coolness between
himself and his younger brother, Lionel. They never have got on very
well together; Lionel is so different--much cleverer even already, for
one thing; better looking too, and better tempered. Whatever they
quarrelled about Wilfred is very sure that he was the offender; Lionel
never begins that kind of thing. But he will put himself in the right at
once, and ask Lionel to make friends again; he will consent readily
enough--he always does.

And then he has a bright idea: he will take his brother some little
present to prove that he really wishes to behave decently for the
future. What shall he buy?

He finds himself near a large toy shop at the time, and in the window
are displayed several regiments of brightly coloured tin warriors--the
very thing! Lionel is still young enough to delight in them.

Feeling in his pockets, Rolleston discovers more loose silver than he
had thought he possessed, and so he goes into the shop and asks for one
of the boxes of soldiers. He is served by one of two neatly dressed
female assistants, who stare and giggle at one another at his first
words, finding it odd, perhaps, that a fellow of his age should buy
toys--as if, he thinks indignantly, they couldn't see that it was not
for _himself_ he wanted the things.

But he goes on, feeling happier after his purchase. They will see now
that he is not so bad after all. It is long since he has felt such a
craving to be thought well of by somebody.

A little farther on he comes to a row of people, mostly women and
tradesmen's boys, standing on the curb stone opposite a man who is
seated in a little wooden box on wheels drawn up close to the pavement.
He is paralytic and blind, with a pinched white face framed in an
old-fashioned fur cap with big ear lappets; he seems to be preaching or
reading, and Rolleston stops idly enough to listen for a few moments,
the women making room for him with alacrity, and the boys staring
curiously round at the new arrival with a grin.

He hardly pays much attention to this; he is listening to the poem which
the man in the box is reciting with a nasal and metallic snuffle in his
voice:

There's a harp _and_ a crown,
For you and _for_ me,
Hanging on the boughs
Of that Christmas tree!

He hears, and then hurries on again, repeating the stanza mechanically
to himself, without seeing anything particularly ludicrous about it. The
words have reminded him of that Christ