The morning was brilliant and sunny, and the upper casements stood open, to let in the fresh autumn air, and the song of the robin balancing on a swaying twig of the ivy climbing the old walls.  White clouds were blowing brightly across a clear, blue sky.

Lady Mary stretched out her hand and pulled a cord, which drew a rosy curtain half across the window, and shaded the corner where she was sitting.  She looked anxiously and tenderly into Peter’s face; her quick instinct gathered that something had shaken him from his ordinary mood of criticism or indifference.

“Are you come to have a little talk with me, my darling?” she said.

She was afraid to offer the caress she longed to bestow.  She moved from her stiff elbow-chair to the soft cushions in her favourite corner of the window-seat, and held out a timid hand.  Peter clasped it in his own, threw himself on a stool at her feet, and rested his forehead against her knee.

“I have something to tell you, mother, and I am afraid that, when I have told you, you will be disappointed in me; that you will think me inconsistent.”

Her heart beat faster.  “Which of us is consistent in this world, my darling?  We all change with circumstances.  We are often obliged to change, even against our wills.  Tell me, Peter; I shall understand.”

“There’s not really anything to tell,” said Peter, nervously contradicting himself, “because nothing is exactly settled yet.  But I think something might be—­before very long, if you would help me to smooth away some of the principal difficulties.”

“Yes, yes,” said Lady Mary, venturing to stroke the closely cropped black head resting against her lap.

“You know—­Sarah—­has been teaching me the new kind of croquet, at Hewelscourt, since we came back from Scotland?” he said.  “I don’t get on so badly, considering.”

“My poor boy!”

“Oh, I was always rather inclined to be left-handed; it comes in usefully now,” said Peter, who generally hurried over any reference to his misfortune.  “Well, this morning, whilst we were playing, I asked Sarah, for the third time, to—­to marry me.  The third’s the lucky time, isn’t it?” he said, with a tremulous laugh, “and—­and—­”

“She said yes!” cried Lady Mary, clasping her hands.

“She didn’t go so far as that,” said Peter, rather reproachfully.  His voice shook slightly.  “But she didn’t say no.  It’s the first time she hasn’t said no.”

“What did she say?” said Lady Mary.

She tried to keep her feelings of indignation and offence against Sarah out of her voice.  After all, who was Sarah that she should presume to refuse Peter?  Or for the matter of that, to accept him?  Either course seems equally unpardonable at times to motherly jealousy, and Lady Mary was half vexed and half amused to find herself not exempt from this weakness.

“Impudent little red-headed thing!” she said to herself, though she loved Sarah dearly, and admired her red hair with all her heart.