up as he had been by a woman of ardent nature and
passionate love for him, but in contradiction to this he had learnt to
be very silent over the disagreeables of life and to keep his own
small troubles to himself, so that he readily entered into Aymer's
attitude towards his own misfortune, and the relationship between the
two passed from admiration on Christopher's part to passionate
devotion, and from the region of experimental interest on Aymer's part
to personal uncalculated affection, and to an easing of a sharp
heartache he had tried valiantly to hide from his father. Aymer never
questioned him on the past, never even alluded to it. Partly because
he hoped the memory of it would dwindle from the boy's mind, and
partly for his own sake. But Christopher did not forget. There were
few days when he did not contrast the old times with the new, and gaze
for a moment across the big gulf that separated Christopher Aston from
little Jim Hibbault and the quiet woman absorbed in a struggle for
existence in an unfriendly world. He occasionally spoke of his mother
to Mr. Aston when they were out together, but he kept his implied
promise faithfully with regard to Aymer and made no mention of his
former experiences, or of his mother, until one day an event occurred
which recalled the black terror under whose shadow they had left
London, and necessitated an elucidation of knotty points.

There was in one corner of the garden far away from the house a gap in
the high belt of shrubs that jealously guarded the grounds from the
curious passerby. In fact the gap had once meant a gateway, but it had
been disused so long that it had forgotten it was a gate and merely
pretended it was part of the big railings; only it had not got a
little wall to stand on. Christopher was fond of viewing life from
this sequestered corner. The road that ran by was a main
thoroughfare--an ever-varying picture of moving shapes. One morning as
he stood there counting the omnibuses--he had nearly made a record
count--his attention was attracted by a small boy about his own age or
possibly older, who was dawdling along, hands in pockets, with a
dejected air. He appeared to be whistling, but if he were, without
doubt it was also a dejected air. His was a shabby tidiness that spoke
of a Woman and little means. He had sandy hair and light eyes and--but
Christopher did not know this--an uncommonly shrewd little face and a
good square head, and as he passed by the b