Peter sat stonily where Miranda left him earlier in the day. It was now quite dark, the evening primrose shining in tall clusters, very pale, within reach of his hand. Since a cab had jingled into hearing, stopped beside the house, and jingled away, hardly a sound had broken into his thoughts. Each rustle of the trees or lightest noise of the garden raised in him a riot of excitement; for he felt that Miranda would come, and he lived moment by moment intensely waiting. He was sure she would not be able to sleep without making her peace. Several times he moaned softly, and asked for her aloud. Once he was filled with bitterest anger, and started to go back into the house. He hated her. His brilliant future should not be linked with this rude and shabby girl. Then, in sharp remorse, he asked to be forgiven. Tears of self-pity had followed tears of anger and tears of utter pain, and had dried on his cheeks as he rigidly kept one posture on the narrow bench. He felt to-night that he had the power to experience and to utter all the sorrow of the world, and mixed with his pain there were sensations of the keenest luxury. At last a footstep sounded. He began to tremble unendurably; but in the next instant he knew it was not Miranda. He had not recovered from his disappointment when his mother stood beside him. He looked at her vaguely, not yet recalled from his raging thoughts. She called his name, and there was something in her voice that startled him. The moon which was now coming over the house poured its light upon her face. Swiftly Peter was aware of some terrible thing struggling for expression. His mother's eyes were clouded as though she was dazed from the effect of some hard and sudden blow. Her lips were drawn tight as though she suffered. She stood for a moment, and once or twice just failed to speak. "Peter," she said at last, "I have to tell you something." Peter stared at her, quickly beginning to fear. "Don't be frightened, dear boy." Peter saw the first tears gather and fall. "Mother, you are hurt." Her tears now fell rapidly as she stooped and strained Peter towards her. She could not bear to see his face as she told him. "Something terrible has happened. There has been a fight in the streets and father----" Her arms tightened about him. Peter knew his father was dead. "We are alone, Peter," she said at last. Then she rose, and there were no more tears. Erect in the moonlight, she seemed the statue of a mourning woman. "He is lying in our room, Peter. Won't you come?" Peter instinctively shuddered away. Then, feeling as though a weight had just been laid on him, he asked: "Can I help you, mother? Is there anything to do?" "Uncle Henry is here. Come when you can." Peter watched her move away towards the house. Self died outright in him as, filled with worship, he saw her, grave and beautiful, going to the dead man.