It was Dr. Blundell who found the answer to Sarah’s riddle.

He had seen the signs of weeping on Lady Mary’s face as she stumbled over the threshold of the window into the very arms of John Crewys, and his feelings were divided between passionate sympathy with his divinity, and anger with the returned hero, who had no doubt reduced his mother to this distressful state.  The doctor was blinded by love and misery, and ready to suspect the whole world of doing injustice to this lady; though he believed himself to be destitute of jealousy, and capable of judging Peter with perfect impartiality.

His fancy leapt far ahead of fact; and he supposed, not only that Lady Mary must be engaged to John Crewys, but that she must have confided her engagement to her son, and that Peter had already forbidden the banns.

He wandered miserably about the grounds, within hearing of the rejoicings; and had just made up his mind that he ought to go and join the speechmakers, when he perceived John Crewys himself standing next to Peter, apparently on the best possible terms with the hero of the day.

The doctor hastened round to the hall, intending to enter the drawing-room unobserved, and find out for himself whether Lady Mary had recovered, or whether John Crewys had heartlessly abandoned her to her grief.

The brilliant vision Miss Sarah presented, as she stood, drawn up to her full height, in the shaded drawing-room, met his anxious gaze as he entered.

“Why, Miss Sarah!  Not gone back to London yet?  I thought you only came down for Whitsuntide.”

“Mamma wasn’t well, so I am staying on for a few days.  I am supposed to be nursing her,” said Sarah, demurely.

She was a favourite with the doctor, as she was very well aware, and, in consequence, was always exceedingly gracious to him.

“Where is Lady Mary?” he asked.

She stole to his side, and put her finger on her lips, and lowered her voice.

“She went through the hall—­into the study.  And she’s alone—­crying.”

“Crying!” said the doctor; and he made a step towards the open door, but Sarah’s strong, white hand held him fast.

“Play fair,” she said reproachfully; “I told you in confidence.  You can’t suppose she wants you to see her crying.”

“No, no,” said the poor doctor, “of course not—­of course not.”

She closed the doors between the rooms.  “Look here, Dr. Blundell, we’ve always been friends, haven’t we, you and me?”

“Ever since I had the honour of ushering you into the world you now adorn,” said the doctor, with an ironical bow.

“Then tell me the truth,” said Sarah.  “Why is she unhappy, to-day of all days?”

The doctor looked uneasily away from her.  “Perhaps—­the joy of Peter’s return has been too much for her,” he suggested.

“Yes,” said Sarah.  “That’s what we’ll tell the other people.  But you and I—­why, Dr. Blunderbuss,” she said reproachfully, using the name she had given him in her saucy childhood, “you know how I’ve worshipped Lady Mary ever since I was a little girl?”