As the endless weeks dragged on, there were interesting, even exciting moments—­when you hardly felt the ache.  But other times—­evenings and Sundays—­it came back sharper than ever.  And in the course of those weeks he had learnt a number of things not included in the school curriculum.  He had learnt that it was better to clench your teeth and not cry out when your ears were tweaked or your arm twisted, or an unexpected pin stuck into the soft part of your leg.  But, inside him, there burned a fire of rage and hate unsuspected by his tormentors.  It was not so much the pain, as the fact that they seemed to enjoy hurting him, that he could neither understand nor forgive.

And by now he felt more than half ashamed of those early letters to his mother, pouring out his misery of loneliness and longing; of frantic threats to run away or jump off the cliff, that had so strangely failed to soften his father’s heart.  It seemed, he knew all about it.  He had been through it himself.  But Mummy did not know; so she got upset.  And Mummy must not be upset, whatever happened to Roy, who was advised to ‘shut his teeth and play the man’ and he would feel the happier for it.  That hard counsel had done more than hurt and shame him.  It had steadied him at the moment when he needed it most.  He had somehow managed to shut his teeth and play the man; and he was the happier for it already.

So his faith in the father who wouldn’t have Mummy upset, had increased ten-fold:  and the letter he had nearly torn into little bits was treasured, like a talisman, in his letter-case—­Tara’s parting gift.

* * * * *

It was on the Sunday of the frantic threats that he had wandered off alone and discovered the little wood on the cliff in all its autumn glory.  It was a very ordinary wood of mixed trees with a group of tall pines at one end.  But for Roy any wood was a place of enchantment; and this one had trees all leaning one way, with an air of crouching and hurrying that made them seem almost alive; and the moment they closed on him he was back in his old familiar world of fancy, where nothing that happened in houses mattered at all....

Strolling on, careless and content, he had reached a gap where the trees fell apart, framing blue deeps and distances of sea and sky.  For some reason they looked more blue, more beautiful so framed than seen from the open shore; and there—­sitting alone at the edge of all things, he had felt strangely comforted; had resolved to keep his discovery a profound secret; and to come there every Sunday for ‘sanctuary’; to think stories, or write poetry—­a very private joy.

And this afternoon was the loveliest of all.  If only the sheltering leaves would not fall so fast!

He had been sitting a long time, pencil in hand, waiting for words to come; when suddenly there came instead the very sounds he had fled from—­the talk and laughter of boys.