“It will be a summer month without question next year,” answered Uncle Tom, enigmatically.

It has been remarked that that day was sultry, and a fine rain was now washing Uncle Tom’s flowers for him.  It was he who had applied that term “washing” since the era of ultra-soot.  Incredible as it may seem, life proceeded as on any other of a thousand rainy nights.  The lamps were lighted in the sitting-room, Uncle Tom unfolded his gardening periodical, and Aunt Mary her embroidery.  The gate slammed, with its more subdued, rainy-weather sound.

“It’s Peter,” said Honora, flying downstairs.  And she caught him, astonished, as he was folding his umbrella on the step.  “Oh, Peter, if you tried until to-morrow morning, you never could guess what has happened.”

He stood for a moment, motionless, staring at her, a tall figure, careless of the rain.

“You are going away,” he said.

“How did you guess it?” she exclaimed in surprise.  “Yes—­to boarding-school.  To Sutcliffe, on the Hudson, with Edith and Mary.  Aren’t you glad?  You look as though you had seen a ghost.”

“Do I?” said Peter.

“Don’t stand there in the rain,” commanded Honora; “come into the parlour, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

He came in.  She took the umbrella from him, and put it in the rack.

“Why don’t you congratulate me?” she demanded.

“You’ll never come back,” said Peter.

“What a horrid thing to say!  Of course I shall come back.  I shall come back next June, and you’ll be at the station to meet me.”

And—­what will Uncle Tom and Aunt Mary do—­without you?”

“Oh,” said Honora, “I shall miss them dreadfully.  And I shall miss you, Peter.”

“Very much?” he asked, looking down at her with such a queer expression.  And his voice, too, sounded queer.  He was trying to smile.

Suddenly Honora realized that he was suffering, and she felt the pangs of contrition.  She could not remember the time when she had been away from Peter, and it was natural that he should be stricken at the news.  Peter, who was the complement of all who loved and served her, of Aunt Mary and Uncle Tom and Catherine, and who somehow embodied them all.  Peter, the eternally dependable.

She found it natural that the light should be temporarily removed from his firmament while she should be at boarding-school, and yet in the tenderness of her heart she pitied him.  She put her hands impulsively upon his shoulders as he stood looking at her with that queer expression which he believed to be a smile.

“Peter, you dear old thing, indeed I shall miss you!  I don’t know what I shall do without you, and I’ll write to you every single week.”

Gently he disengaged her arms.  They were standing under that which, for courtesy’s sake, had always been called the chandelier.  It was in the centre of the parlour, and Uncle Tom always covered it with holly and mistletoe at Christmas.