"Do you never wonder whether all this"--Peter made one of the large gestures of his mother--"is worth the noise and the dirt over there? Have you no doubt at all?" "How is it possible to doubt?" she calmly responded. She stood proudly facing him. But she read perplexity in his face and, as it seemed to Peter, she stooped to him. "Don't you see," she almost pleaded, "that either we must believe in ourselves or make way; and we do believe. I believe in all this"--she faintly parodied Peter's large gesture--"and I believe in myself." There was a pause, and it was Lady Mary who spoke again. Almost it seemed that she wanted to make her point. "You, at any rate," she urged him, "have learned to believe a little." She looked towards the hut on the terrace, and Peter followed her thoughts. The trees stirred a moment, and laughter came from the open room. But these two heard only the voice of Eustace Haversham, and saw his lighted features vivid in memory. The last colour of the sunset was full upon her as she faced her uncle's empty place. Its emptiness to-night was an omen of the eternal emptiness to come. Her mouth quivered, and tears shone suddenly under her lids as she turned again to Peter. "I believe he is worth the whole world," she said, and her voice broke. Her tears seemed to remove every barrier. Peter saw in her eyes an appeal for an equal faith. She felt the drops on her cheek, and turned away into the shadow. "I, too, believe," Peter deeply whispered. Then he noticed how her hand lay unprotected upon the pedestal of the statue, vaguely delicate upon the hard metal. He impulsively bent and touched it with his lips. She did not start or cry out, but turned again slowly towards him. She read in his eyes faith merely and dedication. "I am glad you did that," she said in a level voice. Then they went, as by consent, towards the lighted windows of the drawing-room. Next morning, ten days before polling day at Sandhaven, Peter was summoned away by telegram to Hamingburgh. His uncle had suddenly been stricken seriously ill. Peter bade his friends a quick farewell and caught the first train from York. XXIX When Peter found his uncle stretched helplessly in bed with all the ceremony about him of an urgent case, he reproached himself for having thought of him so little during his years of health. He had taken his uncle for granted as the sanguine and gracious benefactor. It had not occurred to him to probe the motives of his uncle's affection, or to ask whether he was making him an adequate return. Now it was too late. When Peter arrived in Hamingburgh his uncle was already unconscious, and he did not recover sufficiently to recognise his nephew. A sudden seizure ended with a rush of blood to the brain; and Peter was left heir to a personal estate of over £90,000. Peter had to be content with his mother's assurance that his uncle died with entire faith in his nephew's ability to spend a fortune.