“Julia!” she said eagerly, softly, “I notice that the baby’s cup is back.  Did he give in?”

The maid, who had started at the interruption, shook her head gravely.

“No’m.  Mrs. Carolan picked it up.”

“Mrs. Carolan?”

“Yes’m.  She seemed quite wildlike this morning,” went on the maid, with the simple freemasonry of troubled times, “and after Peter went off with Mrs. Butler, she—­”

“Oh, he went off?  Did his father let him go?” Mary’s voice was full of relief.  Mrs. Butler was Jean’s cousin, a cheery matron who had taken a summer cottage at Broadsands, twenty miles away.

Julia’s color rose; she looked uneasy.

“Mr. Carolan had to go to Barville quite early,” she evaded uncomfortably, “and when Mrs. Butler asked could she take Peter, his mother said yes, she could.”

“Thank you,” Mary said pleasantly, but her heart was heavy.  She went slowly upstairs to find Jean.

Peter’s mother was lying in a darkened bedroom, and the face she turned to the door at Mary’s entrance was shockingly white.  They exchanged a long pressure of fingers.

“Headache, Jean, dear?”

“Oh, and heartache!” said Jean, with a pitiful smile.  “Sid thrashed him yesterday!” she added, with suddenly trembling lips.

“I know.”  Mary sat down on the edge of the bed and patted Jean’s hand.

“I’ve let him go with Alice,” said Jean, defensively.  “I had to!” She turned on her elbow, her voice rising.  “Mary, I didn’t say one word about the whipping, but now—­now he threatens to hold him under the stable pump!” she finished, dropping back wearily against her pillows.  Mrs. Moore caught her breath.

“Ah!” They eyed each other sombrely.

“Mary, would you permit it?” demanded Mrs. Carolan, miserably.

“Jeanie, dearest, I don’t know what I’d do!”

After a long silence, Mary slipped from the bedside and went noiselessly to the door and down the stairs, vague ideas of hot tea in mind.  In the dining-room she was surprised to find Sidney, looking white and exhausted, and mixing himself something at the sideboard.

“I’m glad you’re with Jean,” he said directly.  “I’m off to get the boy!  The car is to be brought round in a few minutes.”

Mrs. Moore went to him, and laid her fingers on his arm.

“Sidney!” she protested sharply, “you must stop this—­not for Peter; he’s as naughty as he can be, like all other boys his age sometimes; but you don’t want to kill Jean!” And, to her self-contempt, she began to cry.

“My dear girl,” he said concernedly, “you mustn’t take this matter too hard.  Jean knows enough of our family history to realize—­”

“All that is such nonsense!” she protested angrily.  But she saw that he was not listening.  He compared his watch with the big dining-room clock, and then, quite as mechanically picked Peter’s mug from the group of bowls and flagons on the sideboard, studied the chasing absently for a moment, and, stooping, placed the mug just as it had fallen four days before.  Mary watched as if fascinated.