She smiled proudly into the clear-eyed face looking so affectionately into her own. Peter made her feel that she was still young and worthy of admiration. When he came home she always wore white stockings—though she thought them an extravagance at other times—and placed a flower or a bow of ribbon under her chin.
She held up a kerchief that she was ironing, and said tenderly:
"It will be a great day for thy father and me when we see thee consecrated, Peter."
He stepped across the floor where the sunshine lay in a broad band, and kissed her.
"And a blessed day when I does up thy lawn sleeves, my son. Thee must never let anyone do up thy sleeves but me, lad, not even thy wife when thee gets one. There's nobody kens the art of clear starching and ironing better than thy old mother."
The young man sat on the edge of the table and swung his legs.
"You'll be disappointed, mother," he said, "but I never can see myself—in spite of your dear visions—in bishop's sleeves. I'm a lazy beggar, and more likely to be lying under a tree, finding sermons in stones and books in the running brooks than beating the pulpit cushions of Durham or Carlisle."
She shook her head indulgently.
"Time enough, time enough," she said. "Thee's too young yet to know thy own mind."
Peter looked round the kitchen and laughed.