Cranford

at the Shrewsbury School, and carry them thick to Cambridge, and after that, a living awaited him, the gift of his godfather, Sir Peter Arley. Poor Peter! hi

e honour Peter brought away from Shrewsbury was the reputation of being the best good fellow that ever was, and of being the captain of the school in the art of practical joking. His father was disappointed, but set about remedying the matter in a manly

ar enough the study-door, to catch the tone of my father's voice. I could tell in

t?" said I. "That tires

and he seemed to think the old ladies in Cranford would believe anything. There were many old ladies living here then; we are principally ladies now, I know, but we are not so old as the ladies used to be when I was a girl. I could laugh to think of some of Peter's jokes. No, my dear, I won't tell you of them, because they might not shock you as they ought to do, and they were very shocking. He even took in my father once, by dressing himself up as a lady that was passing through the town and wished to see the Rector of Cranford, 'who had published that admirable Assize Sermon.' Peter said he was awfully frightened himself when he saw how my father took it all in, and even offered to copy out all his Napoleon Buonaparte sermons for her-him, I mean-no, her, for Peter was a lady then. He told m

s know of these

y did. They had the St James's Chronicle three times a week, just as we have now, and we have plenty to say; and I remember the clacking noise there always was when some of the ladies got together. But, probably, schoolboys talk more than ladies. A

er you, Martha. You are n

Jem Hearn will be only t

soon as we were alone, she wished t

lacs were all in flower, so I suppose it was spring. My father had gone out to see some sick people in the parish; I recollect seeing him leave the house with his wig and shovel-hat and cane. What possessed our poor Peter

and what should he see but a little black crowd of people-I daresay as many as twenty-all peeping through his garden rails. So he thought, at first, they were only looking at a new rhododendron that was in full bloom, and that he was very proud of; and he walked slower, that they might have more time to admire. And he wondered if he could make out a sermon from the occasion, and thought, perhaps, there was some relation between the rhododendrons and the lilies of the field. My poor father! When he came nearer, he began to wonder that they did not see him; but their heads were all so close together, peeping and peeping! My father was amongst them, meaning, he said, to ask them to walk into the garden with him, and admire the beau

re the people outside the railing were, and made them a low bow, as grand and as grave as any gentleman; and then walked slowly into the house. I was in the store-room helping my mother to make cowslip wine. I cannot abide the wine now, nor the scent of the flowers; they turn me sick and faint, as they did that day, when Peter came in, looking as haughty as any man-indeed, looking like a man, not like a boy. 'Mother!' he said, 'I am come to say, God bless you for ever.' I saw his lips quiver as he spoke;

e flogged Peter, and tha

remember, a few days after, I saw the poor, withered cowslip flowers thrown out to the leaf heap, to de

t, my mother went calling low and soft, as if to reassure the poor boy, 'Peter! Peter, dear! it's only me;' but, by-and-by, as the servants came back from the errands my father had sent them, in different directions, to find where Peter was-as we found he was not in the garden, nor the hayloft, nor anywhere about-my mother's cry grew louder and wilder, Peter! Peter, my darling! where are you?' for then she felt and understood that that long kiss meant some sad kind of 'good-bye.' The afternoon went on-my mother never resting, but seeking again and again in every possible place that had been looked into twenty times before, nay, that she had looked into over and over ag

er saw no conscious look in his wife's hot, dreary eyes, and he missed the sympathy that she had always been ready to give him-strong man as he was, and at the dumb despair in her face his tears began to flow. But when she saw this, a gentle sorrow came over her countenance, and she said, 'Dear

e time Mr Holbrook was an occasional visitor at the rectory-you know he was Miss Pole's cousin-and he had been very kind to Peter, and taught him how to fish-he was very kind to everybody, and I thought Peter might have gone off there. But Mr Holbrook was from home, and Peter had never been seen. It was night now; but the doors were all wid

eir, Miss Matty. Shall we drag the po

laughed out loud. The horror of that new thought-our bright, darling Pe

in crying) had roused my sweet dear mother, whose poor wandering wits were called back and collected as soon as a child needed her care. She and Deborah sat by my bedside

in some of the familiar home places had caused that never-ending walk of yesterday. Her soft eyes never were the same again after that; they had always a restless, crav

s Mr Pete

Mersey; and they were only too glad to have a fine likely boy such as him (five foot nine he was), come to offer

nkyns to Peter, addressed to him at the house of an old schoolfellow whither she fancied he might have gone. They had returned it u

t aches to hear him. He cannot hold up his head for grief; and yet he only did what he thought was right. Perhaps he has been too severe, and perhaps I have not been kind

iter of the letter-the last-the only person who had ever seen what was written in it, was dead long

antly, if they wished to see their boy; and, by some of the wild chan

gone to the races; but my father and mother set off in our own gig-and oh! my dea

e people at Cranford; but ending with a passionate entreaty that she would come and see him before he left the Merse

late," said Miss

ing of those sad, sad words. At length I aske

ing 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 ha

dmiral 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

of me, I know, when in all likelih

r went away-the very day after-came a parcel for her from India-from her poor boy. It was a large, soft

o her, and all. At first, he took no notice; and we tried to make a kind of light careless talk about the shawl, opening it out and admiring

took it up and felt it: 'It is just such a shawl as she wished for when she was married, and her mother did not

nd shivering by her. We decked her in the long soft folds; she lay smiling, as if pleased; and people came-all Cranford came-to beg to see her, for they had

before or since. His eyes failed him, and she read book after book, and wrote, and copied, and was always at his service in any parish business. She could do many more things than my poor mother could; she even once wrote a letter to the bishop for my father. But he missed my mother sorely; the whole parish notice

ter ever c

e was so proud of him. He never walked out without Peter's arm to lean upon. Deborah used to smile (I don't think we ever laughed again after my mother's death),

said I, af

cumstances were changed; and, instead of living at the rectory, and keeping three maids and a man, we had to come to this small house, and be content with

Peter?"

and it sometimes fidgets me that we have never put on mourning for him. And then again, when I sit by myself, and all the house is still,

y way in the dark, you know. And a blow of fresh air at the do

the candle, to give the room a chee

Martha?"

e, for I heard such a strange nois

for her eyes were

just outside-it

t in, as she he

kis