lored the fact
that the great man was not an Old Harrovian. There he sat, cool, calm,
slightly impassive. John thought he must be rather tired, as a man
ought to be tired after a life of strenuous endeavour and achievement.
He had done--so John reflected--an awful lot. Even now, he remained
the active, untiring servant of Queen and country. And he had taken
time to come down to Harrow to hear the boys sing. And, dash it all!
he, John, was going to sing to him.

At that moment Desmond was whispering to Scaife--

"I say, Demon; I'm jolly glad that I've not got to sing before _him_.
I bet Jonathan is in a funk."

"A big bit of luck," replied Scaife, reflectively. Then, seeing the
surprise on Desmond's face, he added, "If Jonathan can sing--and I
suppose he can, or he wouldn't be chosen--this is a chance----"

"Of what?"

"Caesar, sometimes I think you've no brains. Why, a chance of
attracting the notice of a tremendous swell--a man, they say, who never
forgets--never! Jonathan may want a commission in the Guards, as I do;
and if he pleases the great man, he may get it."

"Jonathan's not thinking of that," said Desmond. "Shush-h-h!"

The singers stood up. They faced the Field Marshal, and he faced them.
He looked hardest at Lawrence, pointed out to him by the Head Master.
Perhaps he was thinking of India; and the name of Lawrence indelibly
cut upon the memories of all who fought in the Mutiny. And Lawrence,
you may be sure, met his glance steadily, being fortified by it. The
good fellow felt terribly distressed, because he was leaving the Hill;
and, being a humble gentleman, the old songs served to remind him, not
of what he had done, but of what he had left undone--the words
unspoken, the actions never now to be performed. The chief caught his
eye, smiled, and nodded, as if to say, "I claim your father's son as a
friend."

When the song came to an end, John was seized, with an almost
irresistible impulse to bolt. His turn had come. He must stand up to
sing before nearly six hundred boys, who would stare down with gravely
critical and courteously amused eyes. And already his legs trembled as
If he were seized of a palsy. John knew that he could sing. His
mother, who sang gloriously, had trained him. From her he had
inherited his vocal chords, and from her he drew the knowledge how to
use them.

When he stood up, pale and trembling, the silence fell upon his
sensibilities as if it were a dense,