painfully against the roots of the amazing hair. They crowded out the
flaxen eyebrows altogether. And yet he was pretty in a wistful,
whimsical sort of way. He made Robert want to laugh. Someone close to
Robert did titter, and muttered, "Go it, Carrots!" and Robert saw that
the boy had heard and was horribly frightened. He winced and faltered,
and Robert poked out viciously with his elbow.

"Shut up!" he whispered,

His victim was too astonished even to retaliate.

The red-haired boy had reached the piano. And at once a change came
over him. He wasn't frightened any more. He played the first verse
over without a stumble, calmly, confidently, as though he knew that now
no one had the right to laugh. The light from an upper window made a
halo of his blazing head and lit up his small round face, faintly and
absurdly grave, but with something elfish and eager lurking behind the
gravity. Robert stared at him as an Ancient Briton might have stared
at the first lordly Roman who crossed his ken. He felt uncouth and
cumbersome and stupid. And yet he could have knocked the red-headed
boy down easily with one hand.

The clergyman led the singing. The urchin on Robert's right had
produced a hymn-book from his pocket and opened it and found his place
with the same air of smug efficiency. Robert had no book. He longed
for one. He knew that the clergyman was watching him again. His
companion nudged him, and by a stab of a stumpy, inky forefinger
indicated the verse which he himself was singing in an aggressive
treble. But Robert only stared helplessly. At another time he might
have recognized "God--love--dove--" and other words of one syllable,