Fortitude

trivial it seems" was one of the little wisdoms that helped Peter's courage in after years. And to a boy of twelve years a beating i

for some new resolution that he did not rightly understand yet-something that was in its beginning the mere planting of a seed. But he had certainly met the affair in a new way and, although in th

Mrs. Trussit within the boundary of her kingdom-a very cosy kingdom with pink wall-paper, a dark red sofa, a canary in a cage, and a fire very lively in the grate. From the depths of a big arm-chair, her black silk dress rustling a little every now and then, her knitting needles clinking in the firelight, Mrs. Trussit held many conversations in a subdued voice with Peter, who sat on the table and swung his legs. She was valuable from two points of view-a

ways beautiful and stately and, of course, devoted to Mrs. Trussit. Why that good woman left these noble mansions for so dreary a place as Scaw House Peter never could understand, and for many years that remained a mystery to

ediate answer ready. Her brow was always unruffled, her black shining hair brushed neatly back and parted down the middle, her large flat face always composed and placid, and her voice never raised above a whisper. The only sign that she ever gave of disturbance was a little clucking no

tockings did Mr

might say, in country attire, and then,

any ch

honour of being in the house-and since t

where do chil

good angels when we are all

A pause-then "Did the Earl of Tw

hill off and hot at night before dressing f

Patagonia? It came in th

ribbean Sea, I b

ry delightful sleep, and she considered the whole affair "savoured of Paganism." And then Peter found suddenly that he didn't wish to talk about

. But outside the gates of her citadel she was a very different person, spoke to Peter but rarely, and then always with majesty and from a long way a

e found that she never had any answers ready to the questions that he asked her and that she hesitated when he wished to know whether he might

d away, and there was a ridiculous feeling of spring in the air; ridiculous because it was still December, but Cornwall is often surprisingly warm in the heart of winter, and the sun was shining as ar

t, as he was going out of the r

t the s

grandf

d me a poor, broken, old man n

face with the skin drawn tight over the cheekbones and little black shining

your grandf

se, gran

n a nice sunny morning, too.

se, gran

athers. He loved his father when he was young,

cream so that Peter jumped. Then h

s, I should rather think so-I was strong once...

began to cough so badly that Peter was afraid that he wa

s, just like your father-and he'll be just like me, one day! Oh! yes, he will-blast his bones! He, he! We all come to it-all of us strong men, and we're cruel and hard, and won't give a poor old man enough for his bre

nt out into