Rosamund sent a quick look to Dion, a look of subdued and yet bright triumph.  Then she glanced down at Robin.  She had been scarcely less excited, less strung up, than he.  But she had seen the fruit of her rehearsals and now she was satisfied.  Robin, she saw, was more than satisfied.  His eyes were round with the glory of it all.

That was the happiest Sunday Dion had ever spent, and it was fated to close in a happiness welling up out of the very deeps of the heart.

Canon Wilton and Esme Darlington came in to tea, and Mr. Thrush was entertained at a sumptuous repast in the nursery “between the services.”  Robin presided at it with anxious rapture, being now just a little in awe of his faithful old friend.  His nurse, who approved of Mr. Thrush, and was much impressed by the fact that after two interviews with the Dean he had been appointed to a post in the Cathedral, sat down to it too; and Rosamund and Dion looked in to congratulate Mr. Thrush, and to tell him how delighted they were with his bearing in the procession and his delicately adroit manipulation of his wand.  Mr. Thrush received their earnest congratulations with the quiet dignity of one who felt that they did not spring from exaggeration of sentiment.  Like all great artists he knew when he had done well.  But when Rosamund and Dion were about to retire, and to leave him with Robin and the nurse to the tea and well-buttered toast, he suddenly emerged into an emotion which did him credit.

“Madame!” He said to Rosamund, in a rather hoarse and tremulous voice.

“Now don’t trouble to get up again, dear Mr. Thrush.  Yes, what is it?”

Mr. Thrush looked down steadily at the “round” which glistened on his plate.  Something fell upon it.

“Oh, Mr. Thrush——!” began Robin, and paused in dismay, looking up at his mother.

“Madame,” said Mr. Thrush again, still looking at the “round,” “I haven’t felt as I do now since I stood behind my counter just off Hanover Square, respected.  Yes,” he said, and his old voice quavered upwards, gaining in strength, “respected by all who knew me. She was with me then, and now she isn’t.  But I feel—­I feel—­I’m respected again.”

Something else fell upon the toast.

“And it’s all your doing, madam.  I—­all I can say is that I—­all I can say——­” His voice failed.

Rosamund put her hand on his shoulder.

“There, Mr. Thrush, there!  I know, I know just how it is.”

“Madame,” said Mr. Thrush, with quavering emphasis, “one can depend upon you, a man can depend upon you.  What you undertake you carry through, even if it’s only the putting on his feet of—­of—­I never thought to be a verger, never.  I never could have looked up to such a thing but for you.  But Mr. Dean he said to me, ’Mr. Thrush, when Mrs. Leith speaks up for a man, even an archbishop has to listen.’”

“Thank you, Mr. Thrush.  Robin, give Mr. Thrush the brown sugar.  He always likes brown sugar in his tea.”