“Not really.  She said she thought he wasn’t quite pleased with you.  I do hope he didn’t think it was your fault.”

“My shoulders are fairly broad,” said Piers.

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be right,” maintained Jeanie.  “I think I ought to write to him and explain.”

“No, no!” said Piers.  “You leave the old chap alone.  He understands—­quite as much as he wants to understand.”

There was a note of bitterness in his voice which Jeanie was quick to discern.  She reached up a sympathetic hand to his.  “Dear Sir Galahad!” she said softly.

Piers looked down at her for a few moments in silence.  And then, very suddenly, moved by the utter devotion that looked back at him from her eyes, he went down on his knees beside her and held her to his heart.

“It’s a beast of a world, Jeanie,” he said.

“Is it?” whispered Jeanie, with his hand pressed tight against her cheek.

There was silence between them for a little space; then she lifted her face to his, to murmur in a motherly tone, “I expect you’re tired.”

“Tired!” said Piers with gloomy vehemence.  “Yes, I am tired—­sick to death of everything.  I’m like a dog on a chain.  I can see what I want, but it’s always just out of my reach.”

Jeanie’s hand came up and softly stroked his face.  “I wish I could get it for you,” she said.

“Bless you, sweetheart!” said Piers.  “You don’t so much as know what it is, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” said Jeanie.  She leaned her head back against his shoulder, looking up into his face with all her child’s soul shining in her eyes.  “It’s—­Aunt Avery; isn’t it?”

“How did you know?” said Piers.

“I don’t know,” said Jeanie.  “It just—­came to me—­that day in the schoolroom when you talked about the ticket of leave.  You were unhappy that day, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Piers.  He added after a moment, “You see, I’m not good enough for her.”

“Not good enough!” Jeanie’s face became incredulous and a little distressed.  “I’m sure—­she—­doesn’t think that,” she said.

“She doesn’t know me properly,” said Piers.  “Nor do you.  If you did, you’d be shocked,—­you’d be horrified.”

He spoke recklessly, almost defiantly; but Jeanie only stretched up a thin arm and wound it about his neck.  “Never!” she told him softly.  “No, never!”

He held her to him; but he would not be silenced.  “I assure you, I’m no saint,” he said.  “I feel more like a devil sometimes.  I’ve done bad things, Jeanie, I can’t tell you how bad.  It would only hurt you.”

The words ran out impulsively.  His breathing came quick and short; his hold was tense.  In that moment the child’s pure spirit recognized that the image had crumbled in her shrine, but the brave heart of her did not flinch.  Very tenderly she veiled the ruin.  The element of worship had vanished in that single instant of revelation; but her love remained, and it shone out to him like a beacon as he knelt there in abasement by her side.