“But why—­”

“I only wanted to show him what a goose he really was,” murmured Sarah, hanging her head.  “He came back so pompous and superior; talking about his father’s place, and being the only man in the house, and obliged to look after you all; and it was all so ridiculous, and so out of date.  I didn’t mean to hurt you except just for a moment, because it could not be helped,” said Sarah.  She hid her face in Lady Mary’s neck, half laughing and half crying.  “I was so afraid you—­you were taking him seriously; and—­and he was so selfish, wanting to keep you all to himself.”

“Oh, Sarah, hush!” Lady Mary cried.

She divined it all in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye.  It was to Sarah that she owed the pain and mortification, not to her boy.

Sarah had said Peter was not responsible.

Was he only a puppet in the hands of the girl he loved?  Could John ever have been thus blindly led and influenced?  Her wounded heart said quickly that John was of a different, nobler, stronger nature.  But the mother’s instinct leapt to defend her son, and cried also that John was a man, and Peter but a boy in love, ready to sacrifice the whole world to her he worshipped.  His father would never have done that.  Lady Mary was even capable of an unreasoning pride in Peter’s power of loving; though it was not her—­alas! it never had been her—­for whom her boy was willing to make the smallest sacrifice.

But he had honestly meant to devote himself to his mother, according to his lights, had Sarah’s influence not come in the way.  Sarah, who must have divined her secret all the while, and who, with the dauntlessness of youth, had not hesitated to force open the door into a world so bright that Lady Mary almost feared to enter it, but trembled, as it were, upon the threshold of her own happiness—­and Peter’s.

They were silent, holding each other in a close embrace, both conscious of the passing and repassing footsteps upon the gravel path without.

Sarah was the first to recover herself.  She put Lady Mary into her favourite chair, and came and knelt by her side.

“That’s over, and I’m forgiven,” she said softly.

“You will make my boy—­happy?” whispered Lady Mary.

“I can’t tell whether he will be happy or not, if—­if he marries me,” said Sarah.  She appeared to smother a laugh.  “But Aunt Elizabeth seems reconciled to the idea.  I think you bewitched her this afternoon.  She is in love with you, and with this house, and with Mr. John.  But more particularly with you.  When I said I had refused Peter over and over again, she said I was a fool.  But she says that whatever I do.  I—­I suppose I let her think,” said Sarah, leaning her head against Lady Mary’s knee, “that some day—­if he is still idiotic enough to wish it—­and if you don’t mind—­”

“My pretty Sarah—­my darling!”

“I’m sure it’s only because he’s your son,” said Sarah, vehemently; “I’ve always wanted to be your child.  What’s the use of pretending I haven’t?  Think what a time poor mamma used to give me, and what an angel of goodness you were to the poor little black sheep who loved you so.”