ile, had let himself drop back against the pillows. He
set his teeth and waited. It was hard. An opportunity of escape from
the galling restraints of his infirmity had been presented to him, and
his mother--his mother after promise given, after the sympathy of a
lifetime; his mother, in whom he trusted absolutely--was unwilling he
should accept it! As he lay there all the desperate longing for freedom
and activity that had developed in him of late--all the passion for
sport, for that primitive, half-savage manner of life, that intimate,
if somewhat brutal, relation to nature, to wild creatures and to the
beasts whom man by centuries of usage has broken to his service, which
is the special heritage of Englishmen of gentle blood--sprang up in
Richard, strong, all compelling. He must have his part in all this. He
would not be denied. He cried out to her imperiously:--

"Mother, speak to me! I haven't done anything really wrong. I've a
right to do what any other boy has--as far as I can get it. Don't you
see riding is just the one thing to--to make up--to make a man of me?
Don't you see that?"

He sat bolt upright, stretching out his arms to her in fierce appeal,
while the level sunshine touched his bright hair and wildly eager face.

"Mummy, mummy darling, don't you see? Try to see. You can't want to
take away my one chance!"

Katherine turned at that reiterated cry, and her heart melted within
her. The boy was her own, bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh. From
her he had life. From her he had also lifelong disgrace and
deprivation. Was there anything then, which, he asking, she could
refuse to give? She cast herself on her knees beside the bed again and
buried her face in the sheet.

"My precious one," she sobbed, "forgive me. I am ashamed, for I have
been both harsh and weak. I said I would help you, and then directly I
fail you. Forgive me."

And the boy was amazed, speechless at first, seeing her broken thus;
shamed in his turn by the humility of her attitude. To his young
chivalry it was as an impiety to look upon her tears.

"Please don't cry, mother," he entreated tremulously, a childlike
simplicity of manner taking him. "Don't cry--it is dreadful. I never
saw you cry before."--Then, after a pause, he added: "And--never mind
about my riding. I don't so very much care about it--really, I don't
believe I do--after all."

At that dear lie Katherine raised her bowed head, a wonderful sweetness
in her tear-sta