etic smile. "But one oughtn't
to expect too much heart from a boy, ought one? It's--it's not a
healthy sign. You said once you were glad he wasn't sentimental, like
me."

"I should have wished him to exhibit proper feeling on proper
occasions. His present triumph over my authority involves his
departure to certain danger and possible death, without even affording
us the opportunity of bidding him farewell. He is ready and willing to
leave us thus."

Lady Mary uttered a stifled scream. "But I won't let him. How can you
think his mother will let him go like that?"

"How can you help it?"

She pressed her trembling hands to her forehead. "I will think. There
is a way. There are plenty of ways. I can drive to the junction--it's
not much further than Brawnton--and catch the midnight express, and
get to Southampton by daybreak. I know it can be done. Ash will look
out the trains. Why do you look at me like that? You're not going to
stop my going, are you? You're not going to _try_ and stop me, are
you? For you won't succeed. Oh yes, I know I've been an obedient wife,
Timothy. But I--I defied you once before for Peter's sake; when he was
such a little boy, and you wanted to punish him--don't you remember?"

"Don't talk so, Mary," said Sir Timothy, almost soothingly. Her
vehemence really alarmed and distressed him. "It is not like you to
talk like this. You will be sorry--afterwards," he said; and his voice
softened.

She responded instantly. She came closer to him, and took his big
shaking hand into her gentle clasp.

"I should be sorry afterwards," she said, "and so would you. Even
_you_ would be sorry, Timothy, if anything happened to Peter. I'll try
and not make any more excuses for him, if you like. I know he's not
a child now. He's almost a man; and men seem to me to grow harsh and
unloving as they grow older. I try, now and then, to shut my eyes and
see him as he once was; but all the time I know that the little boy
who used to be Peter has gone away for ever and ever and ever. If he
had died when he was little he would always have been my little boy,
wouldn't he? But, thank God, he didn't die. He's going to be a great
strong man, and a brave soldier, and--and all I've ever wanted him to
be--when he's got over these wilful days of boyhood. But he mustn't go
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'r