“Then, my father, I also will go to school.”
The boy clasped his frail hands, and strove to conceal the abject fear in his eyes.
“When, my brave one?”
“To-morrow I will go, my father.”
“So be it then, beloved one.”
In the silence which followed the tense breathing of the frail form could be heard to surmount the ticking of the clock, the creaking of the fire, the little voice of the wind, the gurgle of water, and the great roar of London.
“Are all heroes in bitter fear, my father, when first they go to school?” asked the boy.
“Indeed, yes.”
“Do they ever tremble like cravens, and do their eyes grow dark?”
“Yes, beloved one.”