"Sorry!" said Sarah, scornfully; "I glory in it." Then she suddenly began to cry. "I am a wicked girl," she sobbed, "and you were a fool, if you ever thought I could be happy anywhere but in this stupid old valley, or with—with any one but you. And I am rightly punished if my—my behaviour has made you change your mind. Because I did mean, just at first, to throw you over, and to—to go away from you, Peter. But—but the arm that wasn't there—held me fast."
"Sarah!"
She hid her face against his shoulder.
* * * * *
John Crewys was playing softly on the little oak piano in the banqueting hall, and Lady Mary stood before the open hearth, absently watching the sparks fly upward from the burning logs, and listening.
The old sisters had gone to bed.
Sarah's bright face, framed in her white hood, fresh and rosy from the cold breath of the October night, appeared in the doorway.
"Peter is in there—waiting for you," she whispered, blushing.
John Crewys rose from the piano, and came forward and held out his hand to Sarah, with a smile.
Lady Mary hurried past them into the unlighted drawing-room. Her eyes, dazzled by the sudden change, could distinguish nothing for a moment.