"Yes, of course it is," Peter answered testily. "Why shouldn't it be?"

"No idea, old man. Except that she was a little quiet this weekend."

Peter shifted under Walter's gaze. "We've been talking about adopting a child. She has. It's complicated."

Walter looked away. "I didn't intend to pry."

"No." Changing the subject, he said, "Is Harry looking forward to school? He doesn't say much about it."

"I expect he is. He knows his mother is against it. For her sake he doesn't dwell on it."

"Jenny's a marvelous mother. Edwin was saying as much the other day." Peter hesitated. "Harry's only just seven, you know. I don't see why you can't wait a year."

Walter turned on him, suddenly angry. In the light of the blue lantern above his head, his expression was almost baleful. "It's what Father wanted. Harry's the only heir, it's what's been arranged since the day he was born. You know that as well as I do."

Peter said gently, "Father has been dead these six years. Why are we still under his thumb?" When Walter didn't answer, he went on, "He got it all wrong, you know. The eldest son to the land-that's Edwin, and he's no farmer. The next son to the Army-that's me. And I hated it. The next son to the church. That's you. And you lasted barely a year in your first living. I think, truth be told, that you found you weren't cut out to convert the heathen savage, either."

It was too close to the mark. Only that morning Walter had received a letter from the Alcock Missionary Society, wanting to know when he would be ready to return to the field. That, and Harry, had haunted him all day.