So Margaret threw her fur-trimmed cloak about her, drawing its hood over her head, for the April air was cold, and followed Peter into the garden. When she reached it, however, there was no Peter to be seen, whereon she reproached herself for having come to that damp place so early and meditated return. Then, thinking that it would look foolish if any had chanced to see her, she walked down the path pretending to seek for violets, and found none. Thus she came to the group of great elms at the end, and, glancing between their ancient boles, saw Peter standing there. Now, too, she understood why she could find no violets, for Peter had gathered them all, and was engaged, awkwardly enough, in trying to tie them and some leaves into a little posy by the help of a stem of grass. With his left hand he held the violets, with his right one end of the grass, and since he lacked fingers to clasp the other, this he attempted with his teeth. Now he drew it tight, and now the brittle grass stem broke, the violets were scattered, and Peter used words that he should not have uttered even when alone. “I knew you would break it, but I never thought you could lose your temper over so small a thing, Peter,” said Margaret; and he in the shadow looked up to see her standing there in the sunlight, fresh and lovely as the spring itself. Solemnly, in severe reproof, she shook her head, from which the hood had fallen back, but there was a smile upon her lips, and laughter in her eyes. Oh! she was beautiful, and at the sight of her Peter’s heart stood still. Then, remembering what he had just said, and certain other things that Master Castell had said, he blushed so deeply that her own cheeks went red in sympathy. It was foolish, but she could not help it, for about Peter this morning there was something strange, something that bred blushes. “For whom are you gathering violets so early,” she asked, “when you ought to be praying for that Scotchman’s soul?” “I care nothing for his soul,” answered Peter testily. “If the brute had one, he can look after it himself; and I was gathering the violets—for you.” She stared. Peter was not in the habit of making her presents of flowers. No wonder he had looked strange. “Then I will help you to tie them. Do you know why I am up so early? It is for your sake. I behaved badly to you last night, for I was cross because you wanted to thwart me about seeing the king. I never thanked you for all you did, you brave Peter, though I thanked you enough in my heart. Do you know that when you stood there with that sword, in the middle of those Englishmen, you looked quite noble? Come out into the sunlight, and I will thank you properly.” In his agitation Peter let the remainder of the flowers fall. Then an idea struck him, and he answered: “Look! I can’t; if you are really grateful for nothing at all, come in here and help me to pick up these violets—a pest on their short stalks!”