When he sneaked home late Mrs. Button, who had learned how he had misspent his time, gave him a merciless thrashing.  Why should he be trapesing about with Sunday schools, she asked, with impolite embroidery, while his poor little brothers and sisters were crying in the street?  She would learn him to Mess about with parsons and Sunday-school teachers.  She was in process of “learning” him when Mr. Button entered.  He swore in a manner which would have turned out armies in Flanders pallid, and kicked Paul into the scullery.  There the boy remained and went supperless to his bed of sacks, aching and tearless.  Before he slept he put his cornelian heart in his hiding-hole.  What cared he for stripes or kicks or curses with the Vision Splendid glowing before his eyes?

CHAPTER II

For splenetic reasons which none but the Buttons of this world can appreciate, Paul was forbidden, under pain of ghastly tortures, to go near the Sunday school again, and, lest he should defy authority, he was told off on Sunday afternoons to mind the baby, either in the street or the scullery, according to the weather, while the other little Buttons were not allowed to approach him.  The defection of the brilliant scholar having been brought to the vicar’s notice, he ventured to call one Saturday afternoon on the Buttons, but such was the contumely with which he was received that the good man hastily retreated.  In lung power he was outmatched.  In repartee he was singularly outclassed.  He then sent the superintendent of the school, a man of brawn and zeal, to see what muscular Christianity could accomplish.  But muscular Christianity, losing its head, came off with a black eye.  After that the Buttons were left alone, and no friendly hand drew Paul within the gates of his Sunday Paradise.  He thought of it with aching wistfulness.  The only thing that the superintendent could do was to give him surreptitiously a prayer-book, bidding him perfect himself in the Catechism in view of future Confirmation.  But, as emulation of his fellows and not religious zeal was the mainspring of Paul’s enthusiasm, the pious behest was disregarded.  Paul dived into the volume occasionally, however, for intellectual entertainment.

As for the fragrant and beautiful goddess, she had disappeared into thin air.  Paul hung for a week or two about the vicarage, in the hope of seeing her, but in vain.  As a matter of fact, Maisie Shepherd had left for Scotland the morning after the school treat; people don’t come to Bludston for long and happy holidays.  So Paul had to feed his ardent little soul on memories.  That she had not been an impalpable creature of his fancy was proven by the precious cornelian heart.  Her words, too, were written in fine flame across his childish mind.  Paul began to live the life of dreams.