Peter hurriedly drew his left hand from the pocket where the beloved tobacco-pouch reposed, and pulled his brown felt hat down over his eyes, as though the October sunlight hurt them.

“I think at such times, Peter,” said John, quietly continuing his walk by the boy’s side, “that you must have longed now and then for your home; for this peaceful English country, your green English woods, and the silent hall where your mother waited for you, trembled for you, prayed for you.  I think your heart must have ached then, as so many men’s hearts have ached, to remember the times when you might have made her happy by a word, or a look, or a smile.  And you didn’t do it, Peter—­you didn’t do it.”

Peter made a restless movement indicative of surprise and annoyance; but he was silent still, and John changed his tone, and spoke lightly and cheerfully.

“Well, then you came home; and your joy of life, of youth, of health all returned; and you looked forward, naturally, to taking your share of the pleasures open to other young men of your standing.  But you never meant to forget your mother, as so many careless sons forget those who have watched and waited for them.  Even though you fell in love, you still thought of her.  When you were weary of travel, or pleasure connected with the outside world, you meant always to return to her.  You liked to think she would still be waiting for you; faithfully, gratefully waiting, within the sacred precincts of your childhood’s home.  And now, when you remember her submission to your father’s wishes in the past, and her single-hearted devotion to yourself, you are shocked and disappointed to find that she can wish to descend from her beautiful and guarded solitude here, and mix with her fellow-creatures in the work-a-day world.  Why,” said John, in a tone rather of dreaming and tenderness than of argument, “that would be to tear the jewel from its setting—­the noble central figure from the calm landscape, lit by the evening sun.”

There was a pause, during which Peter smoked energetically.

“Well,” he said presently, “of course I can’t follow all that highfalutin’ style, you know—­”

“Of course not,” said John, “I understand.  You’re a plain Englishman.”

“Exactly,” said Peter, relieved; “I am.  But one thing I will say—­you’ve got the idea.”

“Thank you,” said John.

“If you can put it like that to my mother,” said Peter, still busy with his pipe, but speaking very emphatically, “why, all I can say is, that I believe it’s the way to get round her.  I’ve often noticed how useless it seems to talk common-sense to her.  But a word of sentiment—­and there you are.  Strange to say, she likes nothing better than—­er—­poetry.  I hope you don’t mind my calling you rather poetical,” said Peter, in a tone of sincere apology.  “I wish, John, you’d go straight to my mother, and put the whole case before her, just like that.”