The captain’s letter summoned the father and mother to Liverpool instantly, if they wished to see their boy; and, by some of the wild chances of life, the captain’s letter had been detained somewhere, somehow.

Miss Matty went on, “And it was racetime, and all the post-horses at Cranford were gone to the races; but my father and mother set off in our own gig—­and oh! my dear, they were too late—­the ship was gone!  And now read Peter’s letter to my mother!”

It was full of love, and sorrow, and pride in his new profession, and a sore sense of his disgrace in the eyes of the people at Cranford; but ending with a passionate entreaty that she would come and see him before he left the Mersey:  “Mother; we may go into battle.  I hope we shall, and lick those French:  but I must see you again before that time.”

“And she was too late,” said Miss Matty; “too late!”

We sat in silence, pondering on the full meaning of those sad, sad words.  At length I asked Miss Matty to tell me how her mother bore it.

“Oh!” she said, “she was patience itself.  She had never been strong, and this weakened her terribly.  My father used to sit looking at her:  far more sad than she was.  He seemed as if he could look at nothing else when she was by; and he was so humble—­ so very gentle now.  He would, perhaps, speak in his old way—­ laying down the law, as it were—­and then, in a minute or two, he would come round and put his hand on our shoulders, and ask us in a low voice, if he had said anything to hurt us.  I did not wonder at his speaking so to Deborah, for she was so clever; but I could not bear to hear him talking so to me.

“But, you see, he saw what we did not—­that it was killing my mother.  Yes! killing her (put out the candle, my dear; I can talk better in the dark), for she was but a frail woman, and ill-fitted to stand the fright and shock she had gone through; and she would smile at him and comfort him, not in words, but in her looks and tones, which were always cheerful when he was there.  And she would speak of how she thought Peter stood a good chance of being admiral very soon—­he was so brave and clever; and how she thought of seeing him in his navy uniform, and what sort of hats admirals wore; and how much more fit he was to be a sailor than a clergyman; and all in that way, just to make my father think she was quite glad of what came of that unlucky morning’s work, and the flogging which was always in his mind, as we all knew.  But oh, my dear! the bitter, bitter crying she had when she was alone; and at last, as she grew weaker, she could not keep her tears in when Deborah or me was by, and would give us message after message for Peter (his ship had gone to the Mediterranean, or somewhere down there, and then he was ordered off to India, and there was no overland route then); but she still said that no one knew where their death lay in wait, and that we were not to think hers was near.  We did not think it, but we knew it, as we saw her fading away.