Lady Mary had come often to this quiet corner for rest and peace and solitude in days gone by.  She came often still, because she had a fancy that the change in her favourite garden was typical of the change in her life,—­the letting-in of the sunshine, where before there had been only deepest shade; the pinks and forget-me-nots which were gaily blowing, where only moss and fungi had flourished; the blooming of the roses, where the undergrowth had crossed and recrossed withered branches above bare, black soil.

She brought her happiness here, where she had brought her sorrow and her repinings long ago.

A happiness subdued by many memories, chastened by long anxiety, obscured by many doubts, but still happiness.

There was to be no more of that heart-breaking anxiety.  Her boy had been spared to come home to her; and John—­John, who always understood, had declared that, for the present, at least, Peter must come first.

The whole beautiful summer lay before her, in which she was to be free to devote herself to her wounded hero.  She must set herself to charm away that shadow of discontent—­of disapproval—­that darkened Peter’s grey eyes when they rested upon her; a shadow of which she had been only too conscious even before he went to South Africa.

She made a thousand excuses for him, after telling herself that he needed none.

Poor boy! he had been brought up in such narrow ways, such an atmosphere of petty distrust and fault-finding and small aims.  Even his bold venture into the world of men had not enabled him to shake off altogether the influence of his early training, though it had changed him so much for the better; it had not altogether cured Peter of his old ungraciousness, partly inherited, and partly due to example.

But he had returned full of love and tenderness and penitence, though his softening had been but momentary; and when she had brought him under the changed influences which now dominated her own life, she could not doubt that Peter’s nature would expand.

He should see that home life need not necessarily be gloomy; that all innocent pleasures and interests were to be encouraged, and not repressed.  If he wanted to spend the summer at home—­and after his long absence what could be more natural?—­she would exert herself to make that home as attractive as possible.  Why should they not entertain?  John had said there was plenty of money.  Peter should have other young people about him.  She remembered a scene, long ago, when he had brought a boy of his own age in to lunch without permission.  She would have to let Peter understand how welcome she should make his friends; he must have many more friends now.  While she was yet chatelaine of Barracombe, it would be delightful to imbue him with some idea of the duties and pleasures of hospitality.  Lady Mary’s eyes sparkled at the thought of providing entertainment for many young soldiers, wounded or otherwise.  They should have the best of everything.  She was rich, and Peter was rich, and there was no harm in making visitors welcome in that great house, and filling the rooms, that had been silent and empty so long, with the noise and laughter of young people.