She would ask Peter about the horses to-morrow.  John had purposely refrained from filling the stables which had been so carefully restored and fitted.  There were very few horses.  Only the cob for the dog-cart, and a pair for the carriage, so old that the coachman declared it was tempting Providence to sit behind them.  They were calculated to have attained their twentieth year, and were driven at a slow jog-trot for a couple of hours every day, except Sundays, in the barouche.  James Coachman informed Lady Belstone and Miss Crewys that either steed was liable to drop down dead at any moment, and that they could not expect the best of horses to last for ever; but the old ladies would neither shorten nor abandon their afternoon drive, nor consent to the purchase of a new pair.  They continued to behave as though horses were immortal.

Sir Timothy’s old black mare was turned out to graze, partly from sentiment, and partly because she, too, was unfitted for any practical purposes; and Peter had outgrown his pony before he went away, though he had ridden it to hounds many times, unknown to his father.  Lady Mary thought it would be a pleasure to see her boy well mounted and the stables filled.  John had said that the loss of his arm would certainly not prevent Peter from riding.  She found herself constantly referring to John, even in her plans for Peter’s amusement.

Strong, calm, patient John—­who was prepared to wait; and who would not, as he said, snatch happiness at the expense of other people’s feelings.  How wise he had been to agree that, for the present, she must devote herself only to Peter!  She and Peter would be all in all to each other as Peter himself had suggested, and as she had once dreamed her son would be to his mother; though, of course, it was not to be expected that a boy could understand everything, like John.

She must make great allowances; she must be patient of his inherited prejudices; above all, she must make him happy.

Afterwards, perhaps, when Peter had learned to do without her—­as he would learn too surely in the course of nature—­she would be free to turn to John, and put her hand in his, and let him lead her whithersoever he would.

Peter saw his guardian off at Brawnton, dutifully standing at attention on the platform until the train had departed, instead of starting home as John suggested.

When he came out of the station he stood still for a moment, contemplating the stout, brown cob and the slim groom, who was waiting anxiously to know whether Sir Peter would take the reins, or whether he was to have the honour of driving his master home.

“I think I’ll walk back, George,” said Peter, with a nonchalant air.  “Take the cob along quietly, and let her ladyship know directly you get in that I’m returning by Hewelscourt woods, and the ferry.”

“Very good, Sir Peter,” said the youth, zealously.

“It would be only civil to look in on the Hewels as Sarah is going back to town so soon,” said Peter to himself.  “And it’s rot driving all those miles on the sunny side of the river, when it’s barely three miles from here to Hewelscourt and the ferry, and in the shade all the way.  I shall be back almost as soon as the cart.”