"barley-sugar," as he called it, the pins in chapel, and how one
afternoon he had tied him head-downward on to a tree trunk and
then ran away--of course only for a moment.

For this she scolded him well. But she had a thrill of joy when
she thought of the weak boy in the clutches of the strong one.



V

Gerald died that afternoon. He was broken up in the football
match. Rickie and Mr. Pembroke were on the ground when the
accident took place. It was no good torturing him by a drive to
the hospital, and he was merely carried to the little pavilion
and laid upon the floor. A doctor came, and so did a clergyman,
but it seemed better to leave him for the last few minutes with
Agnes, who had ridden down on her bicycle.

It was a strange lamentable interview. The girl was so accustomed
to health, that for a time she could not understand. It must be a
joke that he chose to lie there in the dust, with a rug over him
and his knees bent up towards his chin. His arms were as she knew
them, and their admirable muscles showed clear and clean beneath
the jersey. The face, too, though a little flushed, was
uninjured: it must be some curious joke.

"Gerald, what have you been doing?"

He replied, "I can't see you. It's too dark."