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.

They seemed horribly close, right under the jutting cliff; and their
laughter and volleys of chaff had the jeering note he knew too well.
Presently his ear caught a high-pitched voice of defiance, that broke
off and fell to whimpering--a sound that made Roy's heart beat in quick
jerks. He could not catch what they were saying, nor see what they were
doing. He did not want to see. He hated them all.

Listening--yet dreading to hear--he recognised the voice of Bennet Ma.,
known--strictly out of earshot--as Scab Major. Is any school, at any
period, quite free of the type? It sounded more like a rough than an
ill-natured rag; but the whimpering unseen victim seemed to have no kick
in him: and Roy could only sit there wondering helplessly what people
we