all to yourself for ever."

She shook her head, and tried to smile.

He grew a little impatient. "After all," he said, "you must be
reasonable, mother. Every one has to live his own life."

Then Lady Mary found words. A sudden rush of indignation--the pent-up
feelings of years--brought the scarlet blood to her cheeks and the
fire to her gentle, blue eyes.

"Every one--but _me_" she said, trembling violently.

"You!" said Peter, astonished.

She clasped her hands against her bosom to still the panting and
throbbing that, it seemed to her, must be evident outwardly, so strong
was the emotion that shook her fragile form.

"Every one--but me," she said. "Does it never--strike you--Peter--that
I, too, would like to live before I die? Whilst you are living your
own life, why shouldn't I be living mine? Why shouldn't _I_ go to
London, and to Paris, and to Rome, and to Switzerland, or wherever I
choose, now that you--_you_--have set me free?"

"Mother," said Peter, aghast, "are you gone mad?"

"Perhaps I am a little mad," said poor Lady Mary. "People go mad
sometimes, who have been too long--in prison--they say." Then she saw
his real alarm, and laughed till she cried. "I am not really mad," she
said. "Do