had heard of. For at rare intervals
one or other of her sons would write to her, and then she always
perceived that the second Mrs. Daniel Mortimer made her husband happy.
She would be told from time to time that he was much attached to young
Brandon, the son of her first marriage, and that from her three
daughters by her second marriage he constantly received the love and
deference due to a father.

But this cherished wife had now died also, and had left Daniel Mortimer
with one son, a fine youth already past childhood.

Old Madam Melcombe's heart went into mourning for her daughter-in-law
whom she had never seen. None but the husband, whose idol she was,
lamented her longer and more. Only fifty miles off, but so remote in her
seclusion, so shut away, so forgotten; perhaps Mrs. Daniel Mortimer did
not think once in a season of her husband's mother; but every day the
old woman had thought of her as a consoler and a delight, and when her
favourite son retired she soon took out the photograph again and looked
sadly at those features that he had held so dear.

But she did not speak much of either son, only repeating from time to
time, "He's a fine man; they're fine men, both of them. They'll look
grand in their scarves and cloaks at my funeral."

It was not ordained, however, that the funeral should take place yet
awhile.

The summer flushed into autumn, then the apples and pears dropped and
were wasted in the garden, even the red-streak apples, that in all the
cider country are so highly prized. Then snow came and covered all.

Madam Melcombe had been heard to say that she liked her garden best in
winter. She could wish to leave it for good when it was lapped up under
a thick fall of snow. Yet she saw the snow melt again and the leaves
break forth, and at last she saw the first pale-green spires shoot up
out of the bed of lilies.

But the longest life must end at last, the best little boys will
sometimes be disobedient.

It appears strange to put these things together; but if they had
anything to do with one another, Peter did not know it.

He knew and felt one day that he had been a naughty boy, very naughty,
for in fact he had got down into the garden, but he also knew that he
had not found the top he went to look for, and that his grandmother had
taken from him what he did find.

This punishment he deserved; he had it and no other. It came about in
this wise.

It was a sweet April day, almost the last of