Sir Beverley sat down again at the table.  Half mechanically his eyes turned to the pictured face on the wall, the face that smiled so enigmatically.  Not once in a year did his eyes turn that way.  To-night he regarded it with half-ironical interest.  He had no pity to spare for broken hearts.  He did not believe in them.  No man could have endured more than he had had to endure.  He had been dragged through hell itself.  But it had hardened, not broken his heart.  Save in one respect he knew that he could never be made to suffer any more.  Save for that charred remnant, there was nothing left for the flame to consume.

And so through all the bitter years he had borne that smiling face upon his wall, cynically indifferent to the beauty which had been the rapture and the agony of his life,—­a man released from the place of his torment because his capacity for suffering was almost gone.

Again there were two children’s voices singing, and that of the shy angel gathered confidence.  With a species of scoffing humour Sir Beverley’s stony eyes travelled to the window.  They rested upon his boy standing there with bent head—­a mute, waiting figure with a curious touch of pathos in its pose.  Sir Beverley’s sudden frown drew his forehead.  What ailed the youngster?  Why did he stand as if the whole world were resting on his shoulders?

He made an impatient movement.  “For Heaven’s sake,” he said testily, “tell those squalling children to go!”

Piers did not stir.  “In a moment, sir!” he said.

And so, clear through the night air, the last verse came unhindered to an end.

“Our glad hosannas, Prince of peace,
Thy welcome shall proclaim;
And Heaven’s eternal arches ring
With Thy beloved Name. 
And Heaven’s eternal arches ring
With Thy beloved Name.”

Piers threw up his head with a sudden, spasmodic movement as of a drowning man.  And then without pause he snatched up the blind and flung the window wide.

“Hi, you kiddies!  Where are you?  Don’t run away!  Gracie, is that you?”

There was a brief silence, then chirpily came the answer.  “Pat did the solo; but he’s gone.  He would have gone sooner—­when we saw your shadow on the blind—­only I held him so that he couldn’t.”

Piers broke into a laugh.  “Well, come in now you are here!  You’re not afraid anyhow, what?”

“Oh no!” laughed Gracie.  “I’m not a bit afraid.  But I’m supposed to be in bed; and if Father finds out I’m not—­” She paused with her customary sense of the dramatic.

“Well?” laughed Piers.  “What’ll happen then?”

“I shall cop it,” said Gracie elegantly.

Nevertheless she came to him, and stood on the grass outside the window.  The lamplight from within shone on her upturned face with its saucy, confiding smile.  Her head was uncovered and gleamed golden in the radiance.  She was wearing a very ancient fur cloak belonging to her mother, and she glowed like a rose in the sombre drapery.