Peter stooped his head and laid his cheek against her hair; he felt for one fleeting moment that he had never known before how much he loved his mother.
"Forgive me for keeping it dark, mother," he whispered presently; "but I knew you'd think I was dying, or something, if I told you.

It had to be done, and I don't care--much--now; one gets used to anything.

My aunts nearly had a fit when I came in; but I knew _you'd_ be too thankful to get me home safe and sound, to make a fuss over what can't be helped.

It's--it's just the fortune of war." "Oh, if I could meet the man who did it!" she cried, with fire in her blue eyes.
"It wasn't a man; it was a gun," said Peter.

"Let's forget it.