She had never suffered that little cot to be moved; the white coverlet had been made and embroidered by her own hands.

A gaudy oleograph of a soldier on horseback--which little Peter had been fond of, and which had been hung up to amuse him during one of those childish illnesses--remained in its place.

How often had she looked at it through her tears when Peter was far away! Beside the cot stood a table with a shabby book of devotions, marked by a ribbon from which the colour had long since faded.

The book had belonged to Lady Mary's father, young Robbie Setoun, who had become Lord Ferries but one short month before he met with a soldier's death.

His daughter said her prayers at this little table, and had carried thither her agony and petitions for her boy in his peril, during the many, many months of the South African War.
The morning was brilliant and sunny, and the upper casements stood open, to let in the fresh autumn air, and the song of the robin balancing on a swaying twig of the ivy climbing the old walls.