And through this time of fasting, watching the lean year that had been his dread as it came upon the school and gripped it, Rouse bore himself blithely, true to himself, his sorrow hidden under a mask of gaiety that only deceived the few.
One day Bobbie Carr received a letter, and the next day he went forth into the open country and, striking the footpath that led from the school into the woods, branched away from it and came upon a stile. Upon this stile he settled himself to wait.
He had not to wait long, and this was fortunate, because he was continually looking about him in fear lest somebody should come upon him waiting there.
At last, looking over the open fields, he saw a distant figure coming towards him along the trodden pathway, and he knew it at a glance. He jumped up and waved, saw the answering gesture and started forward; then suddenly remembered and stopped and looked round dubiously. He was best hidden from prying eyes in the corner where he had waited, and so he drew back under the trees and possessed himself in patience until at last the man had come and he could grip him by the hands.
“Father,” said he.
The man drew him affectionately against the stile, and leaned there in real content for a while before he spoke.
“It’s a roundabout way from the station,” he said at last. “Still, I know the country. It’s a good meeting-place.”
He paused. There was clearly something else upon his mind—something that had made him come; something that Bobbie had read between the lines of his letter. He asked at last quietly enough:
“You’ve kept the secret, Bobbie? Nobody’s found out? Nobody knows?”
For the fraction of a second Bobbie hesitated. Then he spared his father the truth that need not necessarily be told, and shook his head.