“. . . spare Thou them that are penitent . . .”

Now Robert knew for certain.  It was his father’s favourite answer to all expostulations.  Of course that was it.  “Damned rot—­damned rot—­damned rot.”  The little man was swearing passionately to himself.  It was incredible, but there was no mistake possible.  And in the full blast of the discovery his dark eyes, hunted and angry-looking behind their round glasses, met Robert’s, widened, passed on, and came back again.  It was an extraordinary moment.  Robert could not have looked away to save his life.  He knew that he had betrayed himself.  The little man knew that he knew.  He grew very red, coughed, and blew his nose violently, his eyes meantime returning repeatedly to Robert’s flushed and frightened face with an expression utterly unfathomable.  It was almost as though he were trying to signal——­

“Amen!” declared the whole school with infinite relief and satisfaction.

The clergyman sighed deeply and raised himself painfully from his knees.

“Hymn number 503.”

A boy came out from the class next to Robert’s and walked to the piano, and Robert forgot everything else, even his own imminent disgrace.  He had never seen such red hair before—­deep red with a touch of purple, like the leaves of a beech tree in autumn—­or such a freckled face.  The freckles lay thick on the small unimportant nose and clashed painfully against the roots of the amazing hair.  They crowded out the flaxen eyebrows altogether.  And yet he was pretty in a wistful, whimsical sort of way.  He made Robert want to laugh.  Someone close to Robert did titter, and muttered, “Go it, Carrots!” and Robert saw that the boy had heard and was horribly frightened.  He winced and faltered, and Robert poked out viciously with his elbow.

“Shut up!” he whispered,

His victim was too astonished even to retaliate.

The red-haired boy had reached the piano.  And at once a change came over him.  He wasn’t frightened any more.  He played the first verse over without a stumble, calmly, confidently, as though he knew that now no one had the right to laugh.  The light from an upper window made a halo of his blazing head and lit up his small round face, faintly and absurdly grave, but with something elfish and eager lurking behind the gravity.  Robert stared at him as an Ancient Briton might have stared at the first lordly Roman who crossed his ken.  He felt uncouth and cumbersome and stupid.  And yet he could have knocked the red-headed boy down easily with one hand.

The clergyman led the singing.  The urchin on Robert’s right had produced a hymn-book from his pocket and opened it and found his place with the same air of smug efficiency.  Robert had no book.  He longed for one.  He knew that the clergyman was watching him again.  His companion nudged him, and by a stab of a stumpy, inky forefinger indicated the verse which he himself was singing in