“Sarah!”

She hid her face against his shoulder.

* * * * *

John Crewys was playing softly on the little oak piano in the banqueting hall, and Lady Mary stood before the open hearth, absently watching the sparks fly upward from the burning logs, and listening.

The old sisters had gone to bed.

Sarah’s bright face, framed in her white hood, fresh and rosy from the cold breath of the October night, appeared in the doorway.

“Peter is in there—­waiting for you,” she whispered, blushing.

John Crewys rose from the piano, and came forward and held out his hand to Sarah, with a smile.

Lady Mary hurried past them into the unlighted drawing-room.  Her eyes, dazzled by the sudden change, could distinguish nothing for a moment.

But Peter was there, waiting, and perhaps Lady Mary was thankful for the darkness, which hid her face from her son.

“Peter!”

“Mother!”

She clung to her boy, and a kiss passed between them which said all that was in their hearts that night—­of appeal—­of understanding—­of forgiveness—­of the love of mother and son.

And no foolish words of explanation were ever uttered to mar the gracious memory of that sacred reconciliation.

THE END