“Sarah!” said Mrs. Hewel.

Lady Mary started and smiled.  “Me?  Yes, Sarah; I was married at seventeen.”

“Mamma says nobody can be married properly—­before they’re one and twenty.  I knew it was rot,” said Sarah, triumphantly.

“Miss Sarah retains the outspokenness of her recently discarded childhood, I perceive,” said Sir Timothy, stiffly.

“Sarah!” said her mother, indignantly, “I said not unless they had their parents’ consent.  I was not thinking of Lady Mary, as you know very well.”

“Your people didn’t say you were too young to marry at seventeen, did they?” said Sarah, caressing Lady Mary’s hand.

Lady Mary smiled at her, but shook her head.  “You want to know too much, Sarah.”

“Oh, I forgot,” said Sarah the artless.  “Sir Timothy was your guardian, so, of course, there was nobody to stop his marrying you if he liked.  I suppose you had to do what he told you.”

“Oh, Sarah, will you cease chattering?” cried her mother.

“I hope you have good news of your sons in South Africa, Mrs. Hewel,” said the canon, briskly advancing to the rescue.

Mrs. Hewel’s voice changed.  “Thank you, canon; they were all right when we heard last.  Tom is in Natal, so I feel happier about him; but Willie, of course, is in the thick of it all—­and the news to-day—­isn’t reassuring.”

“But you are proud of them both,” said Lady Mary, softly.  “Every mother must be proud to have sons able and willing to fight for their country.”

“We may feel differently concerning the justice of this war,” said Sir Timothy, clearing his throat; and Lady Mary shrugged her shoulders, whilst the canon jumped from his chair, and sat meekly down again on catching the doctor’s eye.

“But in our sympathy with our brave soldiers we are all one, Mrs. Hewel.”

Sarah sprang forward.  “You don’t mean to say you’re still a pro-Boer, Sir Timothy?” she exclaimed.  “Well, mamma—­talking of the justice of the war—­when Tom and Willie are risking their lives”—­she broke into a sudden sob—­“and now Peter—­”

“Peter!” said Lady Mary.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Sarah, running to her friend.  “I didn’t mean to hurt you—­talking of the war—­and—­and the boys—­when you must be thinking only of Peter.”  She wrung her hands together piteously.

“Of Peter!” Lady Mary repeated.

“We only heard to-day,” said Mrs. Hewel, “and came in hoping for more details.  My cousin George, who is also going out with Lord Ferries, happened to mention in his letter that Peter had joined the corps.”

“I think I can explain how the mistake arose,” said Sir Timothy, stiffly.  “Peter wrote for permission to join, and I refused.  My son is fortunately too young to be of any use in a contest I regard with horror.”

“But Cousin George was helping Peter to get his kit, because they were to sail at such short notice,” cried Sarah.