“Perhaps because, as you said just now, I have been a young man too,” he said, forcing a smile.  “Oh, forgive me, but let me save you; for I believe that if you deserted your husband to-day, you would sorrow for it to the end of your life.”

“And Peter—­” she murmured.

He came to her side, and straightened himself, and spoke hopefully.

“Give me your last words and your last gifts—­and a letter—­for Peter, and send me in your stead to-night.  I will deliver them faithfully.  I will tell him—­for he should be told—­of the sore straits in which you find yourself.  Set him this noble example of duty, and believe me, it will touch his heart more nearly than even that sacred parting which you desire.”

Lady Mary held out her hand to him.

“Tell Sir Timothy that I will stay,” she whispered.

John bent down and kissed the little hand in silence, and with profound respect.

Then he went to the study without looking back.

When he was gone, Lady Mary laid her face upon the badly painted miniature of Peter, and cried as one who had lost all hope in life.

CHAPTER VII

“Her didn’t make much account on him while him were alive; but now ’ce be dead, ’tis butivul tu zee how her du take on,” said Happy Jack.

There was a soft mist of heat; the long-delayed spring coming suddenly, after storms of cold rain and gales of wind had swept the Youle valley.  Two days’ powerful sunshine had excited the buds to breaking, and drawn up the tender blades of young grass from the soaked earth.

The flowering laurels hung over the shady banks, whereon large families of primroses spent their brief and lovely existence undisturbed.  The hawthorn put forth delicate green leaves, and the white buds of the cherry-trees in the orchard were swelling on their leafless boughs.

In such summer warmth, and with the concert of building birds above and around, it was strange to see the dead and wintry aspect of the forest trees; still bare and brown, though thickening with the red promise of foliage against the April sky.

John Crewys, climbing the lane next the waterfall, had been hailed by the roadside by the toothless, smiling old rustic.

“I be downright glad to zee ’ee come back, zur; ay, that ’a be.  What vur du ’ee go gadding London ways, zays I, when there be zuch a turble lot to zee arter? and the ladyship oop Barracombe ways, her bain’t vit var tu du ’t, as arl on us du know.  Tis butivul tu zee how her takes on,” he repeated admiringly.

John glanced uneasily at his companion, who stood with downcast eyes.

“Lard, I doan’t take no account on Miss Zairy,” said the road-mender, leaning on his hoe and looking sharply from the youthful lady to the middle-aged gentleman.  “I’ve knowed her zince her wur a little maid.  I used tu give her lolly-pops.  Yu speak up, Miss Zairy, and tell ’un if I didn’t.”