wo in an orphanage like
St. Peter's.

'It has the makings of quite a good little character study, I fancy.
Later on, when you're free--perhaps, to-morrow--I'll get you to give
me half an hour, if you will, to make a real sketch of it.'

It was in my mind that if only I could make a remark of the right kind
I might immediately differentiate myself in this artist's eyes from
the general run of 'inmates.' This again may have been an unworthy and
snobbish thought, but I know it was mine at the time, based in my mind
upon the unvoiced but profound conviction that I was different in
essence from the other orphans. This was not mere conceit, I think,
because it emanated rather from pride in my father than from any
exalted opinion of myself. But, whatever the rights of it, no suitable
remark came to me. Indeed, beyond an incoherent mumble over the
hand-shaking, I might have been a mute for all the part I had so far
taken in this interview. And just then I caught a glimpse of Sister
Agatha emerging from behind the wood-stack at the end of the vegetable
garden, and that gave me something else to think about.

'Excuse me!' I said, angrily conscious that I was flushing again and
that all my limbs were in my way, and that I was presenting a most
uncouth appearance. 'I must get on with the milking.' And then I made
my plunge. 'Perhaps you would speak to Sister-in-charge. Not this one
here, but Sister-in-charge,' I hurriedly added as Sister Agatha drew
nearer, her thin lips tightly compressed, her gimlet eyes full of
promise of ear-tweakings. 'She would perhaps give me leave to--to do
anything you wanted. I--I am sure she would. Good-bye!'

Having hurriedly fired this last shot, I bolted into the milking-shed.
Just for an instant I had succeeded in meeting Mr. Rawlence's eye. I
had very much wanted to show him something, as, for example, that I
would gladly do anything he liked, even to the extent of allowing him
to trample all over me--if only I had been a free agent. In some way I
had longed to claim kinship with him, in a humble fashion; to say that
I understood him and his kind, despite my ragged trousers and scarred,
dusty bare feet. Now, with a pail between my knees, and my head in a
cow's flank, I was very sure I had utterly failed to convey anything,
except that I was an uncouth creature. My eyes smarted from
mortification; and the grotesque thought crossed my mind that if only
I had had a photograph of my father, and coul