“Oh, Sarah, Sarah, stop!” said Lady Mary, faintly.  “It—­it isn’t that.”

“Not that!” said Sarah, changing her tone.  She pounced on the admission like a cat on a mouse.  “Then why do you cry?”

Lady Mary looked up confused into the severely inquiring young face.

Sarah’s apple-blossom beauty, as was to have been expected, had increased a thousand-fold since her school girl days.  She had grown tall to match the plumpness of her figure, which had not decreased.  Her magnificent hair showed its copper redness in every variety of curl and twist upon her white forehead, and against her whiter throat.

She was no longer dressed in blue cotton.  Lady Tintern knew how to give such glorious colouring its true value.  A gauzy, transparent black flowed over a close-fitting white gown beneath, and veiled her fair arms and neck.  Black bebe ribbon gathered in coquettishly the folds which shrouded Sarah’s abundant charms, and a broad black sash confined her round young waist.  A black chip hat shaded the glowing hair and the face, “ruddier than the cherry, and whiter than milk;” and the merry, dark blue eyes had a penthouse of their own, of drooping lashes, which redeemed the boldness of their frank and open gaze.

“If it is not that—­why do you cry?” she demanded imperiously.

“It’s—­just happiness,” said Lady Mary.

Sarah looked wise, and shook her head.  “Oh no,” she quoth.  “Those aren’t happy tears.”

“You’re too old, dear Sarah, to be an enfant terrible still,” said Lady Mary; but Sarah was not so easily disarmed.

“I will know!  Come, I’m your godchild, and you always spoil me.  He’s not come back in one of his moods, has he?”

“Who?” cried Lady Mary, colouring.

“Who!  Why, who are we talking of but Peter?” said Sarah, opening her big-pupilled eyes.

“Oh no, no!  He’s changed entirely—­”

“Changed!”

“I don’t mean exactly changed, but he’s—­he’s grown so loving and so sweet—­not that he wasn’t always loving in his heart, but—­

“Oh,” cried Sarah, impatiently, “as if I didn’t know Peter!  But if it wasn’t that which made you so unhappy, what was it?” She bent puzzled brows upon her embarrassed hostess.

“Let me go, Sarah; you ask too much!” said Lady Mary.  “Oh no, my darling, I’m not angry!  How could I be angry with my little loyal Sarah, who’s always loved me so?  It’s only that I can’t bear to be questioned just now.”  She caressed the girl eagerly, almost apologetically.  “I must have a few moments to recover myself.  I’ll go quietly away into the study—­anywhere.  Wait for me here, darling, and make some excuse for me if any one comes.  I want to be alone for a few moments.  Peter mustn’t find me crying again.”

“Yes—­that’s all very well,” said Sarah to herself, as the slight form hurried from the drawing-room into the dark oak hall beyond.  “But why is she unhappy?  There is something else.”