When Valentine entered the great parlour, his cousin was talking to Peter’s mother, and in the presence of his father and uncle he was inviting her to let the boy come and stay awhile with his children shortly.

Mrs. Peter Melcombe hesitated, and observed that her dear child had never been away from her in his life, and was very shy.

“No wonder,” quoth John Mortimer; “but I have several jolly little boys and girls at home; they would soon cure him of that.”

Mrs. Peter Melcombe seemed pleased.  She had taken a great fancy to the good-looking young widower; she remarked that Peter had never been used to playing with other children—­she was half-afraid he would get hurt; but as Mr. Mortimer was so kind she would risk it.

“Poor little beggar!” said John Mortimer to his father, as they all walked to the inn together; “those two women will mope that boy into his grave if they don’t look out.”

“No, John,” exclaimed his uncle, “I hope you really don’t think so.”

John, in spite of his youth, had some experience.  He had already filled his house with little Mortimers.  There were seven of them—­some of the largest pattern, and with the finest appetites possible.  So his opinion carried weight, and was at the same time worth nothing, for as his children had never but once had anything the matter with them, his general view of childhood was that if it had plenty to eat, a large garden to play in, and leave to go out in all weathers, it was sure to prosper, as in fact the little Mortimers did.  They brought themselves up (with a certain amount of interference from their governess) in a high state of health and good-humour, and with no quarrelling to speak of, while the amount of sleep they got out of their little beds, the rapid skill with which they wore down their shoes, and the quantity of rice milk and roast meat they could consume, were a wonder to the matrons round.

“I see nothing special the matter with him,” continued John Mortimer; “but one cannot help pitying a child that has no companions and no liberty.  I thought I should like to plunge him for a little while into the sweet waters of real child-life, and let him learn to shout and stamp and dig and climb, as my little urchins do.”

“But his mother is a poor, faded, fat creature,” observed Valentine.  “You’ll see she won’t let that boy go.  You can no more get her to do a sensible thing than you can dry your face with a wet towel.”

“Gently, sir, gently,” said his father, not liking this attempt at a joke on a day which had begun so solemnly.

So Mr. John Mortimer presently departed, taking his handsome young cousin with him, and the old men, with heavy steps and depressed countenances, went into the inn and began anxiously to talk over the various repairs that would be wanted, and all that would have to be done in the garden and the grounds.