Lady Mary stood full in the sunshine, which lent once more the golden glory of her vanished youth to her brown hair, and the dazzle of new-fallen snow to her summer gown.

Close to her side, touching her, stood the young soldier; straight and tall, with uncovered head, towering above the little group.

The old sisters had parasols, and the canon wore his shovel hat; but the doctor wasted no time in observing their manifestations of delight and excitement.

“So my beautiful lady has got her precious boy back safe and sound, save for his right arm, and doubly precious because that is missing.  God bless her a thousand times!” he thought to himself.  “But her sweet face looked more sorrowful than joyful when I came in.  What had he been saying, I wonder, to make her look like that, already?”

John Crewys entered from the hall.  “What’s this I hear,” he said, in glad tones—­“the hero returned?”

“Ay,” said the doctor.  “Sir Timothy is forgotten, and Sir Peter reigns in his stead.”

“Where is Lady Mary?”

The doctor drew him to the window.  “There,” he said grimly.  “Why don’t you go out and join her?”

“She has her son,” said John, smiling.

He looked with interest at the group on the terrace; then he started back with an exclamation of horror.

“Why, good heavens—­”

“Yes,” said the doctor quietly, “the poor fellow has lost his right arm.”

There was a sound of distant cheering, and the band could be heard faintly playing the Conquering Hero.

“He said nothing of it,” said John.

“No; he’s a plucky chap, with all his faults.”

“Has he so many faults?” said John.

The doctor shook his head.  “I’m mistaken if he won’t turn out a chip of the old block.  Though he’s better-looking than his father, he’s got Sir Timothy’s very expression.”

“He’s turned out a gallant soldier, anyway,” said John, cheerily.  “Don’t croak, Blundell; we’ll make a man of him yet.”

“Please God you may, for his mother’s sake,” said the doctor; and he returned to his armchair.

John Crewys stood by the open French window, and drank in the refreshing breeze which fluttered the muslin curtains.  His calm and thoughtful face was turned away from the doctor, who knew very well why John’s gaze was so intent upon the group without.

“Shall I warn him, or shall I let it alone?” thought Blundell.  “I suppose they have been waiting only for this.  If that selfish cub objects, as he will—­I feel very sure of that—­will she be weak enough to sacrifice her happiness, or can I trust John Crewys?  He looks strong enough to take care of himself, and of her.”

He looked at John’s decided profile, silhouetted against the curtain, and thought of Peter’s narrow face.  “Weak but obstinate,” he muttered to himself.  “Shrewd, suspicious eyes, but a receding chin.  What chance would the boy have against a man?  A man with strength to oppose him, and brains to outwit him.  None, save for the one undoubted fact—­the boy holds his mother’s heart in the hollow of his careless hands.”