“The woman who threw a pail of water over you once, eh?” he said, after a moment.  “I suppose she has become a very special friend in consequence.”

“I doubt if she would call herself so,” said Piers.

The old man’s mouth took a bitter, downward curve.  “You see, you’re rather young,” he observed.

Piers’ eyes fell away from his abruptly.  “Yes, I know,” he said, in a tone that seemed to hide more than it expressed.

Sir Beverley continued to stare at him, but he did not lift his eyes again.  They were fixed steadily upon the ruby light that shone in the wine in front of him.

The silence lengthened and became oppressive.  Sir Beverley still watched Piers’ intent face.  His lips moved soundlessly, while behind his silence the storm of his wrath gathered.

What did the boy mean by treating him like this?  Did he think he would endure to be set aside thus deliberately as one whose words had no weight?  Did he think—­confound him!—­did he think that he had reached his dotage?

A sudden oath escaped him; he banged a furious fist upon the table.  He would make himself heard at least.

In the same instant quite unexpectedly Piers leaped to his feet with uplifted hand.  “What’s that?”

“What do you mean?” thundered Sir Beverley.

Piers’ hand descended, gripping his arm.  “That, sir, that!  Don’t you hear?”

Voice and gesture compelled.  Sir Beverley stopped dead, arrested in full career by his grandson’s insistence, and listened with pent breath, as Piers was listening.

For a moment or two he heard nothing, then, close outside the window, there arose the sound of children’s voices.  They were singing a hymn, but not in the customary untuneful yell of the village school.  The voices were clear and sweet and true, and the words came distinct and pure to the two men standing at the table.

“He comes, the prisoners to release
In Satan’s bondage held,
The gates of brass before Him burst,
The iron fetters yield.”

Piers’ hand tightened all-unconsciously upon Sir Beverley’s arm.  His face was very white.  In his eyes there shone a curious hunger—­such a look as might have gleamed in the eyes of the prisoners behind the gates.

Again came the words, triumphantly repeated: 

“The gates of brass before Him burst,
The iron fetters yield.”

And an odd sound that was almost a sob broke from Piers.

Sir Beverley looked at him sharply; but in the same moment he drew back, relinquishing his hold, and stepped lightly across the room to the window.

There was a decided pause before the next verse.  Piers stood with his face to the blind, making no movement.  At last, tentatively, like the song of a very shy angel, a single boy’s voice took up the melody.

“He comes, the broken heart to bind,
The bleeding soul to cure,
And with the treasures of His grace
To bless the humble poor.”