John nodded again.  He filled in the gaps of the doctor’s narrative for himself, and understood.

“She had changed very much.  All the gaiety and laughter gone.  But she was wrapt up in the child as I never saw any woman wrapt up in a brat before or since; and I’ve known some that were pretty ridiculous in that way,” said the doctor, and his voice shook more than ever.  “It was—­touching, for she was but a child herself; and Peter, between you and me, was an unpromising doll for a child to play with.  He was ugly and ill-tempered, and he wouldn’t be caressed, or dressed up, or made much of, from the first minute he had a will of his own.  As he grew bigger he was for ever having rows with his father, and his mother was for ever interceding for him.  He was idle at school; but he was a manly boy enough over games and sport, and a capital shot.  Anyway, she managed to be proud of him, God knows how.  I shouldn’t wonder if this war was the making of him, though, poor chap, if he’s spared to see the end of it all.”

“I have no doubt the discipline will do him a great deal of good,” said John, dryly.

It cannot be said that his brief interview at Southampton had impressed John with a favourable opinion of the sulky and irresponsive youth, who had there listened to his mother’s messages with lowering brow and downcast eye.  Peter had betrayed no sign of emotion, and almost none of gratitude for John’s hurried and uncomfortable journey to convey that message.

“A few hard knocks will do you no harm, my young friend; and I almost wish you may get them,” John had said to himself on his homeward journey; dreading, yet expecting, the news that awaited him at Peter’s home, and for which he had done his best to prepare the boy.

“Too much consideration hitherto has ruined him,” said the doctor, shortly.  “But it’s not of Peter I’m thinking, one way or the other.  From the time he went first to school, she’s had to depend entirely on her own resources—­and what are they?”

He paused, as though to gather strength and energy for his indictment.

“From the time she was brought here—­except for that one outing and a change to Torquay, I believe, after Peter’s birth—­she has scarce set foot outside Barracombe.  Sir Timothy would not, so he was resolved she should not.  His sisters, who have as much cultivation as that stone figure, disapproved of novel-reading—­or of any other reading, I should fancy—­and he followed suit.  Books are almost unknown in this house.  The library bookcases were locked.  Sir Timothy opened them once in a while, and his sisters dusted the books with their own hands; it was against tradition to handle such valuable bindings.  He hated music, and the piano was not to be played in his presence.  Have you ever tried it?  I’m told you’re musical.  It belonged to Lady Belstone’s mother, the Honourable Rachel.  That is her harp which stands in the corner of the hall.  Her daughter