Peter's Mother

by Mrs. Henry De La Pasture

"It is—Lady Mary that I am fond of," said the girl, with a yet more vivid blush.

He was touched. "She will miss you, I am sure, when you go to town," he said kindly.

"If I thought so really, I wouldn't go," said Sarah, vehemently. She winked a tear from her long eyelashes. "But I know it's only your good nature. She thinks of nothing and nobody but Peter. And—and, after all, when I get better manners, and all that, I shall be more of a companion to her. I'm very glad to go, if it wasn't for leaving her. I like Aunt Elizabeth, whereas mamma and I never did get on. She cares most for the boys, which is very natural, no doubt, as I was only an afterthought, and nobody wanted me. And Aunt Elizabeth has always liked me. She says I amuse her with my sharp tongue."

"But you will have to be a little careful of the sharp tongue when you get to London," said John, smiling. He was struck by the half-sly, half-acquiescent look that Sarah stole at him from beneath those long eyelashes. Perhaps her outspokenness was not so involuntary as he had imagined.

"If I had known you were coming to-day, I would have gone up to say good-bye to Lady Mary last night," said Sarah, mournfully. "She won't want me now you are here."

"I have a thousand and one things to look after. I sha'n't be in your way," said John, good-naturedly, "if she is not busy otherwise."

"Busy!" echoed Sarah. "She sits so, with her hands in her lap, looking over the valley. And she has grown, oh, so much thinner and sadder-looking. I thought you would never come."

"I have my own work," said John, hurriedly, "and I thought, besides, she would rather be alone these first few weeks."

Sarah looked up with a flash in her blue eyes, which were so dark, and large-pupilled, and heavily lashed, that they looked almost black. She ground her strong white teeth together.

"If I were Lady Mary," she said, "I would have slammed the old front door behind me the very day after Sir Timothy was buried—and gone away; I would. There she is, like a prisoner, with the old ladies counting every tear she sheds, and adding them up to see if it is enough; and measuring every inch of crape on her gowns; and finding fault with all she does, just as they used when Sir Timothy was alive to back them up. And she is afraid to do anything he didn't like; and she never listens to the doctor, the only person in the world who's ever had the courage to fight her battles."