“Not for yourself, I hope,” said the doctor, absently.

“Come into the gun-room for one moment,” said Birch.  “It is very important.  Do you know I’ve a letter from Peter?”

“From Peter!  Why should you have a letter from Peter?” said the doctor, and his uninterested tone became alert.

“I’m sure I don’t know why not.  I was always fond of Peter,” said the canon, humbly.  “Will you cast your eye over it?  You see, it’s written from Eton, and posted two days later in London.”

Dr. Blundell read the letter, which was written in a schoolboy hand, and not guiltless of mistakes in spelling.

“DEAR CANON BIRCH,

“As my father wouldn’t hear of my going out to South Africa, I’ve taken the law into my own hands.  I wrote to my mother’s cousin, Lord Ferries, to ask him to include me in his yeomanry corps.  Of course I let him suppose papa was willing and anxious, which perhaps was a low-down game, but I remembered that all’s fair in love and war; and besides, I consider papa very nearly a pro-Boer.  We’ve orders to sail on Friday, which is sharp work; but I should be eternally disgraced now if they stopped me.  As my father never listens to reason, far less to me, you had better explain to him that if he’s any regard for the honour of our name, he’s no choice left.  I expect my mother had better not be told till I’m gone, or she will only fret over what can’t be helped.  I’ll write to her on board, once we’re safely started.  I know you’re all right about the war, so you can tell papa I was ashamed to be playing football while fellows younger than me, and fellows who can’t shoot or ride as I can, are going off to South Africa every day.

“Yours affectionately,

“PETER CREWYS.

“P.S.—­Hope you won’t mind this job.  I did try to get papa’s leave fair and square first.”

“I always said Peter was a fine fellow at bottom,” said Canon Birch, anxiously scanning the doctor’s frowning face.

“He’s an infernal self-willed, obstinate, heartless young cub on top, then,” said Blundell.

“He’s a chip of the old block, no doubt,” said the canon; “but still”—­his admiration of Peter’s boldness was perceptible in his voice—­“he doesn’t share his father’s reprehensible opinions on the subject of the war.”

“Sons generally begin life by differing from their fathers, and end by imitating them,” said Blundell, sharply.  “Birch, we must stop him.”

“I don’t see how,” said the canon; and he indulged in a gentle chuckle.  “The young rascal has laid his plans too well.  He sails to-morrow.  I telegraphed inquiries.  Ferries’ Horse are going by the Rosmore Castle to-morrow morning at eleven o’clock.”

Dr. Blundell made an involuntary movement, which the canon did not perceive.

“I don’t relish the notion of breaking this news to Sir Timothy.  But I thought we could consult together, you and me, how to do it,” said the innocent gentleman.  “There’s no doubt, you know, that it must be done at once, or he can’t get to Southampton in time to see the boy off and forgive him.  I suppose even Sir Timothy will forgive him at such a moment.  God bless the lad!”