Cranford

“‘Tell your mother I have flogged Peter, and that he richly deserved it.’ “I durst not ask any more questions. When I told my mother, she sat down, quite faint, for a minute. I remember, a few days after, I saw the poor, withered cowslip flowers thrown out to the leaf heap, to decay and die there. There was no making of cowslip wine that year at the rectory— nor, indeed, ever after.