"I don't think it can be a good one."
"If I were related to you—if I were your nephew—it would be different."
"What would be different?"
"If I were worth it it would be different too. But I'm not."
"Aren't you?" Her needles clicked placidly.
"Why should you think me so?"
"Because, I suppose, from the days when you were quite a little boy, you have been the principal thing I have had to think about. There was a time when I tried very hard, and very selfishly, I'm afraid, to be allowed to look after you altogether, when I wanted this house to be your home."
"Suppose I told you that all this—all my illness—was not accidental?"
Mrs. Carroll displayed no alarm. "I don't know what you mean, Peter, I'm sure," she said, gently, disengaging her ball of wool from Miss Dick's cat, who had stretched out a tentative paw.
"I mean that I did it myself," I answered, bringing it all out at last. "I did it on purpose. . . . I wanted to die, to kill myself, and I thought of this way. I went out and lay on the golf-links one whole night, in the rain, with nothing on but my night-shirt; and next morning I took ill."
Mrs. Carroll said nothing, but she had stopped knitting. I felt her hand rest on my head.
"Is that true, Peter?" she asked at last, after a long pause, and in a low voice.
"It's true." I stared into the fire.
She was again silent, but she did not draw away her hand.
"Why did you do this?" she asked presently.
"Because I felt miserable."
"But—but it was a dreadful thing to do! Don't you know that?" Her voice trembled slightly.
I got on my knees. I put my arms round her neck and pressed my cheek against hers. "I have spoiled every-
